Eryndor's Cathedral towered before him like a monument to divinity itself—walls of pristine white stone rising toward the heavens, every arch and pillar carved with reverence and precision.
Sunlight fractured through stained glass windows, painting the interior in soft hues of gold, crimson, and blue.
The scenes they depicted were grand and unfamiliar—saints locked in battle, heroes kneeling before celestial thrones.
And then his heart sank.
Among them, immortalized in flawless glasswork, was him. Or at least, some overly romanticized version of him and his old party—standing victorious, expressions noble, postures absurdly heroic.
"Great," he muttered under his breath. "Even in glass, they can't resist but exaggerate."
He squinted at the radiant version of himself, holding some glowing staff like a divine lightbulb.
"Wow. Ten out of ten for drama, minus a hundred for accuracy."
"I look like I'm about to release a gospel album."
The cathedral doors stood open, welcoming all, and as he stepped inside, the world softened around him.
Shafts of light spilled across the aisle, dust motes drifting lazily through them. Rows of pews stretched out on either side, leading the eye toward a marble altar that gleamed faintly in the morning sun.
The space felt larger than life—holy, calm, and utterly alien to him.
His gaze caught on a priestess standing near one of the side altars, gray robes brushing the floor as she carefully adjusted a tray of candles.
That was his target.
A simple conversation—just ask about resurrection, right? Easy.
He told his body to move. But it didn't.
"Yup. Still socially allergic," he muttered.
'Even though it's a different world, I am the same introvert.'
After all, what kind of person spent thousands of hours grinding every dungeon, mastering every boss, just to top a leaderboard?
Not the sociable kind.
And certainly not someone good at talking to strangers in cathedrals.
But as the old familiar weight of anxiety crept in, he noticed something strange—it didn't crush him the way it used to.
It was there, yes, but muted. Distant.
Maybe it was this world. The air here felt…right.
Maybe because this was Hepta Calamitates, the game he'd lived inside for years.
Or maybe because this wasn't the frail, nervous body of Arthur the introvert.
He looked down at his hands—steady, strong, almost regal in form.
He flexed a hand. "Look at that—steady. Wow, no trembling."
"Guess social anxiety can't keep up with demon physiology. Evolution at its finest."
"I'm not that Arthur anymore," he murmured quietly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
His hands weren't trembling anymore and his body didn't hesitate.
Soon, his boots clicked softly against the marble as he crossed the nave, each step building his resolve.
The priestess glanced up as he neared. She was older, her silver-streaked hair tied back neatly, her face lined but warm. The kind of face that had seen years of both hardship and grace.
When her gaze met his—those kind eyes flickering with gentle curiosity—she smiled.
Not a hint of fear.
Not even a flinch at his horns or his demonic features. Just quiet kindness.
"How can I help you, Child?" she asked, her voice like soft candlelight—steady, calm, and welcoming.
'Child?'
Arthur blinked.
"Okay, I know I moisturize, but come on," he muttered.
'At this rate, I'm going to need to carry a fake ID just to get some respect.'
He almost laughed—almost.
So that's why she was smiling so warmly, speaking so softly, like she was addressing a wayward altar boy instead of a grown man with far too many years behind him.
Really?
That's what I look like to you people? A teenager?
He sighed inwardly, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.
It wasn't the first time he'd been mistaken for younger than he was—hell, in his old life, it had been practically routine.
Being neither particularly tall nor broad didn't help, and now, in this perfectly sculpted avatar body, it was even worse.
His face was smooth, unlined, and the faint glow of Aether around him probably didn't scream "mature authority."
In the real world, he'd been twenty-eight. A man who paid taxes. A man who deserved respect.
Still, "child"?
Seriously?
His robes hid the muscular frame he'd painstakingly built into this character, the one he'd designed to be dignified, commanding—a far cry from the scrawny kid who used to hunch behind a computer screen.
But here he was, getting mistaken for a teen again. The universe clearly had jokes.
He took a slow breath and straightened, forcing the irritation down. There was no point in brooding over it.
"I have questions I need answered," he said evenly, locking eyes with her. "I was hoping you could help."
The tone caught her off guard.
"Ah, yes," Arthur almost smirked. "Deep voice DLC finally paying off."
For just a moment, her expression shifted—soft surprise flickered across her face as she blinked, reassessing him.
The warmth in her gaze remained, but now it was laced with a touch of respect, the kind reserved for someone older, steadier, and not the helpless child she'd mistaken him for.
Her smile softened into something more measured.
"Of course," the priestess said, her voice calm and gentle. "How can I help you, sir?"
She instantly changed her form of respect.
But Arthur didn't waste time dressing the question up.
"Is resurrection possible? In any form?"
The words came out flat, measured—too direct, maybe, but he needed clarity, not ceremony.
If death here worked the same way as it had in the game, he had nothing to worry about. But if not… well, that changed everything.
The priestess blinked, her kindly expression faltering for a heartbeat before settling into one of quiet sympathy.
"Even in the Time of Mayhem," she said softly, "such magic was beyond mortal reach."
"Would the Sorcerer himself not have revived his fallen comrades if it were otherwise?"
Arthur frowned. "The Sorcerer?"
She tilted her head, studying him curiously, as though surprised anyone could not know.
"Arthur Magnus," she said with quiet reverence. "The greatest spellcaster of all time."
"He adventured with the Legendary Heroes and conquered the Hepta Calamitates."
Arthur stared.
'Uh… what?'