Chapter 92 — Relics, Nirvana
Click—
The ancient shackles snapped open as the key clenched between his teeth turned. The tight restraint around his wrists vanished, revealing skin swollen and darkened from prolonged constriction.
With a flick of his arm, Charles shook off the cuffs and stood up, letting out a slow breath.
The surroundings were still damp, dark, and oppressive—but his mindset had changed entirely. With the pressure gone, even the rats skulking in the corners seemed almost… endearing.
"Looks like I'll have to rely less on others from now on," he muttered to himself.
"They look dependable, but when it really matters, they're anything but."
"And that Twisted Rift… what exactly is it?"
Lost in thought, his gaze drifted toward the floor ahead.
That was where the bandaged man had vanished. In fact, the key he'd just used to free himself had been taken straight from the fallen cloak left behind.
Now, scattered there amid assorted odds and ends, were strips of filthy, tattered cloth.
Bandages.
---
[Salvatore's Burial Shroud]
Prevents the dissipation of spiritual essence. When wrapped around a spirit, it allows partial materialization.
It is steeped in ill omen. Its previous owner has just met an unfortunate end.
"…This seems useful."
Without hesitation, Charles rolled the cloth into a bundle and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he examined the rest of what the bandaged man had left behind.
A nameless book.
A deep-violet crystal, dazzling in its clarity.
A red cord.
And a silver key.
---
[Unnamed Book]
Records legends and anecdotes related to necromancers. Appears to be of no obvious value.
[Violet Crystal]
Contains unknown energy. Extremely old. Possibly a fragment of a greater artifact.
[Red Cord]
Saturated with resentment. Function unknown.
[Silver Key]
A key meant to open a specific door. Likely imbued with special magic. Crafted entirely from mithril.
---
Charles looked over the collection in silence.
Whatever else that man had been…
He'd certainly left behind a few interesting legacies.
These items looked steeped in secrets, but for his current situation, they were of little immediate use.
After collecting them one by one, Charles stood up and glanced around.
There was nothing else worth noting here. While he had been "bound," he'd already thoroughly examined the place. In truth, the entire area could be understood at a glance.
So he left without hesitation.
When he opened the cell door, a long corridor stretched into darkness in both directions. The ceiling above was dark gray, slick with moisture, and both sides of the corridor were lined with filthy, crude prison cells.
The incessant barking he'd been hearing came from one of the cells not far away.
"Why would anyone lock up a dog for no reason?" Charles muttered inwardly.
Though puzzled, he didn't dwell on it. Instead, he began searching for Connie.
The bandaged man had claimed this place lay an entire kingdom away from the Poison Dragon Sea. His words weren't necessarily trustworthy, but they were still worth considering.
Either way, wherever this was, it was unfamiliar territory.
"Too bad the possession failed and left no residual memories," Charles thought bitterly. "Otherwise, I wouldn't be this blind."
"Is it because he didn't possess me, but the substitute instead?"
"Like last time… will it surface later through dreams?"
Lost in thought, Charles scanned his surroundings as he moved.
No matter what, finding Connie came first. At the very least, she counted as half an ally.
It turned out to be easy.
In the fifth cell to the left of his own, he found her.
Unlike him, Connie wasn't restrained—but she was unconscious, lying motionless on a pile of straw, her eyes shut.
Charles glanced around, then moved to wake her. But just as he opened the cell door, he hesitated.
Lowering his gaze, he checked his status panel. The "Damaged" marker next to Ghost Mask made him pause.
It probably wouldn't happen—but what if Connie noticed something wrong with him after waking?
Charles understood too little about the Church's methods to take that risk lightly.
So he turned back toward his own cell.
He decided to first enter the A Song of Ice and Fire world, repair the mask, and then wake Connie.
After all, it would only take an "instant." There was no real rush.
Besides, there were still many unresolved issues in that world—arguably more urgent than what was happening here.
"The travel is just such a pain," he muttered.
With that thought, he summoned the gateway and stepped through.
---
A Song of Ice and Fire — King's Landing
A violent yet eerily tranquil sea of emerald wildfire burned for an entire day and night.
Fisherman's Square, Cobbler's Square, the harbor, the Great Sept of Baelor, the reeking alleyways that crisscrossed the city—everything was reduced to ash.
Wildfire even leapt over the towering city walls, consuming the jousting grounds beyond and the fish markets near the Blackwater's tributaries.
When the survivors finally emerged from what they called "the gods-blessed ground," all they saw was scorched earth and shattered ruins.
The acrid stench of smoke stung the eyes and lungs. Wisps of gray haze drifted slowly upward, spreading until the entire city lay smothered beneath a pall of ash.
Everything that had once been familiar was gone.
Only ruins.
Only ruins.
Only blackened ground.
Collapsed structures lay low and broken; the scorched earth had hardened into dark crusts. From a single glance, one could see the damaged city walls at the horizon.
Once, life here had been a maze of narrow streets and crowded alleys. Now, it had become an open, desolate wasteland.
"Thank the gods…" someone murmured, turning back toward what had once been their home, relief flickering across their face.
But more voices wailed in grief.
They had survived—but everything they lived on had burned away.
The cruelty, filth, and misery they had long endured were gone, but so were the things that sustained them.
No spare food.
No spare clothing.
No ships.
No farmland.
No shops.
No merchants.
Even if they lived—how were they supposed to go on?
King's Landing, once the beating heart of Westeros, had become a heap of refuse.
The southern nobles who survived within the Red Keep abandoned the city as soon as the flames died down, fleeing in haste. They feared surrounding enemies would seize the chance to annihilate them—utterly forgetting the grand promises they had made upon entering the city.
They could leave; their power bases lay elsewhere.
But the people born and raised in King's Landing—where could they go?
With war raging everywhere, where was this so-called safe haven?
No one had an answer.
Only ruins.
Only confusion.
---
At the same time, the gray-robed Sparrows emerged from their courtyard, their expressions caught between relief and fury.
"This must be the Seven's mercy."
"The Seven Hells will take that butcher—yes, that bastard—may he rot in damnation!"
"Gods above… how could anyone be so cruel?"
…
"What now?"
"Which king do we turn to?"
"Surely a king will help us… right?"
The Sparrows murmured among themselves, glancing toward their leader.
But the old septon remained silent, staring at the ruins before him.
After a long while, beneath their expectant gazes, he finally spoke:
"The gods did not save us so that we might once again serve those degenerate kings."
As he spoke, he bent down and picked up a charred spear from the ground.
Its metal shaft had been blackened by wildfire, but when he wiped it clean, the edge beneath still gleamed with deadly sharpness.
He stared at it for a moment, then turned his gaze toward the army camp in the distance.
"The gods," he murmured, "already have plans for us."
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