[St. Petersburg: The Merchant's Estate - The Onyx Wing]
The High-Grade Mana Potion didn't taste like blueberry gaming soda. It tasted like battery acid mixed with copper coins.
Ren—now Caelus—downed the crystal vial in one gulp, suppressing the urge to vomit as the blue liquid burned its way down his throat. For a fleeting second, the splitting headache receded, replaced by a cold, synthetic numbness that started in his stomach and spread to his fingertips.
[ Vessel Integrity: 18%. Stabilized. Duration: 4 Hours. ]
He slumped back against the velvet pillows of his four-poster bed, his chest heaving. The room was opulent but suffocating, lit only by the faint, rhythmic pulse of the mana lamps mounted on the walls. He recognized the glow—Bioluminescent Algae from the Abyssal Trenches. Expensive. Inefficient. A sign of wealth for wealth's sake.
"Four hours," Caelus whispered, staring at his soft, uncalloused hands. "I have four hours before the pressure returns, and maybe a week before my brain liquefies into soup."
The pain wasn't just physical; it was existential. It felt like three people were screaming in a library, and his skull was the room. He closed his eyes, diving into the archive of his memory—scanning the 3,000 chapters of Celestial Ascension stored in his mind, looking for a cure.
Soul Density. Overload. How did they fix it in the book?
They didn't. In the novel, anyone who tried to absorb too many souls turned into a Mindless Abomination and was put down by the Church's Inquisitors. It was a hard rule of the Celestial Source System: One vessel, one soul.
"Think," Caelus hissed, tapping his temple. "There was an exception. The Regressor's party. Volume 6, Chapter 42."
An image surfaced. A character named Lyra the Phantom. She was the Regressor's scout, a rogue who could be in three places at once. She possessed a unique, Forbidden Skill: [Soul Schism]. It allowed her to split her consciousness into independent clones to scout multiple dungeons simultaneously.
It was broken. Overpowered. And then, tragedy struck. One of her clones was captured and tortured to death by a Demon Lord in the Beast-Wilds. Because the clone held a piece of her actual soul, the feedback lobotomized the real Lyra. She spent the rest of the novel as a vegetable. The comment section had rioted for weeks.
The Regressor banned the skill. He ordered every grimoire containing it to be burned.
Caelus sat up, a dangerous grin spreading across his pale face.
"For a normal person, splitting your soul is suicide," he murmured. "But I have too much soul. If I split it... I don't lose myself. I unburden myself."
He needed that skill. It wasn't just a power-up; it was his dialysis machine.
How do I get it?
He rifled through his mental database. The [Grimoire of Schism] wasn't a shop item found in the St. Petersburg markets. It was a high-tier reward mechanism.
In the lore of Celestial Ascension, when a Tier 4 or higher Dungeon was cleared, the System didn't just drop loot on the ground like a piñata. It opened the [Contribution Shop].
Those who dealt the most damage, took the most aggro, or mitigated the most disasters were awarded "Contribution Points." The MVP of the raid got first pick from a list of affinity-based skills. It was Mael's way of rewarding the strong and ignoring the weak.
"Soul Schism is a Necromancy-type skill," Caelus analyzed, his merchant instincts taking over. "That means I need a Necromancy Dungeon. If I can sneak into the raid party, manipulate the fight, and secure a high contribution score without exposing my identity... I can buy the skill before anyone else realizes its value."
Knock. Knock.
"Young Master?" A maid's trembling voice came from the door. "The Guildmaster... your father... he wants everyone in the underground bunker. The news... it's bad."
Caelus frowned. "What news?"
"A Breach, sir. A Tier 4 Dimensional Gate has opened just fifty miles south, near the border of the marshlands. The sky has turned violet. They call it the 'Azure Catacombs'."
Caelus froze.
The Azure Catacombs.
In the novel, this dungeon appeared three years later, triggered by the shifting tectonic plates of the Great Convergence. It was a graveyard of ancient summoners, filled with bone constructs and wailing spirits.
It was a Necromancy Dungeon.
"Fate," Caelus whispered, standing up. The vertigo hit him, but he ignored it. "Fate is trying to kill me, but it just put the cure within walking distance."
His ancient instincts—the fragment of the Half-Elf warrior—prickled at the back of his neck. A timeline shift this drastic... Val-Kuros must be moving. He didn't know exactly what the First Devil was planning, but he knew that if the Azure Catacombs were appearing now, the difficulty would be far higher than the novel described.
"Young Master?"
"Tell Father I'm not going to the bunker," Caelus said, walking to his wardrobe. He grabbed a heavy cloak made of Wyvern leather—standard merchant travel gear—and a bag of gold Solars. He paused, then opened a locked chest to grab a satchel of Volatile Alchemical Flasks. They were intended for mining operations, but they would have to serve as his "magic."
"I'm going to make a gamble," he muttered.
He wasn't going to fight the boss with a sword. He was too weak to even lift a standard sword (STR 8). He was going to pay his way to the top of the Contribution Board, even if he had to bribe the dungeon itself.
[Ten Minutes Later: The Guildmaster's Study]
Guildmaster Crassus stared at the empty room, his face turning a shade of purple that matched his velvet coat. The study smelled of old parchment and ink—the smell of an empire built on ledgers.
"He... he left?" Crassus roared, slamming his fist onto the mahogany desk. "My useless, pampered, son took a wagon and rode toward a Tier 4 Breach?!"
The maid trembled. "He... he said he had a trade to make, sir."
"A trade? With who? The Reaper?" Crassus paced the room, hyperventilating. Caelus was weak. He was spoiled. He couldn't lift a broadsword, let alone fight Void Monsters. "He's going to die. He's going to get eaten by a void creature in the first mile! Does he not know that the marshlands are crawling with scavengers?"
He spun around to the corner of the room, where the shadows seemed unnaturally dark.
"Elara!"
The shadows shifted. A woman stepped out. She wore light leather armor dyed midnight blue and carried two curved blades at her waist. She was Elara, the Guild's hidden blade—a Tier 4 Warrior who usually handled corporate assassinations & intimidation, not babysitting.
"Guildmaster," she said, her voice devoid of emotion.
"Go get him," Crassus commanded, pointing at the window. "Drag him back by his ear if you have to. Break his legs if he resists—I can pay a healer to fix them. Just don't let him die. He is still a Kusanagi... He is my son."
Elara nodded once. "Understood."
She vanished out the window, moving faster than the eye could track. Crassus sank into his chair, rubbing his temples. "That boy... when he gets back, I'm grounding him for a decade."
[The Iron Fortress: The War Room]
The map of the continent was spread across the table, weighed down by obsidian daggers. It was drawn on cured beast-hide, durable enough to survive the freezing temperatures of the North.
Duke Valerius, the Lord of the North, looked like a bear carved from granite. He stared at the report, his brow furrowed. The room was freezing, heated only by a central brazier that smelled of burning pine and oil.
"A Tier 4 Breach in the Central Plains? The Capital is exposed," the Duke grunted. "The Empire of Tian will laugh at us if we ask for aid. They've been waiting for an excuse to push the border at the Jade Wall."
"We must send the 4th Battalion," General Marcus suggested, tracing a line on the map with a gloved finger. "But it will take three days to mobilize the heavy cavalry. The snow is deep this year."
"We don't have three days. The Beastmen tribes in the Wilds are restless. If we move the main force, the Wolf Clans will sack the border towns."
The doors to the War Room slammed open.
Every head turned. Standing there was Kaelen. He wasn't wearing his usual training leathers. He was clad in the black steel armor of the Ironbloods, a heavy claymore strapped to his back. The metal was scratched and dull—utilitarian, not ornamental.
"Kaelen?" The Duke frowned. "This is a council of war. Go back to your studies. You are barely an Initiate."
Kaelen walked forward. He didn't walk like a teenager. He walked with the heavy, rhythmic step of a man who had marched across continents of ash. He stopped at the table, his eyes locking onto his father's.
"Father," Kaelen said, his voice calm but possessing a terrifying gravity. "The 4th Battalion is too slow. Their heavy cavalry will bog down in the marshlands surrounding the breach. You need a strike team."
"And you propose what?" The Duke scoffed. "Yourself? You are Tier 1. That is a suicide mission."
"It is a gamble," Kaelen corrected smoothly. "But a calculated one. The 4th Battalion is your hammer. You cannot risk breaking your hammer on a breach that might just be a distraction. If the Battalion moves, the Northern Border is left weak. The Beastmen will smell it. We know the Wolf King; he strikes when the shield is turned."
The Generals murmured. He was right. The Wolf King was opportunistic.
"So send the Vanguard," Kaelen continued, his voice steady. "Send the light infantry. Send me. If it is a disaster, you lose fifty men and a son who hasn't even reached Tier 2 yet. A tragic loss, but politically recoverable."
He leaned in, placing his hands on the table.
"But if we succeed? If the Ironbloods clear a Tier 4 Breach before the Church or the Empire even mobilizes? The glory belongs solely to House Valerius. We secure the mana cores, we secure the loot, and we secure the reputation that the North does not need the Capital to save it."
"You speak of strategy, boy," General Marcus sneered, standing up. "But you have never seen a battlefield. You will freeze the moment you smell blood."
Kaelen turned his head slowly. He didn't shout. He didn't release a skill. He simply looked into the General's eyes.
In that split second, General Marcus didn't see a nineteen-year-old noble. He saw a graveyard. He saw eyes that held the reflection of a burning world, a depth of horror and exhaustion that no child should possess. An aura radiated from Kaelen—not of mana, but of an [Iron Will] that had been broken a thousand times and refused to die.
It was the look of a predator looking at prey.
Marcus hesitated, his throat going dry. The instinct to dismiss the boy died in his chest, replaced by a primal, confusing fear. He sat back down, averting his gaze.
"I..." Marcus cleared his throat. "I withdraw my objection."
Kaelen turned back to the Duke. "Give me the order, Father."
Duke Valerius looked at his son. He looked at the General who had just backed down from a teenager. He saw the strange, haunted shadow in Kaelen's eyes. It scared him. But for a Lord of the North, fear was just a signal of power.
"Go," the Duke whispered. "But if you die, do not expect me to mourn a fool."
Kaelen nodded. He turned to the soldiers waiting outside in the snow.
"Ironbloods!" Kaelen roared, his voice carrying over the courtyard. "We do not ride to save the Capital! We do not ride for glory! We ride because there are monsters in the dark who think they are the hunters. Today, we show them that they are the prey!"
After kaelen left Duke turned to Oliver his assistant and ordered "keep an eye on him", soon Oliver also disappeared.
[The Spire of Genesis: The Sanctum of Light]
"More grapes, Your Holiness?"
Arthur leaned back on the chaise lounge, sighing as a beautiful priestess placed a peeled grape into his mouth. He was wearing robes woven from golden silk, enchanted to shimmer with a faint halo effect. The fabric alone cost more than a village in Valdoria.
"Delightful," Arthur murmured. "Truly, Mael has blessed this vintage."
He looked out from the balcony of the Spire. Below him, the Holy City of Asha stretched out like a jewel, a maze of white marble and gold filigree. In the distance, rising from the Himalayas, was the Tower of Light—the training dungeon that Mael had gifted humanity. It pulsed with a steady, rhythmic beam, piercing the clouds.
Arthur. The Saint. The Voice.
"It fits," Arthur thought, swirling his goblet of wine. "I always knew I was meant for this. The struggles in Tokyo... the rejection letters... they were just the backstory. The Origin Arc. Now, I am the Main Character."
[ ✠ CELESTIAL INTERFACE ✠ ]
[ NEW QUEST: The First Crusade ]
[ Objective: Purify the Azure Breach. ]
[ Difficulty: A-Rank ]
[ Reward: Access to "Divine Revelation" (Reality Edit - Minor) ]
Arthur sat up, spilling his wine.
"A quest!" He swiped the screen open. His eyes lit up at the reward. Divine Revelation?
"Mael," Arthur whispered reverently. "You spoil me."
He stood up, his Tier 4 aura flaring. The silk robes billowed dramatically, fueled by his wind magic solely for the aesthetic. He checked his reflection in the crystal glass—perfect hair, glowing eyes. He wasn't doing this for fans anymore. He was doing this because he was the Shepherd.
"Attendants!" Arthur boomed, using [Voice Amplification]. The spell vibrated the very air, making the crystal glasses on the table sing.
The doors burst open. High Priests and Temple Knights rushed in, bowing low.
"The Darkness has stirred!" Arthur announced, striking a pose he had practiced in the mirror. He pointed dramatically toward the West. "A wound has opened in the fabric of our world. A breach of filth and shadow! But fear not!"
He walked past them, glowing with holy light.
"For I shall descend! I shall bring the Dawn to the Azure Catacombs! Prepare the Paladins! Prepare the War-Chariots! Today, we do not just fight; we perform the Will of the Light!"
I will save them, he thought, his chest swelling with pride. They are helpless without me. I will be the God they deserve.
"Glory to the Saint!" The priests chanted, tears streaming down their faces.
Arthur smirked. He walked out onto the landing platform where a golden airship awaited.
He didn't know that the dungeon contained threats his novel never predicted.
He didn't know that a Regressor was racing to speedrun the boss.
And he certainly didn't know that a desperate glitch was coming to steal the MVP title from right under his nose.
[The Crossroads]
Within the hour, three forces were moving toward the same point on the map.
From the North, a unit of black-armored cavalry thundered down the King's Road, led by a boy with the eyes of a dead man.
From the East, a golden airship cut through the clouds, broadcasting hymns, carrying a man who thought he was a messiah.
And from the West, inside a bumpy merchant wagon filled with salted pork and mana potions, Caelus sat in the dark, sharpening a dagger he was too weak to use.