The dunes were still broken from the angel's fall, glassy streaks carved across the desert where sanctity had detonated and cooled into obsidian. Noctis stood in the crater's heart for a moment, letting the silence wash over him. His spirals burned steady, crimson-white threading outward from his body like the veins of a living star.
The frontliner's ichor still coated his tongue. Golden, searing, but subdued now under the Faith-Eater's Dominion. He ran his tongue across his fangs once, savoring the aftertaste. Sanctity had become fuel.
He exhaled slowly. "Done here."
His gaze lifted to the sky, then turned back toward the fissure where the angels had first emerged. The battle above was finished, but deeper still, the catacombs remained. Guardians did not exist without cause.
He spread his wings. With a beat that cracked the air, he descended.
The descent was not simple. The tunnels had been ravaged by the angel's retreat and his pursuit, whole sections caved in, sanctified rubble glowing faintly. Noctis dug his claws into walls, forcing open collapsed shafts, weaving through broken archways. His spirals pulsed in rhythm, threads of light casting shadows that writhed across every surface.
The deeper he went, the colder it grew. Not the cold of stone, but a pressure that sank into his chest. Sanctity and corruption together. His body recognized it instantly, every nerve flaring.
It was not foreign.
It was memory.
The cathedral where he had once been imprisoned had pressed this same weight on him. That cursed chamber with two relics locked in balance — one holy, one profane — each nullifying the other, creating a prison of equilibrium.
Back then, he had been shackled in that balance. Bound, starved, suppressed.
Now he was free.
Now he descended by choice.
The air thickened until each breath scraped his throat. The tunnels widened into a passage ringed by runes — holy scripts etched alongside curses in a spiraling lattice. They pulsed together, not clashing but blending, forming a net that trapped itself.
Noctis ran his claw across one of the etchings. The rune flared briefly, light and shadow together. His spiral gaze pulsed, reading the formation.
"A binding. Not for me this time… for them."
He pushed deeper.
The passage opened, and the chamber revealed itself.
It was vast, a cathedral buried under stone, its ceiling ribbed with archways that still shimmered faintly. The floor was a circle divided into eight equal sections. In each section, a relic.
He stopped at the threshold. His spirals widened, focusing.
Eight relics in total. Four holy. Four unholy.
The holy relics burned with searing brilliance: a chalice that glowed with liquid light; a sword of etched silver, humming with judgment; a crown of thorns alive with radiant fire; and a shield engraved with hymns that sang faintly.
The unholy relics pulsed with dread: a skull bound in iron runes that leaked shadow; a dagger that dripped with endless black ichor; a set of chains forged from bone and marrow; and a cloak stitched with flesh that fluttered despite no wind.
Each holy relic was placed opposite an unholy one. Their fields extended and collided, sanctity and corruption grinding together — but not overcoming. The result was a perfect stalemate.
The chamber thrummed with it. The pressure seeped into the bones of the walls, into the runes carved into the floor. Hymns and curses overlapped into a discordant hum.
Noctis's spirals narrowed. He stepped inside.
Every relic pulsed at his presence, as though sensing the one being who did not fit their design. For centuries, they had been locked in balance, each preventing the other from overwhelming the chamber. But Noctis was not balance.
He was the break.
He walked slowly, his boots grinding across the etched floor. Each step reverberated. His cloak dragged through dust, leaving streaks of crimson ash.
When he reached the circle's center, he stopped.
The air pressed against him from all sides. Sanctity and corruption together. It felt like hands on his chest, pushing down, daring him to try.
He lifted his head and laughed softly. "You built this to cancel yourselves out. And yet here I am — a thing of both. Do you understand what that means?"
The relics did not answer, but their hum grew sharper. The balance strained, recognizing intrusion.
Noctis opened his spirals fully. Threads of crimson light slashed across the chamber, touching each relic. He felt their pulses individually.
The chalice's liquid light. The dagger's dripping blood. The shield's hymns. The skull's silence. All four pairs, locked against each other.
Memories flared — the cathedral where he had been bound, the relics that had suppressed him. Back then, he had no choice but to endure.
But now?
Now he could take.
He raised his hand slowly.
The spirals in his palm brightened, threads whipping out like roots searching for soil. They brushed the aura of the nearest relic — the chalice. Its light pushed back, searing his claws. His spirals recoiled, then surged again, gripping tighter.
At the same time, the opposite relic — the skull — pulsed in response. Shadow rose, clashing with the chalice's light. They canceled, forming a neutral field.
Noctis chuckled. "Of course. Balanced in pairs. You can't act without your opposite."
He lowered his hand. His gaze swept across all eight. "But what happens if I unmake the balance?"
He stepped forward.
The chamber trembled faintly. Dust fell from the ceiling. The relics pulsed brighter, their combined hum rising. The runes on the floor flared, ward-scripts activating in warning.
Noctis smiled wide, fangs catching the glow. "Eight relics. Four of heaven, four of hell. And I am neither. I am the one who eats both."
He crouched slightly, his spirals burning hotter, light and shadow bleeding into each other around his form. His presence warped the balance. The relics' auras twisted, no longer perfectly aligned.
The hum of suppression faltered.
The chamber shivered like a beast roused from sleep.
Noctis's voice was low, steady, certain. "Break the balance… and I take everything."
He extended both arms, spirals flaring wide, crimson-white threads lashing out to touch every relic at once.
The chamber screamed.
Light and darkness surged together, desperate to hold their balance. Runes blazed, walls cracked, the floor quaked. The relics resisted with centuries of stored power.
But Noctis's Dominion pulsed through him, Faith-Eater's authority blooming. He was not suppressed by sanctity or corruption. He commanded both.
His spirals roared, pulling.
The chalice shuddered. The skull screamed. The dagger dripped faster. The crown's flames flared, then faltered. The cloak writhed like a living thing. The shield's hymn broke into static.
Balance cracked.
Noctis's laughter rose above the noise, a harsh echo that filled the chamber.
And then, with a single violent pull, the equilibrium shattered.
Light and shadow collapsed inward, consumed by his spirals. The relics blazed, then shrieked, then buckled. Their auras funneled into him, eight streams of sanctified and profane power merging into one storm.
Noctis threw his head back as it poured into him, spirals blazing brighter than ever, the chamber drowning in crimson light.
The chamber was already fracturing.
Rubble rained from the ceiling, runes cracked under the strain, and the floor trembled with every breath. Eight relics burned against Noctis's spirals, their auras shrieking in opposition as the balance they had guarded for centuries buckled under his pull.
Noctis stood in the center, arms outstretched, spirals lashing in every direction. Light and shadow coiled around him, threads of crimson-white spiraling faster and faster until they wove a storm.
The chalice's liquid light fought to scorch his veins. The skull poured shadow into his bones. The sword of judgment slashed at his Grid. The dagger stabbed through his essence. The crown of flame tried to burn his mind. The cloak of flesh writhed against his body. The chains tightened around his spirit. The shield's hymn roared in his ears.
Eight voices screaming at once. Eight powers clawing to escape.
Noctis laughed. His voice was raw, but steady. "Stronger than the first cathedral… and still not enough."
He pulled harder.
The relics resisted, each unleashing the full weight of their stored centuries. The chamber became a battlefield of light and darkness. The floor cracked open, magma rising from the depths as the lattice shattered.
The relics surged in retaliation, trying to destroy him as they died.
The chalice exploded streams of liquid fire. The dagger vomited rivers of shadow. The shield blasted hymns so loud the walls split. The crown sent flames roaring toward his skull.
But Faith-Eater Dominion spread wide. His spirals flared into a net, seizing both sanctity and corruption together. What burned him one second became fuel the next. What screamed in his ears poured into his Grid.
He gritted his teeth as blood poured from his nose, his body vibrating with the force. His armor cracked at the seams, aura bursting outward.
"Break," he commanded.
The relics obeyed.
One by one, their shells crumbled. The chalice dissolved into liquid light that vanished into his spirals. The skull shattered, black dust funneled into him. The crown's flames extinguished into threads of crimson fire. The cloak writhed and disintegrated into ash. The shield melted into pure resonance. The sword, dagger, and chains fractured into shards that collapsed into the storm.
Eight streams converged.
Noctis threw his head back, screaming as the power hit him. His spirals burst into blinding radiance, crimson-white stretching into a pillar that tore through the chamber ceiling and into the desert sky. The dunes outside exploded outward, sandstorms rising for miles.
The chamber could not survive. Walls collapsed, arches fell, runes burned to ash. The relic circle broke apart completely, leaving only the Sovereign at its center.
Noctis's laughter cut through the storm. "All of it… mine."
System: Catastrophic Grid Ingestion Complete.
Essence Gains (8 Relics)
+200,000 Blood Essence
+160,000 Faith Essence
+55,000 Soul Essence
+25 Apex Essence
Skill & Vein Evolutions
Exsanguinate VIII → IX (Cataclysm Rend): drains relics, beings, and structures simultaneously.
Bloodstorm VI → VII (World-Rend Tempest): AoE storm can now invert sanctity and corruption across kilometers.
Crimson Bulwark I → II: shield now reflects sanctified projectiles as blood-forged counterstrikes.
Annihilation Break I → II: AoE shockwave strike expands, siphoning essence from destroyed terrain.
New Relic-Based Abilities
Chains of Dominion I: conjure blood-forged bindings capable of restraining Tier VIII beings.
Cloak of Abyss I: veil that nullifies detection, suppresses aura signature entirely.
Crown of Flame I (Inverted): enhances mental fortitude; doubles Grid efficiency when resisting sanctified or cursed corruption.
Shield Hymn I (Inverted): generates resonance waves that disrupt enemy coordination.
Vein Expansion
Faith-Eater Vein Stage IV stabilized at Sovereign's Dominion.
Unlocks partial Tier IX sanctity manipulation: holy energy can now be inverted into healing constructs for followers.
Passive Expansion
Holy Resistance IX (stabilized, fortified).
Unholy Resistance VIII (raised by relic infusion).
Dual Dominion Synergy: both holy and unholy powers are now equally absorbed, inverted, and redirected.
The last echoes of the chamber died with the collapse. Only rubble remained — and Noctis standing at the center, spirals blazing so bright the desert night looked like dawn.
His Grid still pulsed, stabilizing the storm of essence. He flexed his claw, and crimson chains rose from the ground at his will. He spread his cloak, and shadows folded over him until the desert fell silent. He tapped his temple, feeling the inverted crown steady his mind.
Eight relics, consumed. Eight powers, bent.
Noctis smiled faintly, fangs glinting.
"First the cathedral bound me with two. Now I've devoured eight. Let them send more prisons."
The desert wind roared, carrying dust into the horizon. He turned toward the deeper catacombs. The storm had not ended — it had only begun.
The chamber was gone.
What had once been a vault of relics was now rubble and dust, the ceiling collapsed, the runes shattered, the balance broken beyond repair. The only thing that remained was silence.
Noctis stood in the ruins, spirals dimming as he inhaled the scorched air. The taste of sanctity still lingered in the dust, faint but hollow. He crouched, claws brushing across the stone. No resonance left. No relics left. Nothing worth taking remained.
Almost.
As he searched through the debris, his spirals caught a faint shimmer. Not sanctity, not corruption, but marrow. He followed it through broken stone until he uncovered fragments — bones, brittle and scattered, the remains of long-dead clergymen.
Some wore fragments of robes still clinging to them, charred and cracked. Others bore marks of old wards carved directly into the bone, faded but not gone.
Noctis gathered them without hesitation. His threads of crimson bound the fragments together, each set folded into his Blood Storage alongside the bones of bishops, inquisitors, and angels he had already claimed.
"None wasted," he muttered, sweeping the chamber one final time. "Every bone will serve me."
When the last shard was collected, he spread his wings. The catacombs had given him all they could. It was time to return.
The desert wind welcomed him back with a howl. He rose from the fissure, wings tearing the air, spirals burning faintly in the night. He angled toward the horizon, and the Twilight Capital came into view — a vast sprawl of walls, towers, and banners, lit by torches that flickered like a sea of stars.
The moment he crossed the final ridge, he felt their eyes.
The capital's people had gathered along the walls and plazas. Soldiers stood at attention. Civilians craned their necks, pointing into the night sky. Their faces carried awe, fear, relief.
They had seen it.
The desert horizon had lit up with a strike powerful enough to rival dawn. Even at this distance, the heavens themselves had flared white. They had felt the tremor in their streets, heard the echoes rolling through the dunes. To them, it was a mystery — a force so vast it could have erased them if it landed closer.
And now, they saw him returning. Alone. Unbroken.
He descended slowly, his presence casting a shadow that swept across the gates. Dust followed in his wake, crimson light glinting from his spirals. When his boots touched the ground, silence rippled across the gathered crowd.
For a moment, they only stared. Then the whispers broke.
"He survived.""That light… he walked through it.""No one else could return from that."
The voices rose into cheers. The saints stepped forward to greet him, their armor gleaming faintly. Veyra was among them, her eyes sharp with relief and worry both.
Noctis's fangs flashed in a grin. He laughed — sharp, certain, the sound carrying across the plaza.
"Things worked out," he said. "The desert is cleansed, and I came back with more than they could ever stop. Bones. Enough to forge weapons that will make our legions unstoppable."
The crowd roared in response, their fear reshaped into fervor.
But when the noise dimmed and the saints drew closer, Veyra spoke softly. "You pushed yourself too far. We all saw it — the strike was beyond anything mortal. If you had been caught in the center, you wouldn't be here."
Noctis's spirals dimmed, and for the first time since the battle, his laughter stilled. He glanced at his chest, remembering the impact, the way the light had nearly ripped him apart before his resistance held.
He exhaled through his nose, steady but honest. "You're right. I nearly died."
The saints stiffened at the admission, the crowd hushed, but he raised his voice before silence could sour into fear.
"But I didn't. And now I've gained more than they'll ever take from me. For tonight, I rest. Tomorrow, I'll hunt again. Strong beast bones this time, for weapons our enemies won't see coming."
His words steadied them. Murmurs turned back to cheers, faith restored.
Escorted through the capital, he moved into the palace chambers. Torches lit the halls, and silk drapes swayed as though bowing to his passage. His presence alone seemed to calm the air.
In the chamber prepared for him, women awaited — saints, priestesses, nobles who had pledged themselves to him. Their eyes burned with anticipation, their bodies trembling with devotion.
But Noctis raised a hand before they could approach. His spirals pulsed low, his tone firm.
"Not tonight."
The words cut through the room like a blade. The women froze, their faces falling in disappointment. Murmurs of confusion filled the air.
Noctis stepped past them, unclasping his cloak, his movements slow with exhaustion. He lowered himself onto the bed, letting his body sink into the cushions.
He did not soften his tone, but his gaze carried reassurance. "I nearly died to that strike. I won't overexert myself now. I'll rest, regain everything, and prepare for the next hunt."
Silence lingered. Then he smirked faintly, his spirals dimming as he lay back.
"Don't look so defeated. Before I leave again, I'll make sure to satisfy all of you. That, I promise."
The words landed like a spark. Disappointment melted into shy smiles, some faces flushing with relief. The tension eased.
Noctis closed his eyes, letting the exhaustion finally settle. The palace fell quiet, save for the distant sound of banners snapping in the wind outside.
Tonight, he would sleep. Tomorrow, the hunt would begin anew.
The capital was quiet, though inside the palace it was anything but.
For three days and nights, the Sovereign did not leave his chamber. The promise he had made was kept in full. Every saint, priestess, and noblewoman who had waited for him was drawn into the storm. Noctis did not hold back — not with his body, not with his spirals. He gave them what they craved, what they had feared losing forever when he almost fell to the Tier VIII strike.
The palace walls shook with cries of devotion. Servants lingered in the corridors, too afraid to enter, too enthralled by the sounds to move away. At night, the whole capital could hear it faintly, a rhythm that pulsed through the marble like a heartbeat.
When it was done, silence fell at last.
Noctis rose from the chaos of tangled limbs, his body still gleaming with the sheen of exertion, spirals pulsing with slow strength. Around him, the chamber was littered with the aftermath — silk sheets torn, incense burners overturned, the air heavy with sweat and the musk of satisfaction. The women lay scattered in exhaustion, some still murmuring his name even in sleep.
He stepped through them without hesitation, cloak dragging across the floor. To him, they were sated. That was enough.
He opened the balcony doors, letting the cool night air in. It touched his skin, carrying the faint scent of sand and torch smoke. He breathed it deep, then looked out at the capital.
Three days of indulgence. Enough. Now back to the hunt.
By dawn, he walked the palace halls again, this time clad in armor instead of nothing. The saints awaited him, their armor polished, their eyes wary. Veyra stepped forward, offering a bow.
"You've rested," she said. "Are you ready to move again?"
Noctis's spirals burned faintly as he regarded her. "Ready. But I need more than relic bones. I need beast marrow. Strong, ancient. Something that can feed the forge properly."
He moved past her, into the war hall. Maps stretched across the tables, marked with ink and pins — hunting ranges, dead zones, places no caravan returned from.
Noctis placed a claw on the map, dragging across the parchment. "Options."
A saint spoke first. "The Blackfang Range, Sovereign. Wyverns nest there — not true dragons, but their bones hold density and elemental charge. Dangerous, but less organized than angels or inquisitors."
Another countered. "The Mire of Echoes. Abominations crawl there, twisted from old wars. Their skeletons are fused with corrupted essence. Risky, yes, but forging material unlike anything else."
Veyra pointed farther north. "Or the Spine Peaks. Titans sleep in that range — not the colossal kind you've fought, but their descendants. Bones heavy with iron. Perfect for armor."
Noctis listened, spirals dimming as he weighed their words. Each location offered risk, reward, and blood.
He flexed his claw once, dragging it down the map. "Good. I'll choose one. And when I return, the forge will open again."