The mysterious man, along with Will and the silent squad of elite soldiers, waited a few moments longer after confirming that Livia and Emma had entered the cave. Only after ensuring no one else was around did they silently follow them in. In the dim light, the man's expression shifted slightly when his gaze fell on the finely hidden, intricate symbols carved into the cave walls. He paused, just briefly.
"Interesting…" The man ran his fingers along a faint groove at the corner of a rock face, a rare glimmer of appreciation flashing in his eyes. "This technique… Fascinating. I never expected to encounter an old friend like this again." He let out a faint, enigmatic smile. "Today's haul may be far more than we bargained for."
Will stood behind him, his brow slightly furrowed as he looked at the unremarkable markings. But he said nothing—he knew the man could read something from them, and he wouldn't ask what didn't need asking.
"You can read their signals?" Will asked in a low voice.
"Clearer than you'd think," the man replied coolly. "They believe they're on a hunt, but in truth, they're guiding us."
With that, he gave a light gesture, and the soldiers followed, silent as shadows, weaving their way deeper into the cave, guided by the trail. They avoided every fork, every lurking hazard, with uncanny precision—as if this maze, supposedly unknown, was already their hunting ground.
⸻
At the same time, Livia and Emma moved single file into the cave's depths.
"Marks are in place. Stay sharp," Emma murmured. Though she kept her tone calm, a flicker of unease crossed her eyes.
"I know," Livia replied, glancing back with a faint smile. Her gaze, however, was unwavering—like the steady flame of a torch in the stone walls.
The passage ahead grew narrower, the walls closing in. A damp, ancient scent began to seep through the air. Finally, after circling behind a curtain of stone that hung naturally from above, they found a small, nearly hidden opening swallowed by the dark. The cave entrance was so low and tight it would barely allow a grown woman to crawl through.
"Are you sure it's here?" Emma whispered, her eyes already scanning for threats.
"Mhm." Livia gave a slow nod, her face pale. "I have a strange feeling… it's inside."
She couldn't explain it. It was like a summons running through her blood—or a longing from the depths of her soul that wouldn't let her turn away.
They exchanged a glance, then silently slid through the narrow crevice, moving like wildcats on the prowl.
Inside was a cramped, circular space, damp and low-ceilinged. The rocky walls glistened with a rust-like hue. In the center lay a shard of silvery metal, nestled quietly in a shallow depression in the ground. Its edges were smooth, its curves graceful, bearing the natural, effortless elegance of sacred craftsmanship—unmistakably a fragment of some holy relic.
Almost instinctively, Livia reached out to touch it.
The moment her fingers brushed its surface, her body trembled violently. Her knees gave out, and she collapsed, unconscious.
"Livia!" Emma lunged to catch her, panic flashing across her face. "What's happening?! Livia—!"
But within Livia—no, within Alia's world—everything had suddenly gone still.
She felt herself being pulled into another space. Light and shadow interwove, and images flashed before her eyes like scattered fragments. First, a garden. Wind, sunlight, laughter. It was a childhood afternoon. A beautiful, noble woman held a little girl in her arms, kissing her forehead.
"Celesta…" Alia murmured. That was Livia's mother—the one praised by many and long shrouded in Alia's own curiosity.
The woman's face was gentle and radiant, but behind that softness lay unwavering resolve and wisdom. She looked exactly as Alia had imagined.
The image shifted again. It was Edgar—Livia's father—refined and kind, eyes full of light. Then came a little girl cradling a newborn, her expression glowing with joy. Celesta and Edgar stood nearby, watching them with warm smiles. The scene was a dream of happiness.
But the dream shattered.
Suddenly, the wind turned bitter. The light vanished. The scene became one of a funeral, gray and cold. White flowers fell like snow, and whispered prayers hung heavy in the air like sobs.
For the first time, Alia saw clearly the faces in the crowd—so familiar, yet strangely distant. Allen stared ahead in fury. Emma stood apart, her eyes red. Eryx watched the coffin coldly, his gaze as venomous as a serpent's. Marcellus and Elias stood beside "her," gently holding her shoulders, whispering words of comfort.
Everyone was looking at "her"—the girl at the center of it all, whose face remained blurred.
Alia tried to see it, to see the girl's face clearly.
"Why… can't I see it…?" she murmured.
"Livia—" A voice echoed from deep within the memory. Again and again, they spoke that name.
And then Alia understood. These were Livia's memories. She, Alia, was merely a soul revived into this body by the Grail. And the shard had unlocked the host's sealed past.
A calm acceptance welled up in her chest. She took a deep breath, and for the first time, resolved to walk into the soul of this girl she had never truly known—not as a rival, not as a vessel—but as a quiet observer.