Kealix lay motionless against the pale bark of the white tree. From a distance, he might have looked dead—just another broken body on a battlefield of ash.
But he was breathing. Slowly. Quietly.
Each inhale was shallow, controlled, as though his lungs were relearning how to function. His black hair, damp with sweat and tangled from the fight, hung low over his face, shielding his eye from the waning light.
He didn't move. Didn't think. He was too spent for either. His mind floated somewhere between exhaustion and awe, caught in the numb aftershock of what he'd just done.
The silence wrapped around him like a shroud.
Minutes passed—maybe more. Time had stopped meaning anything.
Then, finally, he opened his eye.
And there they were again.
Translucent letters bloomed softly into view, glowing faintly in the air before him.
His breath caught. His pulse quickened.
The strange system—whatever it was—had returned.
His eye widened as he read the text:
[Congratulations, shining star Kealix. You have successfully slain 12 dormant Aetheric Beasts and forged an Aether-bound Relic.]
[Your Aether Capacity will be upgraded accordingly.]
[Calculating new Aether Capacity rank...]
[Calculating...]
[Calculating...]
He swallowed. His throat was tight, dry.
What would it say?
He'd poured everything into that fight—his will, his fear, his focus, his pain. He wasn't even sure he'd survived so much as been reborn by it.
A pause.
Then, at last, the system responded:
[Calculation complete.]
[Aether Capacity Rank: Rank 4, Radiant.]
[Combat Potential of Aether Capacity Rank: Angel.]
Kealix blinked.
Radiant? Angel?
He couldn't even begin to unpack what that meant—but it sounded... powerful. Dangerous. Like something that didn't belong to the person he used to be.
But the system wasn't done.
[Calculating new Aether Circulation level...]
Then—
[ERROR: Incompatible with Aether Circulation.]
His chest tightened.
"What?" he breathed, voice hoarse.
Incompatible? That couldn't be right.
Circulation was everything in Aether theory—it determined how well power moved through the body. Without it, all that capacity meant nothing.
He stared at the error message, his mind spinning.
How is that possible? Shouldn't circulation be the second most important stat? How can I be incompatible?
No answer came.
Only a new message:
[Aether-bound Relic requires a name to be bound to its user.]
[Please name your new Relic.]
A name?
He stared down at his arm—if he could still call it that.
The white-silver metal shimmered faintly in the dimming forest light. Veins of color pulsed beneath the surface—indigo, orange, violet—like the slow-burning threads of a dying star.
It wasn't a weapon.
It wasn't armor.
It was something else.
A piece of him, forged through agony and will. Alive in a way no tool should be.
"A name..." he murmured, voice still unsteady.
His mind flicked back to Frost—it had been the same with him.
That name had felt instinctive too, like a truth he'd always known.
And now, here he was again, staring at something he didn't fully understand, being asked to define it.
What are you, really? he thought as he flexed the new fingers of the arm.
The light moved through them in slow pulses—distant, fading, like the final moments of a collapsed sun.
A dying star, he realized.
Waiting to burn out.
Or to explode.
The thought hit him like a whisper from somewhere ancient.
He turned back to the waiting text and, this time, spoke with certainty:
"I name it... Dying Star."
The words echoed through him.
[New Aether-bound Relic: Dying Star]
[Congratulations on your victory.]
[Goodbye.]
[For now.]
Kealix stared at the fading letters, his breath caught on the edge of a question.
For now?
Was it aware of him?
The system—was it sentient? Was it watching, waiting, planning their next interaction?
He couldn't say.
Maybe it wasn't meant to be understood.
Maybe some things just were.
He let the silence settle, then exhaled fully—one long, steady breath—and slowly lifted his head.
Above him, the pale tree's crimson leaves whispered in the dying wind. Their rich scarlet hues shimmered against the dimming sky, painted gold and blood by the approaching twilight.
He barely had time to take it in before a voice cut through the quiet.
"Young master," Hero's voice—sharp and breathless—echoed toward him. "I sadly have some bad news to share with you."
Urgency laced every syllable.
But Kealix didn't flinch.
He didn't ask.
"I know," he replied simply, gaze still locked on the burning canopy above.
The shadows cast by the leaves had begun to stretch, growing longer and darker.
Night was coming. Fast.
And with it, something worse.
He couldn't afford to linger anymore.
Pain flared the moment he tried to stand, like fire crawling up through his bones. His legs trembled under the strain, muscles not yet recovered from the battle. But he forced himself upright through gritted teeth, refusing to be grounded by exhaustion.
"I'll need your power," he said, turning to Hero with quiet determination.
The response was immediate.
Hero's golden card shimmered into existence and merged with him in a flash of radiant light.
The effect rippled outward—Kealix's clothing was suddenly laced with golden energy, seams glowing faintly like starlight traced into fabric. His dark hair lit with new threads of gold, strands catching the last of the sun as if they burned with borrowed light.
He didn't hesitate.
He summoned his golden daggers, feeling their familiar weight, and turned toward the towering tree. It was time to climb.
But the moment he moved to stab the first dagger into the bark, something went wrong.
His left arm—the new one. The metallic one.
It didn't respond.
The dagger hovered in midair, his fingers twitching, but the movement was sluggish. Delayed. Not like the rest of him.
Not him at all.
A flicker of panic crawled into his chest.
He gritted his teeth, lips peeling back in frustration as he stared at the uncooperative limb.
The arm just hung there—beautiful, shimmering, and utterly foreign.
Come on, he growled internally. Move.
It didn't.
He clenched his jaw tighter, fighting the rising frustration.
He didn't have time for this.
Night was falling.
Shadows were growing deeper by the second, and whatever came with them would not wait for him to figure out his new reality.
He closed his eyes.
Inhaled.
You are not a machine, he told himself. You're not a tool. You're a part of me now.
So move—because I will it. Not because it's instinct. Because it's intent.
Another breath. Slower this time.
He reached inward—not into muscle memory, but into focus. Into will. Into understanding.
The arm responded.
Stiffly. Awkwardly.
But it moved.
Not fast. Not perfect.
But it was enough.
Kealix opened his eyes.
The shadows stretched longer.
The climb began.
He summoned a golden dagger with every movement, driving each one into the bark of the pale tree like steps in a vertical staircase.
It was slow going—too slow—with his clumsy metallic arm dragging behind every motion like dead weight.
But slow didn't matter.
Up was what mattered.
Even if his arm faltered.
Even if the bark cracked beneath the weight of his body.
He climbed.
Missteps. Even if his body screamed in protest.
He would climb.
He used the daggers below as footholds, his boots pressing down on glowing gold as he reached upward. Each time a dagger slipped out of reach, it crumbled into golden dust—dissolving quietly into the wind like it had never existed at all.
One. Two. Three.
Kealix counted silently, teeth clenched. Slow and steady wins the race.
His fingers—both flesh and metal—trembled with exertion as he dragged himself higher.
He paused briefly to glance up.
Twenty meters.
Another twenty to go.
Then he looked down.
That was a mistake.
The corpses of the wolves lay below like broken dolls, twisted and bloodstained in the crimson glow of the pale tree. Their bodies had already begun to rot. The scent reached him now—iron, fur, and something sickly sweet.
A bitter taste surged in his throat.
And in that one moment of distraction, his grip faltered.
The metallic hand slipped—just slightly—but it was enough.
The strength holding him to the tree vanished in an instant.
Gravity seized him without mercy.
Kealix fell.
Adrenaline exploded in his chest. The wind roared past his ears.
No!
In one desperate motion, he summoned a golden dagger and slammed it into the bark, digging it in like his life depended on it—because it did.
The blade caught. Shuddered. Held.
He jerked to a stop several meters below his last foothold, body swinging like a broken pendulum.
His breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat dripped into his eye, stinging.
"Are you all right, young master?!"
Hero's voice rang with panic, his concern as clear as the golden glow pulsing from the card's link.
Others followed—cards from the deck, each voicing their worry.
The fall would've killed almost anyone else.
Kealix steadied himself.
He summoned another dagger into his left hand, forced the metal fingers to curl around the hilt. They were stiff. Heavy.
But they obeyed.
"I'm all right," he called back, panting. "It was just a slip. Won't happen again."
He leaned his forehead briefly against the bark, collecting himself. Then, with a bitter smile, muttered,
"Let's not do that again."
The climb resumed.
Time passed in aching silence.
Minute by minute.
Meter by meter.
And finally—finally—he reached the top.
The branch he pulled himself onto was wide and solid, a thick arc of pale wood wrapped in crimson leaves.
Kealix collapsed against the cold bark, his entire body shaking with exhaustion. He couldn't fight anymore. Not tonight.
His breathing slowed, steadying against the curve of the tree. His golden strands dimmed slightly as fatigue settled into his bones.
He let his head tilt back, eyes fluttering shut.
And then—
Darkness.
"Young master… wake up."
A voice. Gentle. Urgent.
Kealix stirred, his body stiff and sore, his single eye blinking open against the faint dawn light.
"…Hero?" he whispered, voice hoarse, dragging a yawn into his breath.
"The pale beasts," Hero said softly. "They've returned."
The words slammed into him like cold water.
Kealix's heart stopped for a breath, then thudded hard in his chest as clarity returned.
He scrambled quietly to the edge of the branch, careful not to make a sound.
Below, the beasts were there—feasting.
Pale-skinned, eyeless things, hunched and grotesque. Their bodies gleamed softly in the early light, bone-thin limbs twitching as they devoured the corpses of the dead wolves.
Their mouths tore silently. Not a growl. Not a breath. Not a single sound escaped them.
The sight turned his stomach.
He leaned forward, just slightly, to get a better view—
And his boot nudged something.
A dry crack.
A small branch, resting unnoticed at the edge of the platform, tumbled free.
Kealix's blood ran cold.
It fell.
Hit the forest floor.
A soft but distinct crack.
Every single pale beast froze.
Then, as if connected by a single thought, they all turned their heads in unison—upward.
Toward him.
They had no eyes.
And yet… they saw him.
Kealix didn't breathe.
They knew exactly—
where he was.