Lyra chuckled darkly.
But Samuel's eyes narrowed.
"Wait. You collected the core, right? You didn't absorb it, Right?"
She smirked and waved a hand.
"Relax. Of course I didn't. You killed it. After rescuing your half-dead ass, I dug it out of its spine."
With a casual motion, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a pulsing orb.
It throbbed faintly in her palm—dark violet, like bruised glass, veins of raw ether flickering within. A Rank 2 Core.
Samuel stared, expression unreadable. It was the first time he'd seen one up close. First time he realized what power—real power—looked like when contained in something so small.
But before he could speak, Lyra's voice cut through the awe like a blade.
"Don't get too excited."
He turned to her, brow raised.
Lyra didn't blink. Her eyes were steady, her tone sharper than steel.
"As I already said… rank doesn't measure how dangerous a beast is. It only tells you how saturated its core is with Abyssal energy."
She gestured slightly, fingers curled as if holding something delicate.
"It's not a scale of power. It's a scale of corruption. Mutation. Madness."
Samuel's shoulders stiffened, but he said nothing.
She continued. "Sometimes a Rank 2 beast is dumber than a rock. Other times, a Rank 1 can wipe out an entire squad of trained disciples. The only general rule is: the deeper the corruption, the greater the threat."
She paused, her gaze flicking to the distance where Ravok's remains still smoldered, as if its death had scarred the air itself.
"That thing had a fatal flaw. You just… happened to exploit it. Don't start thinking you're untouchable."
Samuel sighed. "Okay. Okay. Message received, drill sergeant."
Lyra gave him a look—somewhere between pity and disdain—and turned away.
Samuel muttered under his breath, mostly to himself, "Always the optimist."
He took the core from her hand and stared at it for a long moment.
Lyra sighed, shaking her head.
"Just feel the energy. Drag it to your aperture. Simple."
Sam nodded, doing as she said. A strange satisfaction bloomed in his chest as the abyssal energy seeped into him, cold and alive.
Then, the Voice of Void whispered in his mind, chilling and clear:
[You have obtained 100 abyssal fragments.]
Samuel blinked, disbelief twisting his lips.
"That's it?" His voice was low "Only a hundred fragments?"
He let out a breath and closed his eyes. The world dulled around him.
And then, in the silence of his thoughts, he spoke a phrase Elias had taught him—a whisper
'Vha'rith, Khor'zar!....'
A tremor rippled through his consciousness. Like someone knocking softly on the inside of his skull.
And then, the whispering began.
[VOICE OF VOID]
Name: Samuel Zevrin Morvain
True Rune:
True Rune Abilities:
Bloodline: Human
Physique: None
Abyssal Rank: 1-Abyss-Touched
Abyssal Aperture Capacity: 52%
Abyssal Fragments: 207/1000
Abyssal Spells: Moonslash (Rank 1) , Titanblood (Rank 2) .
Titanblood.
The name echoed in the shadowed corners of his mind, a whispered promise of power born from pain and endurance.
Words appeared before his eyes, cold and stark:
[Titanblood: A surge of abyssal energy flooding the veins, temporarily strengthening muscles and hardening the flesh, turning the body into an unyielding fortress. Lasts moments, but leaves the user drained.]
'Oh, it's a physical spell—what do you expect from a muscle-headed beast?'
He was just about to explain Titanblood to Lyra when a shadow suddenly leapt out from behind, making him jump.
Aurion stood there, grinning like a trickster who knew exactly what he was doing.
"Gotcha," Aurion said, eyes gleaming with mischief.
Samuel rubbed his chest, heart still racing.
"Dammit, You nearly gave me a heart attack."
Aurion stepped forward, the last rays of dusk casting a soft golden glow over the battered battlefield. His clothes were torn, bloodied in patches, but he still carried himself with the grace of nobility—chin high, posture immaculate, every step measured like he walked a royal court rather than the ruins of war.
He stopped in front of Samuel, eyes calm but sharp, like twin blades sheathed in velvet.
"Aurion Vale," he said, voice smooth, cultured. "Scion of House Vale. Golden Robe."
Samuel blinked. For a moment, he felt like he was standing in front of a prince.
"…Samuel," he replied, slower, rougher. "No house. Black Robe."
Aurion tilted his head, taking him in. "You're the one who slew the Ravok, aren't you?"
Samuel didn't answer right away. Just gave a small nod, unsure if it was pride or exhaustion making his shoulders square.
"I saw the aftermath," Aurion continued, glancing at the twisted corpse of the bull-beast far behind them.
"Impressive."
Before Samuel could respond, footsteps crunched over scorched grass. The other survivors trickled toward them, drawn like moths to the last lights of conversation.
Eight black robes. Two white. That was it.
Samuel scanned their faces. Hollow eyes. Burnt skin. Ragged robes and the stink of blood and abyssal rot. Lyra stood nearby, arms crossed, watching quietly. She gave him a slight nod when their eyes met. He returned it, barely.
Aurion exhaled softly, his hand brushing the torn hem of his robe.
"The thunderbird…" he began, pausing to touch his side—ribs wrapped in makeshift bandages, soaked through with red. "It self-destructed. I couldn't outrun it. Didn't have the time."
Samuel frowned. "And you lived?"
Aurion gave a wan smile. "Barely."
There was silence. Heavy. A breath that no one wanted to release.
Then Aurion spoke again, his voice quiet but steady.
"Actually... I wanted the spell you got from Ravok."
Samuel's eyes narrowed slightly. The silence around them, already thick, turned heavier—dense like fog before a storm.
Aurion chuckled softly—light and silken, but it carried a strange weight beneath it.
"Relax," he said, lifting both hands in mock surrender. "I'm not trying to steal from you. I want to trade."
Samuel didn't move, not entirely. His body stayed alert, shoulders tense, though his grip on the hilt of his weapon loosened slightly.
Aurion went on, voice casual as if discussing weather and not the loot of a deadly beast.
"It's the spell I got from that thunderbird. It's a flying-type. Temporary aerial mobility, fast and flexible…"
Samuel's jaw shifted slightly. His eyes flicked toward Aurion's bandaged side, where the thunderbird's final defiance had scorched through bone and skin. That explosion should've turned him into ash.
Yet here he stood, breathing. Talking.
What kind of monster survives that?
Still… he wasn't pushing for a fight. Not Now.
Samuel's gaze sharpened.
"How are you so sure?" he asked slowly, voice quiet but heavy, like a blade half-drawn.
"That I'd get a spell after killing it? And more than that… why do you even want it?"
Aurion didn't answer right away. He turned his head slightly, eyes drifting to the horizon where the first light of dawn was bleeding across the sky—soft gold spilling over broken trees and torn tents.
He raised a hand and pointed.
"To the east," he said softly. "Where the sun rises."
Samuel followed the gesture, brows furrowed. That direction… the forest thinned, distant mist curling like breath over some unseen structure. It pulsed faintly with something ancient.
Something wrong.
Aurion's voice dropped, no longer amused. It was colder now, stripped of all pretense.
"I spawned near the cathedral."
A hush fell.
Even the wind seemed to stop to listen.
"That cathedral," Aurion said, "isn't just part of the trial. It's the heart of it. And Ravok… the thunderbird… they're its guardians."
He finally turned back to Samuel, gaze steady. "We can't enter it without killing them. Without claiming their spells."
A breath caught in someone's throat.
Lyra stood now, brow furrowed, eyes locked on Aurion. The others shifted, murmuring behind cupped hands. The remaining black robes… the two whites… all eyes were suddenly wide.
Awake.
Something had changed in the air. Like the sound before an avalanche.
Then, from the side, a voice rose—sharp, trembling, indignant.
"Don't tell me…" A white robe stepped forward, face pale. "Don't tell me you invited them to our camp."
Aurion laughed. Not kindly.
From the folds of his robe, he pulled out a large, sleek egg—cracked, pulsing faintly with lingering abyssal heat.
"I couldn't fight both of them at once," he said nonchalantly, holding the egg up like a trophy.
"So I just stole this from the thunderbird's nest and ran."
The white robe's face blanched. He took a staggering step back as though slapped, voice rising into a shrill panic.
"Monster! We could've gone for a different cathedral—a less dangerous one—why would you bring that kind of attention to us?!"
Aurion's eyes darkened. His grin faded, replaced by something much colder.
"I don't recall asking for your opinion."
He stepped forward, smooth as flowing silk, and for a moment, the white robe tensed like prey under a predator's gaze. But then Aurion simply looked away, as if dismissing a fly, and turned to Samuel.
"I'm not asking for charity," he said, voice now measured, razor-thin.
"I can't use this flying spell properly. Not with these injuries."
He tapped his blood-soaked ribs gently, almost mockingly.
"That's why I want yours. Simple trade. Yours for mine."
There was no menace in his voice. No raised tone. But Samuel could feel the unspoken weight behind the words.
Refuse, and you won't walk away.
He glanced to the side—just a flicker of his eye.
Lyra stood still, arms folded. But then, almost imperceptibly, she gave a small nod. A gesture of reluctant approval.
Samuel sighed.
A long, cold breath escaped him, steam rising in the early morning air.
"…Fine. What do I have to do?"
Aurion's lips curled back into that polished, princely smile—so calm, it almost made Samuel's skin crawl.
"Simple," he said, stepping closer. "Hold my hand."
Samuel hesitated.
The moment his fingers brushed Aurion's palm, a chill swept over his spine.
And then—
A whisper.
Soft, ancient, and echoing from the depths of something far older than either of them.
[Voice of the Void:
Do you wish to trade [Titanblood] for [Skyrend Wings]? ]
The question rang in his mind like a tolling bell. There was no deception in the tone. Only the weight of decision. The abyss, asking for consent.
Samuel swallowed. He stared at Aurion's confident expression—untouched by hesitation, unmarred by doubt.
He could say no. He could walk away.
But he knew what that would cost.
"Okay," he muttered under his breath.
The moment the word left his lips, a faint tremor coursed through his body. It wasn't painful—but it was ancient, final.
[ You have acquired: [Skyrend Wings] ]
Aurion released Samuel's hand, his expression unreadable. Not grateful. Not smug. Just… composed. Like a prince stepping back from a negotiation table.
But before Samuel could even process what he'd just lost—what he'd gained—
Lucion's voice barked across the camp, sharp as cracked glass.
"Pack your belongings and get food in your mouths. We're moving in thirty minutes!"
A groan erupted from one of the nearby black robes, a younger disciple with blood-stained bandages wrapped around his chest.
"This quick? We just survived a gods-damned existential crisis."
Lucion's gaze was flint and frost.
"It's already Day Three. You want to stay here and build a vacation house? Maybe invite the next Rank two beast for tea?"
No one spoke after that.
The air grew busy—feet shuffling, tents collapsing, bags being packed with trembling fingers. Injured or not, exhausted or not, they were leaving. The camp had become a graveyard of memories and ash.