Dawn broke over Siracusa like a promise reluctantly kept.

  The city stirred with relief, with disbelief, with quiet exhilaration. The nobles returned smiling—some radiant, some shaken, all alive. Few could truly comprehend how close the night had come to ending very differently.

  Many felt invigorated. Not merely because they had survived, but because they had it: the clash of Legendary powers, the descent and erasure of a false god, the arrival of the Titan himself. Such sights did not leave a man unchanged.

  The children were returned first.

  As they crossed the gates, escorted by soldiers and healers, families surged forward. Tears, sobs, laughter, prayers—Siracusa wept openly in the streets. Whatever else had happened that night, this at least had ended in mercy.

  Rumours followed swiftly.

  They spread through markets and halls alike, twisted and embroidered, but always circling the same truths: noble blood had been involved. The Cortina family, foremost among them, its core obliterated during Dagon’s final convulsion. A cautionary tale written in corpses.

  A lesser scion of House Basil had also been discovered among the kidnappers. The family disowned him within the hour. Had the Army not intervened, the patriarch himself would have carried out the sentence. In any case, his fate was sealed.

  Templo did not forgive false gods.

  Yet the Church did not thunder. There were no mass arrests, no public purges. The descent had been halted swiftly, and the Second Dragon General had personally intervened. Templo limited itself—for now—to investigation.

  That restraint did not comfort anyone.

  Every allied house hastened to repudiate Cortina. Former friends spat on graves, eager to be seen doing so. No one wished to invite the Inquisition’s gaze.

  House Salinas watched and waited.

  The bastard son of its patriarch had been among the heretics.

  That alone could have been enough.

  Witnesses, however, swore that Marquis Rodolfo de Salinas had fought Aran directly. That he had restrained him. That he insinuated himself between his son and others more than once.

  It bought him time.

  In one of Siracusa’s grandest manors, time was precisely what Rodolfo feared he no longer had.

  Bishop Loretto sat across from him in the study, hands folded, expression genial. The man’s age showed only in the faint tremor of candlelight across his thinning hair. His smile was constant. It never reached his eyes.

  “Such a tragedy,” Loretto said mildly. “That even now, there are those who dare whisper the names of false gods.” He inclined his head. “Honour be to AEON that they were stopped.”

  Rodolfo inclined his own in return.

  “A son of yours was implicated,” the bishop continued, conversationally. “A regrettable matter. And yet, reports indicate you opposed him personally.”

  “I did,” Rodolfo replied evenly. “Aran was… an error of youth. A bastard. Barely connected to the family. I attempted correction. Failed. When his heresy became clear, I sought to end it myself.”

  Loretto nodded. Slowly.

  “And yet,” he said, “a TAO Emperor of your calibre gained no advantage. Curious, some might say.”

  Rodolfo met his gaze without flinching.

  “The power granted by that abomination was considerable,” he said. “I regret the delay. Lives may have been lost. For that, I bear responsibility.”

  A pause. “Fortunately, Brigadier Serena and House Vainilla acted decisively.”

  The name was offered like a coin.

  Loretto smiled wider.

  “Indeed,” he said, rising. “I shall not intrude further. Should additional discoveries surface, I will return.”

  His gaze lingered. “For your sake,” he added softly, “let us hope they do not.”

  When the bishop departed, Rodolfo waited.

  He doubled over, coughing violently until a dark, metallic crimson splattered the marble floor. The internal pressure of his suppressed Qi and his hollowing grief had finally broken through.

  He did not scream. He did not weep.

  The words burned behind his teeth.

  He clenched his fists, knuckles whitening.

  His eyes, usually calm, burned with a sudden, localised madness. Rodolfo had been the architect of the Vainilla’s downfall.

  He had simply survived. Watched. Waited. He chose his moment poorly.

  The Raven’s arrival had not been accounted for. Neither had the boy.

  Had Dagon won, he would have stepped into the Abyss as a king. Now, he was forced to curse his son’s memory to save his own neck.

  He straightened, wiped his mouth, and returned to his seat.

  The ripples were only beginning.

  In another manor, far from the ruins and washed in early sunlight, Nerion woke after several hours of deep rest.

  Though he had escaped the battle without grievous wounds, the expenditure of Qi and Mana, combined with the sheer intensity of the night's events, had left him deeply drained, his body aching in ways that sleep alone could not fully mend.

  Evelin was already awake.

  Leo had returned to his smaller form and immediately bounded toward Nerion when he entered the room, tail swishing in undisguised delight. Little Green hovered lazily near the window, wings catching the morning light.

  After sharing a hearty breakfast—simple yet nourishing fare provided by their gracious hosts—they gathered their few belongings and prepared to depart. The caravans were already resuming their routes along the well-trodden roads, and Nerion felt a pull toward Ansem, where his brother awaited and where the next chapter of his journey would unfold.

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  Evelin, for her part, would have gladly stayed longer, but Raven had already decided otherwise. A foreign Legendary expert lingering in a foreign territory was never comfortable for anyone, no matter how cordial the relations. The Dark Forest of Bahamut would not appreciate unnecessary attention.

  Before their departure, they were summoned to a study.

  Serena and Oliverio awaited them.

  Both were in high spirits. The operation had been an unquestionable success. A fake god’s descent had been halted. The Second Dragon General himself had borne witness. House Cortina had been eradicated, and House Salinas—stripped of its allies—was suddenly scrambling to appease Templo.

  Serena was to receive a formal commendation. The King had already sent word of future rewards for her conduct and for House Vainilla’s leadership under extreme pressure.

  Yet both Oliverio and Serena knew the truth.

  The decisive factor stood before them now.

  They did not know who Nerion truly was, nor Evelin. But they knew enough. Their connection to the Legendary Raven alone demanded respect.

  Neither Nerion nor Evelin wished to appear in the official records. The arrangement granted full credit to Serena and House Vainilla, but Oliverio would not accept such a fortune without acknowledgement. For cultivators of their standing, an unpaid debt could stagnate the Will—an issue of principle as much as power.

  Evelin's reasons for remaining anonymous stemmed from the complexities of her own position; the Dark Forest preferred to keep her existence veiled from the wider world.

  Nerion, for his part, cared little for fame or material gain at this stage. He wished one day to reveal his talents fully, to make his parents proud and stand unassailable before the world, but… The time was not ripe.

  So, Oliverio spoke.

  “Boy,” Oliverio said with a warm smile, his voice carrying the weight of genuine admiration, “you are truly remarkable. That assassin Sombra wielded nefarious means and was considered an elite among Praetorians, yet you defeated him cleanly. And then you shattered the statue that anchored the false god. We are deeply in your debt.”

  He paused, eyes sharp, “I now understand—you were the one who first rescued the kidnapped children and provided the crucial intelligence that allowed my daughter to orchestrate this operation, catching the heretics in one decisive stroke. Few of the younger generation impress me, but you are undoubtedly among the finest.”

  Nerion inclined his head. “He relied too much on ambush. Once cornered, his strengths diminished.”

  Oliverio laughed softly. “Modest, but not inaccurate.”

  He raised a hand before Nerion could object.

  “You don’t wish your name recorded. Fine. The credit remains with us. But I will not pretend we owe you nothing.”

  A Mint Card slid across the table.

  “Two thousand gold,” Oliverio said. “A token. Hardly equal to what you saved.”

  Nerion stiffened, then nodded. The sum was significant—more than enough to ease his path for some time.

  “There’s more,” Oliverio continued, producing a small badge. “Carry this. In Siracusa, House Vainilla will answer your call. Not favors—assistance. When reasonable.”

  Nerion accepted it.

  He hesitated only briefly before speaking again. “If possible… I’d like a sword manual.”

  Oliverio frowned—not in displeasure, but in thought.

  “Our family does not specialise in the sword,” he admitted. “The Army holds the greatest living swordmaster, and House Alaria guards the deepest traditions. What we possess is… foundational.”

  “That’s enough,” Nerion replied calmly. “I’m starting from zero.”

  Serena interjected, “Father—the old book. The one on the upper corner of the third shelf.”

  Recognition dawned in Oliverio’s eyes.

  “Ah. Yes. Nerion, we do have something that may serve you better than the manuals we issue to our guards. It is a relic of our family. Long ago, one of our ancestors rendered aid to a TAO Saint. To repay that debt, the Saint wrote a manual for him.”

  He paused briefly, gauging Nerion’s reaction.

  “The manual is titled . The name is misleading. It focuses on fundamentals—stance, flow, intent, and restraint. The movements themselves can be found elsewhere. What makes it valuable is the philosophy behind them. It explains how a swordsman should think, how to align body, intent, and timing.”

  Oliverio shook his head slightly.

  “Our family abandoned the sword generations ago, favouring spears and polearms. The Army later refined the path further, so the manual is considered outdated by modern standards. But for someone beginning without a master… it is one of the most thorough foundations in existence.”

  He slid the tome forward.

  “Until you find a true teacher, this will serve you well.”

  Nerion accepted it without hesitation. His excitement was genuine. A basic sword manual would have sufficed—this was far more than he had hoped for.

  Oliverio then added the Army’s revised basic manual alongside it.

  “Compare them,” he said. “Roots and refinement.”

  Nerion accepted it with a thrill of excitement. He didn't tell them that he had the Rusty Sword of Enkiltasted the sky.

  They parted soon after, escorted to the gates.

  As Nerion prepared to leave, Serena finally spoke to him directly.

  “Nerion... your relation to him. I didn't know you before, but his symbol in the manor convinced me to trust your plan. May I ask, if it's not imposing?”

  Nerion chuckled softly.

  “Beautiful big sister... Don't you remember me? But I remember how you helped us, six years ago, back in the Frontier. I'm currently on my way to find him now.”

  He turned, departing with Evelin and the beasts without looking back.

  Serena's eyes widened in recognition. Oliverio noticed her shock.

  “Serena? You know the boy's background? Why risk everything on his plan when he was unknown?”

  She calmed, smiling as she watched Nerion fade into the horizon.

  “I believe our house is about to rise, Father. Remember our talk when this case began—Lord Elisha's meteoric ascent, his impending promotion? Many seek his favour, yet few know him. Affiliated only with House Varona...”

  Oliverio was shocked as well, “Wait—don't tell me...”

  “Indeed. That boy, Nerion, is Elisha Nil Radomia's only known relative. His brother.”

  The ripples spread further still.

  Several days later—

  There was a remote, hidden valley along the contested Frontier between Ansara and Rhodar, where jagged mountains rose like silent sentinels and the land yielded little more than barren rock and scattered thorns, a small, unassuming fort crouched in the shadows. The air carried the faint, acrid scent of venomous creatures that prowled the slopes, scavengers and poisonous beasts drawn to the desolation, and the wind whispered through crevices with a sound that seemed almost mournful.

  A lone figure raced toward the fort at subsonic speed, blinking in and out of shadow with unnatural rhythm.

  He was young, no more than fifteen, with pale skin that spoke of nights spent in darkness rather than sunlight, and a demeanour as cold and unyielding as the stone around him. He could have been called handsome in the past. Now, burn scars twisted the flesh around his left eye, marring his face permanently.

  Sombra.

  He crossed the final stretch and entered the fort without slowing. Two guards stood at the gate, motionless, their expressions empty. Only the faint rise and fall of their chests betrayed that they were alive.

  Their eyes followed Sombra as he passed, heavy with unspoken contempt that needed no change in expression to convey.

  Sombra felt it and said nothing, but his knuckles turned white.

  Inside, the fort was a labyrinth of stone corridors and open training pits. Young agents fought everywhere, yet, sparring was indistinguishable from attempted murder. Eyes were gouged. Throats crushed. Bones broken without hesitation.

  No one intervened.

  This was not a soldier’s academy.

  Failure here did not lead to punishment…

  The stone floors were stained dark with years of dried blood, never cleaned. The air itself felt heavy, numbing. Those who survived this place did not fear pain, nor death.

  They were shaped to deliver both.

  Sombra entered a chamber overlooking one such training pit.

  A slim man stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, watching impassively. He wore dark linen robes. His face was narrow, lips thin, nose hooked, eyes slit-like and cold.

  He did not turn.

  After a long silence, he spoke.

  “You failed.”

  Sombra lowered his head slightly. “There were variables beyond expectation. A Legendary expert intervened. The avatar could not be stabilised.”

  The man did not react.

  “Excuses,” he said flatly. “Blood Redemption does not accept them.”

  His gaze remained fixed on the pit below.

  “You were followed. You were exposed. You lost to a boy far younger than yourself… That is incompetence.”

  Sombra clenched his fists till blood came. “I will succeed next time. In another County. Master said—”

  “Your Master has spoken. You will return to Avi-Sena.”

  The words fell like a verdict.

  “There, you will be retrained. You will undertake three life-and-death missions for the Organisation.”

  He paused one more time, “Pass three… or die.”

  The man finally turned his head slightly.

  “For the next operation, I will take command personally. We cannot afford failure.”

  Sombra said nothing. He knew better.

  The man before him could kill him without effort. Worse, this was his Master’s decision. Defiance was unthinkable.

  In the end, Sombra only nodded.

  When he left the chamber, the pain in his scars flared, fresh as the moment they were burned. He welcomed it.

  The man at the window moved to a desk once Sombra was gone.

  He withdrew an ancient manuscript. Its edges were singed, as if rescued from flames long ago, and it was bound tightly with strands that resembled human hair, stained dark with old blood.

  He regarded it with a mixture of infatuation and wariness, whispers seeming to emanate from its pages: promises of boundless power, riches beyond measure, pleasures without end.

  He turned away sharply, resisting the temptation to open it. Even a TAO Emperor like himself struggled against its pull on the soul.

  He turned away sharply and returned the book to its warded container, sealing it shut. Only then did he exhale.

  Good.

  Sombra’s failure had still confirmed something important.

  It was real: its power, its call, its dominion.

  Next time... .

  The ripples spread ever wider, carrying seeds of greater heresy into the wind.