The room was a masterclass in high-end design—a harmonious clash of old-world opulence and modern sharpness. Deep crimson walls, lined with sleek gold trim, gave the space a bold, commanding presence. It didn't just suggest wealth—it announced it, like the lounge of someone who didn't earn money, but conquered it.
Three velvet couches, the color of aged red wine, were perfectly positioned around a black glass coffee table inlaid with ornate gold filigree—more befitting a royal hall than a private lounge, yet somehow it belonged. Above them, a grand chandelier spilled golden light like honey, casting a warm, cinematic glow that gave every surface a story.
The air itself felt curated—every object handpicked, every placement deliberate. A single classical painting hung centered on the main wall, framed in gilded splendor as though guarding some ancient legacy. Even the pristine rug seemed too noble to walk on without guilt.
Draped across one of the velvet couches sat a man—Raiven. His presence didn't just fill the space, it owned it. Long, jet-black hair fell past his shoulders in waves, framing a face cold as porcelain and eyes sharp and crimson like burning rubies. His coat was a high-collar masterpiece of dark gradients—matte black cascading into stormy greys, with swirling, smoke-like patterns that shimmered when they caught the chandelier's light. Silver clasps traced the coat's sides like delicate armor, gleaming subtly. Beneath it, a stark white tunic cut through the richer tones like a blade through silk. His boots, polished obsidian, clicked with authority—a sound that commanded silence.
Standing beside him was a maid whose presence was as precise as her attire. Her uniform oozed Victorian elegance with a gothic twist—a long-sleeved black dress buttoned to the neck, framed by a high collar and a tight bodice that flared at the skirt. A spotless white apron was neatly tied with a double row of black buttons and a large bow at her back. White cuffs and a frilled headband softened her stoic aesthetic, while black ribbon bows adorned each side of her long, flowing violet hair. Her golden eyes—flat and emotionless—glimmered with mystery and a quiet nobility.
Raiven turned to her slowly, eyes narrowing with surgical precision. "Did I hear that right?" His voice was low, calculated—meant to confirm, not to question. "Kieran and Actheria... were killed?"
The maid bowed her head slightly. "Yes, sir. According to the crystal surveillance of the battle… they attempted to flee once the Spider King awakened. But before they could escape, they were struck down. The connection broke shortly after, so we can't confirm if they're truly dead."
Raiven leaned back into the couch, fingers steepled. "I see. Losing Kieran isn't much of a blow to the kingdom. But Actheria... that's a different matter. If I had to guess, the king's probably itching for war."
The maid hesitated for a beat, then asked, "Sir Raiven… forgive my curiosity, but… why did the king attack the Spider King's people to begin with?"
Raiven raised a single finger. "Several reasons," he began calmly. "First—most of the kingdom's key resources are mined from that region."
"The Elarindel Forest?" she offered.
He nodded. "Exactly. The same forest the Spider King just reached. If he gains control of it, it'll be a major loss. But there's more to it. A thousand years ago, one of the Dryads in that forest called upon a true dragon for protection. That's why no other kingdom has dared to seize it since."
The maid's eyes widened slightly. "Then if the Spider King tries to claim the forest by force...?"
"He'll be eliminated," Raiven said simply, crossing one leg over the other and resting his arm along the back of the couch. "True dragons… they are the apex. The strongest beings in existence. Not even the Spider King could survive a direct confrontation."
Elsewhere—
in a black, infinite void where neither time nor space dares to exist—
Fuyume stood still.
Eyes closed, lashes long and still as sculpture,
her entire form frozen in place.
Her silken silver hair—softly fading into lavender at the ends—
hovered, suspended like threads caught mid-breath.
Then, she appeared.
A woman.
Her hair shimmered like liquid stardust,
spilling from a midnight indigo crown into pale, icy-blue tips.
Specks of light flickered between the strands—
not hair, but constellations woven by some cosmic artisan.
She wore only a thin, white cloth—too sheer to be clothing,
too formless to be fashion. It was neither armor nor modesty.
And yet, she stood regal.
Like divinity wrapped in silence.
Crimson eyes met Fuyume's without hesitation.
No fear. No shame. No warmth. Just presence.
She spoke—
a voice calm, crystalline, unshakable.
> "Time is absent in this pocket realm. I shall now construct its flow."
(It was Seraphina.)
Fuyume's eyes flickered open. She blinked rapidly,
tail twitching as awareness rushed back in.
She spun once, slowly, as the void's reflection shimmered in her pupils.
Fuyume (soft, disoriented):
"W–Where… am I? What happened…?"
(She inhales sharply, scanning the endless nothing.)
"This isn't like any realm I know…"
Her gaze landed on Seraphina. Her playful aura vanished, replaced by wary curiosity.
"And you—who are you supposed to be, standing there like the universe dressed you in stardust?"
(A pause. Then, quieter—serious.)
"…What's going on?"
Seraphina didn't blink. Her tone remained steady as fate itself.
> "Temporal flow was nonexistent. Therefore, neither movement nor cognition could proceed. That has now changed."
She stepped forward, voice soft as snow, sharp as truth.
> "Begin your training. Your future assistance to our master will be of great importance."
Fuyume tensed.
"Huh!? Who are you—"
But Seraphina was already gone.
No exit. No farewell.
Just absence.
Fuyume stood there alone, heart racing,
confusion etching itself into the silent dark.
---
Meanwhile, in a Different Realm
The room was too quiet.
Soft morning light spilled through sheer curtains, casting a calm glow over the space.
It felt untouched, like time had paused just for this place.
A faint antiseptic scent lingered beneath the warmth of polished wood and pale, comforting walls.
A hospital room—but designed like a luxury suite meant to soothe the soul.
In its center: her.
She lay nestled in white sheets, so still she seemed carved from porcelain.
The bed's railings framed her like a glass coffin,
and in that moment, she wasn't just asleep—
she was caught in a curse of stillness.
A single armchair sat beside her, empty.
The kind of chair worn down by waiting.
Hope had once lived there.
Above her, a digital mural glowed with soft, abstract pulses—
blues and greens drifting like stardust patterns across glass,
as though even the stars watched over her.
On the bedside table, a sweating glass of water stood untouched.
Beside it, a forgotten book lay open, its pages curled with time.
No machines beeped. No wires disturbed her limbs.
Only the slow, fragile rhythm of her breath whispered that she was still here.
---
Haruto's Resolve
Haruto sat quietly, a bottle in hand.
Inside it: a glowing, blue liquid—almost celestial.
He exhaled deeply, his voice low.
"This has to work… Seraphina said it will work."
He stood. The chair groaned softly behind him.
"Yuna… my little sister."
(A pause. His jaw tightened.)
"You've been asleep for four years. Since that accident… You never woke up."
He looked down at the girl on the bed.
Long platinum-silver hair shimmered softly, cascading across the pillow.
The blanket was pulled up to her chest, her expression serene—too serene.
Haruto slid one hand beneath her head, lifting her with care.
With his other hand, he pulled the bottle's cap off with his teeth.
The moonlight caught in the liquid, making it glow brighter—like it was alive.
His hand trembled slightly as he tilted the bottle,
pressing the rim to her lips.
"Please…"
Slowly, gently, he poured the glowing liquid into her mouth.
A drop at a time.
Like hope being measured.
He laid her back down, adjusting the pillow beneath her head.
The bottle vanished from his hand in a soft flicker of light.
Then—
he stepped back.
His shadow stretched unnaturally.
From its depths, three shadow wolves leapt forward, silent and watchful.
Haruto stared down at his sister, fists clenched.
Haruto turned, facing the three shadows now formed before him.
He muttered to himself with a faint smile,
"Names… they deserve names first."
His gaze swept over them—creatures forged from shadow and loyalty.
"You… you'll be Apollo."
(He pointed to the first.)
"You—Asher."
(Then the second.)
"And you… Thorn."
(The last.)
As if responding to their christening, their bodies flickered—
Dark flames erupted across their forms, trailing along their backs like smoke in a storm.
White eyes opened, pupil-less and pure. White flame-stripes crawled across their shadowed hides,
and with each pulse, they looked more divine than beast.
Haruto allowed himself a rare, fleeting smile.
"You three... should be enough to protect them if anything ever happens."
He stepped forward, his tone shifting—firm, commanding, resolute.
"From now on, your mission is simple: protect these three—
the girl behind me, my sister Reika… and Velmaria."
His eyes narrowed.
"Stay unseen. Stay silent. Guard them from the shadows."
Asher and Thorn sank into the ground, vanishing into shadow like smoke into air.
Apollo turned, eyes glowing, and leapt into the shadow of the sleeping girl in the bed—
Yuna.
Haruto exhaled.
He stepped forward, brushing strands of her long, platinum-silver hair aside,
his hand trembling just a little as he touched it.
It shimmered faintly under the moonlight.
"Sorry, Yuna… but I have to leave."
He closed his eyes.
"I wasn't brought to that world by accident."
(He clenched his fist.)
"Before I woke up there… I heard a voice."
A memory echoed in his mind—
A voice, chilling and familiar, whispering:
> "I found you."
His throat tightened.
"I don't want you or Reika to be caught up in this mess…."
He pulled his hand away and turned, silent resolve on his face.
Darkness crept up from his feet, consuming his body in black mist.
Piece by piece, he vanished—like ink bleeding into the wind.
As his form faded under the moonlight, he whispered:
"Reika's gonna be furious with me…"
Then—he was gone.
Only the moonlight remained, pouring softly through the window.
The room was silent.
Until—
A soft crack echoed as the bed's frame shifted.
Yuna stirred.
Her eyes opened slowly, revealing piercing ice-blue irises
that shimmered like a glacier bathed in starlight.
The silence cracked again as she slowly sat up.
Her skin glowed faintly, pale and porcelain-like,
as if carved from moonlight itself—an ethereal statue reborn.
She blinked.
Her lips parted, and she spoke one word:
"…Brother?"
In the heart of a verdant forest, tall, ancient trees stretched to the sky, their emerald canopies casting shifting patterns of light over the lush grass below. Amid the serenity, three figures stood still, poised like pieces on a divine chessboard.
Lazriel wore a long, black coat with light gray trim and stark white cross-like designs etched near the hem. The high collar and wide sleeves lent a formal, almost ceremonial air. Around his neck hung a teal-blue gem, suspended from a crimson string—a brooch or pendant, depending on the occasion. Beneath the coat, he kept it simple: black trousers tucked neatly into tall, laced boots. White gloves covered his hands, now folded in calm composure.
Beside him, Lucien stood like a war heroine dressed for both battlefield and ballroom. She wore a red military-style jacket adorned with gold buttons and a crisp black tie, cinched at the waist with a black belt. Her black shorts were trimmed in red and gold, matching the elegance of the long black cape with a red interior and gold trim that swept behind her. A fur-lined collar added regality, and a sharp military cap with a gold emblem crowned her look. Her glossy, thigh-high boots glinted beneath the trees, red detailing catching the light. Buckles and straps clung to one thigh, giving her a dangerously stylish aura. A katana rested at her side, gripped with casual readiness.
Celeste stepped forward, hands on her hips. Her tone was dry, slightly amused.
"Huh... The forest is quite still."
She wore a pearlescent bodysuit beneath a silver corset-like breastplate—elegant, not brutish, armor for a duelist or royal guard. Frills and floral embroidery traced the edges of her thigh guard and trailing cape, the latter falling behind like a bridal train. Her shoulders were guarded by softly curved pauldrons adorned with layered ruffles. Her right leg bore sleek armor, while the left was draped in ruffled white fabric above a high-heeled boot. Beauty and battle, side by side.
Lazriel nodded.
"Yes. According to the reports, the Spider King has dominion over this realm. Our mission—form an alliance."
Lucien raised a brow, clearly unimpressed.
"Bit much for a first assignment, don't you think?"
Celeste sighed, brushing back a lock of hair.
"We just have to do our best... and see how it all turns out."
The trio began their quiet descent into the forest.
---
Elsewhere, far above the forest canopy, on the roof of a long-forgotten building beneath a star-strewn sky, stood Haruto.
The full moon cast silver light on his silhouette as he gazed upward, thoughtful.
Haruto (muttering to himself):
"I have to get going now… Hmm. I need to check on Fuyume."
With a single gesture, he lifted his hand. Reality shimmered, bending around his fingers like heated glass. Then—nothing.
No noise. No ripple.
Just absence.
The air split open soundlessly, revealing a rift to the boundless Pocket Realm. White threads—pure, divine—spiraled from the breach, blooming outward like a lotus forged from fate itself.
Haruto (to himself):
"First time going in here…"
He stepped forward. The rift closed behind him with an eerie hush.
Suspended in an infinite void, Haruto floated effortlessly.
"So this is how it looks, huh…"
A familiar presence drew his attention.
Fuyume bounded into view—her smile radiant, her tail swishing with glee. She flung herself into Haruto's arms, pressing against him with reckless affection.
Fuyume (cheerfully):
"I missed you sooo much! Why'd you take so long, my lord...? Hmph!"
Haruto (deadpan, internal):
"Damn… she definitely grew some."
He gently pushed her back.
"That's enough. I was busy. But now that I'm here, it's time to head back."
(To himself):
"First, I need to get out of here…"
---
Seraphina's voice echoed within his mind, calm and clinical, like silk wrapped around intellect.
Seraphina:
"Haruto, a solution is within reach. By reconfiguring the boundary parameters of your Pocket Realm and synchronizing it with the residual Arcanum signature of the target world, you can generate a stable transition point.
In essence, your Pocket Realm can act as an interdimensional anchor—allowing you to return to that world at will."
"Shall I initiate the spatial-weave overlay to begin transit calibration?"
Haruto's eyes widened, disbelief flickering behind them.
"Seriously?! I thought this was just a glorified item box skill! What the hell—this is wild!" he muttered to himself, stunned.
He paused, flexing his fingers as if feeling the air.
"After my evolution, I blacked out… so I don't even know what I'm capable of. But now—my strength, my speed—it's off the charts."
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Seraphina, can you let Fuyume leave first?"
Without warning, Fuyume vanished—gracefully, silently—fading like moonlight in morning mist.
Haruto clapped his hands together with a grin. "Alright! Let's see what I've got."
He sat down, cross-legged, posture perfectly calm—like a monk before a storm.
"Seraphina, hit me with it. Full report. Everything I've gained post-evolution."
---
Seraphina's voice, elegant and serene, resonated in his mind like a celestial hymn.
"Of course. Post-evolution, your abilities are now as follows:"
▶︎ Resistance
Pain Nullification
Mental Attack Immunity
Physical Attack Nullification
Spatial Manipulation Immunity
Corruption Resistance
Holy Attack Resistance
Spiritual Attack Resistance
Melee Attack Resistance
Natural Element Resistance
Abnormal Condition Nullification
Ailment Cancellation
▶︎ Intrinsic Skills
Monarch's Presence
Instant Regeneration
Universal Perception
Anti-Skill
Arcanum Mastery
▶︎ Magic Types
Elemental Magic
Physical Magic
Spirit Magic
High-Level Spirit Summoning
Greater Demon Summoning
Dark Magic
Holy Magic
▶︎ Unique Skills
Web of Command
Absolute Ward: Aegis of Fourfold Rejection
Genesis Thread
▶︎ Ultimate Skills
Nihil Severance (evolved from Absolute Cutting)
Seraphina, Voice of Reason (evolved from Azara)
Deus Penumbra (Narrative Override)
---
Haruto whistled low under his breath.
"Damn… Three Ultimates? That's insane. Most people would kill just to awaken a second, let alone a third."
He stood, rising off the ground effortlessly, floating in that infinite, starlit void.
"Alright, Seraphina—what can I actually do in here?"
Seraphina answered in a single word.
"Anything."
Haruto blinked.
"...Well that's terrifyingly vague."
He closed his eyes for a moment, thought drifting through possibility and potential—until an idea sparked.
And just like that, another Haruto appeared before him.
A perfect replica.
Not a memory.
Not an illusion.
An avatar—tangible and reactive.
He floated toward it, circling slowly, studying it with a careful eye.
"…It's me," he whispered, voice almost reverent. "Down to the last detail. Damn."
Haruto eyed his Avatar with a thoughtful hum.
"Hmm… I wanna make a few tweaks."
He snapped his fingers.
"Change the hair—dark purple fading into light blue. Add a subtle sparkle, like stars caught in twilight. Keep the eyes gold. That's non-negotiable."
The Avatar's hair shimmered, hues shifting and blending, ending in a soft stardust glow. Haruto watched the transformation with quiet satisfaction.
A small smile tugged at his lips.
"Nice! Now, clothes."
Black smoke curled around the Avatar like ink in water. As it faded, the new outfit was revealed.
The Avatar now wore a form-fitting, sleeveless black high-neck shirt—sharp, minimalist, and tailored to perfection. Draped across the shoulders, a lightweight white cloak floated with every motion, fastened with triangular metal clasps that caught and scattered light like shards of daybreak. The cloak split cleanly at the arms, granting fluidity and elegance to each stride.
Jet-black pants, loose yet refined, allowed for agile movement. They tucked seamlessly into sleek, reinforced combat boots, more practical than ornamental. Twin white belts crisscrossed at the waist, anchored by a bold silver buckle, adding balance and a touch of visual punch.
Haruto nodded, visibly impressed.
"I guess… I just made myself look badass," he muttered.
Then, smoke coiled around his form—rising, swirling, engulfing. When it vanished, Haruto stood, a mirror image of his perfected Avatar.
He flexed his fingers and glanced down at himself.
"Huh… My look's changed, but everything else feels the same."
With a swipe through the air, the Avatar dissipated like mist.
"Time to go deeper."
He took a deep breath.
In a blink, his physique shifted—taller now, more sculpted. A tall, slim body, the perfect fusion of grace and danger. Lean muscle, narrow waist, long limbs. There was a balance: the softness of androgyny brushed against the edge of killer instinct. A form born of elegance and made for power.
Haruto admired himself in the reflective shimmer of space.
"This… is perfect."
He tilted his head with a smirk.
He stretched a hand toward the void, fingers brushing against the fabric of the unreal—ready to sculpt, to shape, to summon the next impossible thing
"So what now? Create a planet? Might as well