First Volume, Epilogue 1— Beware the Heroine
The sharp ring of clashing swords and bursts of glowing light hung heavy in the air, like the fading echo of a storm. The grand coliseum in the heart of the empire's capital stood frozen for a heartbeat—a massive stone bowl carved from white marble, its towering columns draped in fluttering banners of crimson and gold. Thousands of eyes stared down at the arena floor, wide with disbelief. No one moved. No one breathed. They'd all just seen the impossible: a nobody, a bastard son from the shadows, had toppled the empire's shining star.
Then it broke. The silence shattered like glass under a boot, replaced by a roar that rattled the benches and made the banners snap like whips. It started as a murmur, a ripple from the commoners' seats, but it swelled into a tidal wave of sound that crashed over the coliseum.
"Sylan! Sylan! Sylan!"
His name ignited the crowd like dry tinder. Up in the nobles' boxes, silk-clad lords and ladies who had sneered at him only minutes ago now leaned forward, their fans forgotten, whispering furiously behind manicured hands. "Did you see that strike? The boy's got fire in his veins!" one gasped. Below, in the packed stands of the everyday folk—merchants, farmers, wide-eyed kids hoisted on shoulders—the cheers were wilder, rawer. Men pumped fists into the air, their faces flushed red, voices hoarse as they screamed for the underdog who'd stared down Elias Vaughn, the empire's golden boy, the heir to the Sword Saint title, and left him broken on the stones.
The arena floor told the story of the fight in brutal strokes. Blood pooled in dark, sticky patches, steaming faintly where the residue of forbidden techniques had scorched the ground. Scratches from blades and bursts of energy scarred the sand like lightning strikes. Elias lay there still, his once-pristine armor dented and smeared with dirt, his silver hair matted with sweat. But even in defeat, his face held a fierce, unbroken grin. He pushed himself up on one elbow, ignoring the healers rushing toward him, and locked eyes with Sylan across the bloodied space between them.
With a voice that cut through the din like a blade through silk, Elias raised his hand—not in surrender, but in salute. "I, Elias Vaughn, the future Sword Saint of the empire, declare Sylan Kyle Von Noctis my rival... and my equal." The words hung there, heavy as a vow, and the crowd lost its mind all over again. Cheers turned to thunder, feet stomping in rhythm, the whole coliseum shaking like it might crack open from the force of it.
It should have been the perfect end. The underdog's triumph, etched in glory for the history books. Sylan stood there, chest heaving, his black training tunic torn and soaked with sweat and blood, his crimson eyes scanning the faces above him. For a split second, he let himself feel it—the raw, electric pulse of victory. But deep down, in the pit of his gut where old soldier's habits never died, something twisted. 'This feels too clean. Too scripted. Like I'm reading lines in someone else's play.'
The moment stretched, fragile as a soap bubble. Then it burst.
The crowd shifted, parting like water before a ship. From the shadowed heights of the nobles' box, a figure rose—tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in a cloak that billowed like a gathering storm cloud, edged in sharp silver thread. Darius Von Noctis, Duke of the Noctis lands, patriarch of one of the empire's oldest bloodlines, didn't wait for escorts or fanfare. He descended the stone steps with the heavy, unyielding stride of a man who'd commanded battlefields before this coliseum was even built. His boots thudded against the tiers, each step echoing like a war drum. Guards in polished plate hurried after him, hands on sword hilts, but one sharp wave of his gloved hand sent them skittering back like scolded dogs.
The air seemed to thicken as he reached the arena's edge. Dust still swirled from the fight, carrying the metallic tang of blood and the acrid bite of spent magic. Darius didn't hesitate. He vaulted the low barrier with ease, landing on the stained sand with a crunch that silenced the nearest cheers. His presence was a force unto itself—tall as a pine, with a jaw carved from granite and hair streaked black and gray like storm clouds. Those crimson eyes, mirror to his son's, burned with something wild and untamed.
He stopped inches from Sylan, towering over him, the weight of his gaze like a physical blow. Sylan straightened instinctively, his body locking into the rigid posture of a soldier facing judgment. His mind raced. 'Here it comes. The lecture. The reminder that I'm just the spare, the stain on the family crest. One win doesn't erase years of "disappointments."'
But Darius didn't scold. Didn't frown. Instead, his stern face cracked wide open, splitting into a grin so fierce it showed teeth like a wolf's. "THAT'S MY SON!" The bellow exploded from his chest, rolling across the arena like thunder chasing lightning. He grabbed Sylan's arm in a grip that could crush stone, yanking it high above their heads. "HAHAHAHA! LOOK AT HIM, EMPIRE! DID YOU SEE WHAT HE DID TO THAT PRETTY BOY VAUGHN? HE TOOK DOWN THE NEXT SWORD SAINT AND LEFT HIM SMILING IN THE DIRT!"
The coliseum detonated. If the earlier cheers had been a wave, this was a hurricane—screams blending into one massive howl, benches groaning under jumping feet, banners whipping in the wind of it all. Fists punched the sky. Strangers hugged. Even the stone seemed to vibrate, as if the earth itself approved.
Sylan froze in his father's unyielding hold, arm thrust up like a trophy he hadn't asked for. The noise crashed over him, but it felt distant, muffled. His mind reeled, struggling to catch up. 'This... this man... the one who locked me in training halls for "failing" basic forms... he's proud? Out loud? In front of everyone?'
He didn't have time to unpack it. A hush rippled outward from the nobles' box, subtle but unmistakable, like the approach of winter frost. Then she appeared.
Amanda Von Noctis moved down the steps not with Darius's storming charge, but with the lethal grace of a shadow slipping through moonlight. Her gown flowed like liquid silver, untouched by the grit below, its folds whispering against the stone. Golden hair, piled high and secured with combs that sparkled like captured stars, framed a face pale and perfect as porcelain. She didn't descend to the arena's filth; she claimed it, each precise step a command that bent the world to her will. The guards bowed low as she passed, not daring to meet her eyes—eyes like chips of arctic ice, sharp enough to draw blood without a touch.
She halted beside Darius, a cool counterpoint to his roaring heat. The duke's laughter faded to a rumble, and he released Sylan's arm with a final clap on the shoulder that nearly knocked him sideways. Amanda's gaze settled on her son, dissecting him in an instant: the rips in his tunic, the drying blood on his knuckles, the faint tremor of adrenaline still humming through his frame.
"You should not disappoint us again, Sylan," she said, her voice a silken thread drawn tight over steel—each word measured, each syllable landing like the snick of a lock turning. "Today, at least, you did not fail. For once, you made the Noctis name burn bright across the Empire's eyes."
No hug. No smile. Just those words, hanging in the air like frost on a windowpane. But for Amanda, who measured love in ledgers and legacies, it was as close to praise as winter came to spring. Sylan swallowed, his throat dry as sand. 'She... noticed? Not the loss I caused the family, but the win? Gods, this day's twisting me inside out.'
And then, without warning, the world glitched.
It started as a flicker at the edge of his vision—translucent panels blooming like ghosts in the smoke. Blue-white text, crisp and glowing, overlaid reality like a veil.
[Affection with Amanda Von Noctis has increased: 5 → 15] [Affection with Darius Von Noctis has increased: 12 → 25]
The cheers warped into a buzzing drone, like flies swarming a wound. Darius's booming laugh stretched into a low, unnatural hum. Amanda's icy stare blurred, edges fraying like old cloth. Sykan's heart slammed against his ribs, a war drum in his chest.
'...What the hell is this?'
His instincts kicked in hard—the honed reflexes of a man who'd survived ambushes in forgotten wars. This wasn't the crash of battle fatigue. Wasn't the haze of victory's high. This was wrong. Alien. Like code bleeding through a cracked screen.
'Affection? Numbers? Since when does this world tick like some cheap game, tracking hearts like high scores?'
He clenched his fists, nails biting into palms until fresh blood welled up, mixing with the arena's grit. His breath came short, ragged. 'No. This isn't right. This isn't me imagining things. System—what the fuck is going on?'
The panels shimmered, unstable. Clean letters fractured into jagged lines, symbols twisting like worms in dirt—half-formed runes that clawed at his eyes. Then a voice slithered in, not through his ears, but straight into his skull, oily and muffled, like words filtered through a rusted grate.
"Soowhi... still sharp as a bayonet, I see. You noticed. Good."
The coliseum dissolved in a rush of vertigo. Darius's hand on his shoulder turned to wisps of fog, slipping away. Amanda's form splintered, shards of her silhouette raining into nothingness like broken mirrors. The crowd's roar fizzled to white noise, then silence—vast, suffocating silence. Sylan stumbled, boots sinking into an endless black void that stretched forever in every direction. Only the echo of his own harsh breathing filled the emptiness, laced with a sharp, chemical sting: antiseptic, bleach, the ghost-scent of field hospitals from a life he shouldn't remember.
He steadied himself, fists balled, crimson eyes scanning the dark. "...Plague Doctor." His voice came out flat, edged with gravel and wariness. "You again. Always with the dramatic entrances."
A spark flared in the gloom—a lantern's glow, sickly yellow, swinging from a gloved hand. The figure materialized step by step, tall and hunched in tattered robes the color of dried blood. The bird-like mask gleamed under the light, its long beak curved like a scythe, glass eyes empty black voids. He cocked his head with a jerk, the motion birdlike, almost playful, but laced with something sharper—amusement? Pity?
"Did you enjoy your little chimes, soldier? Hmhmhm." The laugh rasped out, wet and hollow, like wind through a plague-ridden alley. "Sweet, aren't they? The System dings like a bell, tells you Mommy and Daddy's hearts are warming up. Affection climbing, one notch at a time. Whispers that you can grind for their love, collect it like coins in a jar. Isn't it adorable?"
Sylan's jaw locked tight, muscles aching from the clench. He forced his voice steady, but heat simmered underneath. "Cut the riddles. What the hell do you mean by that?"
The Plague Doctor spread his arms wide, robes rustling like dead leaves, the lantern casting long, twisted shadows that danced across the void like mocking fingers. "I mean it's all a pretty lie, Soowhi. Hooks sunk deep in your skin. The world's a stage, and this System? It's the puppeteer, yanking strings to keep you dancing. Chasing numbers. Begging for approval like a kicked pup. Can't you taste it? The rot setting in?"
Sylan's mind flashed back unbidden—the Crest trial, those fractured memories that weren't his, visions of a world scripted and hollow, leashes disguised as destinies. 'Corruption... yeah. Like ink bleeding through the pages of a book someone else wrote.' He shoved the thought down, focusing on the masked figure. "So what? You pop in to play therapist now? Spill your guts and vanish?"
The Doctor drifted closer, boots silent on the non-floor, lantern swinging lazy arcs that painted their faces in flickering gold and black. Up close, the mask's beak loomed, a beak that had whispered death to thousands in forgotten plagues. "You severed chains once before, didn't you? Snapped the narrative's grip in that trial. Don't let it weave fresh ones 'round your neck, boy. This affection game? It's the first knot. Pull too hard, and you'll choke on it."
Sylan drew a slow breath, the antiseptic tang burning his lungs. He met those empty glass eyes without flinching. "...Fine. Say I buy it. Why drag me here? Why give a damn what I do?"
The figure leaned in, beak inches from Sykan's face, voice dropping to a venomous murmur that vibrated in his bones. "Because the real storm's brewing, soldier. And it's got a pretty face. The heroine."
The word hit like a gut punch, clear and cold as a struck bell. Sylan's eyes narrowed. "Heroine? What—"
"Olivia Elana Monte Blanc," the Doctor hissed, drawing out the name like a curse wrapped in silk, each vowel dripping reverence and poison. "Oh, she shines, doesn't she? That flawless smile, like sunlight on fresh snow. Presence that pulls every gaze, every whisper, like iron filings to a lodestone. But that light? It's no dawn. It's the glow of decay, festering under the skin. She's the vessel, Soowhi. The beating heart of the corruption."
The void stirred. Fragments of light sparked to life around them—shimmering shards, like broken film reels spinning in the dark. Images bloomed and died in flickers: Olivia's laugh in a sunlit garden, but her lips moved out of sync with the sound, a puppet's strings too tight. Olivia poised on a balcony, waves of admirers cheering below, yet the room behind her yawned empty, shadows pooling where faces should be. Olivia turning to Sylan in a crowded hall, her smile blooming wide—but her eyes... gods, her eyes bulged too bright, too glassy, painted on like a doll's, hiding nothing and everything at once.
The visions clawed at him, stirring a nausea deep in his core. The Doctor's voice wove through it all, low and insistent. "Steer clear, soldier. Don't let her gravity snag you. She's deadlier than Vaughn's blade, than the Crown's schemes, than the Crest thrumming in your blood right now. One tilt of her head, one flash of that grin, and the world bends to her. Follow it... and you're meat for the grinder."
Sylan's crimson gaze hardened to chips of ruby, unflinching. "...You sound like you're running scared yourself."
The mask tilted back, and a chuckle bubbled out—sharp as shattered bone, empty as a grave. "Fear's the sharpest tool in the kit. Keeps you alive. Heed it."
The void cracked like eggshell under a hammer.
Reality slammed back in a flood of noise and color. The coliseum roared to life, cheers crashing over him like surf on rocks. Darius's laughter boomed anew, a wall of sound that rattled his teeth. Amanda's gaze pierced still, precise as ever. The crowd chanted his name in endless loops. But the air felt thicker now, charged with an undercurrent Sylan couldn't shake—like static before a lightning strike.
His eyes lifted, drawn upward by instinct. Sunlight slanted across the highest tiers, gilding a lone figure in silks the color of pale honey. Hair like threads of moonlight cascaded down her back. Eyes blue as fractured sapphire caught the light and held it. Olivia Elana Monte Blanc.
The heroine.
She perched there like a queen on her throne, one hand resting lightly on the railing, her posture effortless, magnetic. Nobles around her sighed and fluttered, drawn in like bees to nectar. Commoners craned necks for a glimpse, breaths catching in awe. Even the royal box stirred—the emperor's son leaning forward, the princess's fan stilled mid-wave—as if the air itself compelled them to adore.
Her smile unfurled then, slow and radiant, a curve of lips that promised warmth and wonder. It lit her face like dawn breaking, flawless, inviting worship. The coliseum seemed to hold its breath for it, the cheers dipping into a reverent hush.
But Sykan's blood ran cold. His soldier's gut twisted, screaming warnings in every nerve. That smile—it was off. Too even, too polished, like a portrait stretched taut over emptiness. No crinkle at the corners, no shadow of real joy. Just perfection, hollow as a drum.
And then her eyes found him. Not Elias, nursing his wounds below. Not the frenzied crowd. Him. Sylan Kyle Von Noctis, standing bloodied and bewildered in the arena's heart. The gaze locked, blue fire pinning him in place, and the System hummed to life once more—a faint, insidious pulse in his veins.
[Unknown Variable Detected] [Observer Affection: Olivia Elana Monte Blanc → ???]
The world narrowed to that point of contact. Darius's voice thundered on, a distant storm. Amanda's words lingered, sharp echoes. The chants blurred to white noise. None of it touched him.
Only her smile, gleaming like a blade in the sun. Only the Plague Doctor's hiss, coiling in his skull: Beware the heroine.
Sylan's hand curled into a fist at his side, knuckles whitening, the Crest's power thrumming faint and hot in his blood like a promise of violence.
'So this is the next front line. The real enemy wearing a crown of light.'
He exhaled slow, deliberate, steeling his spine against the pull. The crowd's adoration washed over Olivia like a tide, but he stood apart, unmoved.
'Fine. Play your part, Olivia. Smile all you want, draw your crowds. If you're the poison eating this world from the inside—'
His crimson eyes narrowed to slits, resolve forging hard as tempered iron.
'—then I'll be the knife that cuts you out.'