Morning light crept in through the rough, slanted beams of Wolf's house, carving faint golden lines across the wooden floorboards. The cold, thin air carried the smell of damp soil and smoke from the night's dying fires. Wolf's eyes fluttered open—not sluggishly, not reluctantly.
They snapped into wakefulness as if his body was wired to rise with the first breath of dawn.
His lips curled into a small, almost amused smile. The memory of last night came to him unbidden—dark, twisted, but satisfying in its own way.
Last night was interesting… He stretched his arms over his head, vertebrae cracking sharply in the silence.
I'll try more when I have the chance, he thought with a quiet hum, his mood steady, disturbingly unshaken.
The interior of his house was simple but well-organized. A rack of weapons leaned against one wall—saber and wakizashi gleaming faintly where sunlight hit the steel. The floor had been swept clean the night before.
Outside, faint morning chatter from the settlement could be heard—hammer strikes, someone calling out to anothe.
He rose to his feet and crossed to his weapon rack, his fingers brushing along each hilt before selecting the new set: saber, wakizashi, flint, and a small pouch of dried meat.
Each item was placed into its spot with smooth, practiced motions. Even with everything improving… His brow furrowed slightly.
There's still one big problem left.
Hygiene.
His expression flattened at the thought. The camp's quality of life had grown better overall—more stable food, sturdier shelter, a sense of order. But the water system was still bottlenecked at the most frustrating step.
Water Distribution System, he recalled. That was the crux. Because they were on the mountain, problems piled up fast—maintenance issues, uneven pressure, unpredictable flow routes.
But he wasn't worried.
It's only a matter of time, he thought, pulling the strap of his sheath tighter around his waist.
He stepped outside into the crisp air. The mist still clung low to the ground, curling like pale smoke around boots and stones. Dew sparkled on the cotton patches near the fence lines.
The camp had grown in shape—lines of tents replaced by solid wooden houses, stone structures here and there showing progress inch by inch.
Wolf walked with steady steps, his boots crunching against the packed dirt path as he approached Klion's house. The wood creaked softly when he knocked once on the doorframe.
A few breaths later, the door swung open. Klion appeared, hair disheveled, eyes still carrying the weight of sleep.
"...What?" Klion grumbled, voice low and rough.
Wolf gave a short nod, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly but not warmly.
"I'm heading to the deeper forest. Alone."
Klion's brow furrowed slightly—in mild annoyance at being woken.
He let out a sharp exhale through his nose.
"Yeah, yeah. Do what you want."
He rubbed his face with one hand and pushed the door shut without another word.
Wolf turned away without lingering.
There was no need to explain himself.
The path that led to the deeper forest loomed ahead, darker than the rest. The canopy grew denser the further one went, layers of yellow swallowing sunlight whole.
The air was cooler here, still, carrying with it a quiet weight.
Exploration Team two's been gone three days, he thought as he stepped past the treeline. His pace quickened with every step.
If they were alive, they should've been back by now. Or… they ran into something.
Something that made them unable to move. Or worse—
They're dead.
The deeper he went, the heavier the forest felt. It wasn't like the Ruin Path where the air felt eerie, like walking through a graveyard of history. This was different. The forest here breathed hostility. The shadows weren't just dark—they were thick, clinging like tar to the bark of ancient trees.
Wolf's strides shifted into a run, the ground thudding beneath his boots. He didn't bother masking his presence; there was no point. If there were monsters, they would have already come. But they didn't.
No tracks. No movement.
His heartbeat quickened—out of alertness.
If they're still alive, I'll bring them back. Brave people aren't something I can just throw away, he thought, jaw tightening.
Brave people were rare. They were the ones who didn't bend too easily, the ones who'd stand up not just for themselves but for others too.
He called them:
Table salt
Ordinary to the eye, but without them, everything tasted wrong.
Minutes bled into nearly an hour as his sprint carved a straight line through the oppressive woods. The forest slowly began to thin, the shadows giving way to pale light that poured in through scattered breaks in the canopy.
His boots struck ground that was firmer, the air subtly shifting.
Wolf slowed his pace.
The treeline broke open—
An open field lay ahead.
The deeper Wolf ran, the more the world began to change.
It started subtly at first—the crisp forest air grew heavier, as if laden with invisible chains. The ground beneath his boots seemed to drag at him. Not like mud, not like fatigue.
It was the air itself pressing down, thickening around his limbs, weighing on his chest.
He slowed just enough to register it. His breath came out heavier, mistier.
…The atmosphere changed, he noted sharply.
But I can still move. His steps did not falter. His will, sharpened through countless trials, refused to bend to something he couldn't even see.
The shadows stretched unnaturally as he pressed forward. Then, through the mist, his eyes caught something scattered in the grass ahead—bodies. Dozens of them.
His heart rate didn't spike. His face didn't twist.
It merely hardened.
Exploration Team two.
They lay sprawled on the earth like fallen wheat. No signs of struggle, no claw marks, no pools of blood—only stillness. Their chests rose and fell faintly, sluggishly. But what really pulled his attention—what froze the tension in his muscles—
was what loomed just beyond them.
The statue.
It stood tall—easily quintuple his height—jet-black like obsidian, yet darker still. It didn't just reflect the light; it swallowed it whole. Around its presence, the daylight dimmed, as if the sun itself feared to shine too close.
It was carved in the proud, flawless shape of a woman—an ancient goddess—her chin tilted upward, arms crossed elegantly over her chest, posture screaming of haughty dominion.
Upon her head rested a broken crown, its fractured edges leaking faint silvery luminescence that bled faintly into the gloom.
But the most striking thing… were the cracks.
Hairline fractures of violet crystal ran through the entire sculpture like veins of living energy, pulsing faintly, throbbing like a heartbeat. They converged on the chest—right over the heart—where the stone was no longer solid but hollow.
An empty void glared back at him, rimmed in sharp amethyst light.
Wolf's stride halted. His boots dug into the earth.
He stared into that void without even realizing how long his gaze lingered—
—and then, within the dark of that hollow, a pair of violet eyes opened.
A woman stood—or rather, appeared—inside the crack. Purple hair, cascading like liquid amethyst, framed a face that carried a smile too calm, too deliberate.
Their gazes met, and a chill rolled down Wolf's spine so sharply his body moved before he even processed it.
He leapt back, boots scraping hard against the earth. His instinct screamed. Muscles tensed, his grip already wrapping around the hilt of his saber. His breath grew slow. Focused.
A laugh—low at first, then building—slid through the air like oil over glass.
"Hahahahahaha…"
The sound wasn't loud.
It slipped through the space between heartbeats and landed deep in his ears.
"I didn't expect there would be a smart kid here." The voice—feminine, smooth, carrying the lilt of someone thoroughly amused.
"Open your eyes, boy. I'm not going to hurt you."
Wolf's eyes remained closed. His other senses sharpened instead—listening to her tone, feeling the slight tremors in the air.
That voice… it's the woman inside the statue, he concluded.
"These people lying here…" he spoke, voice low but steady.
"…are they dead?"
"Nope," the woman answered cheerfully, as if they weren't surrounded by unconscious bodies. "They're alive. Just sleeping. But if you want to wake them up, you'll have to move them somewhere else from me first."
"Why is that?" Wolf's voice held no fear—only cold calculation. He maintained a strict distance, feet positioned to spring back or forward at the slightest shift.
"Because my power is leaking," she replied, her tone light and casual, as though discussing the weather.
"Now excuse me—if you want to talk, finish whatever job you have here first, then come back."
Wolf opened his eyes slowly.
He didn't meet her gaze directly, angling his head down and away, letting his peripheral vision work instead. In a single smooth motion, he sheathed his saber back in place and strode forward—not toward her, but toward the fallen.
One by one, he lifted the unconscious members of Exploration Team two and dragged them out of the statue's range.
His movements were brisk, efficient, methodical. Fifteen people—no visible injuries, just deep, heavy sleep.
As he set down the last one, his hands dusted off instinctively, breath slow but controlled. He straightened his back, rolling his shoulders once.
Then Wolf turned, boots crunching against the damp soil, and walked back toward the statue.
Wolf stood several feet away from the statue, boots grinding faintly against the damp earth, the sound dull beneath the strange, heavy air that clung to this clearing like a living thing. His right hand rested lightly on the grip of his saber—not drawn, but ready. His breath was measured, steady… but his muscles were coiled like a spring.
The statue loomed before him, impossibly black, the silvery crown atop its head cracked like some long-forgotten relic of a fallen era. The violet fissures along its body pulsed gently—like the quiet heartbeat of something that shouldn't be alive.
And yet… it was.
He took a short breath through his nose, straightened his posture, and finally spoke.
"Who are you?" Wolf's voice was low, firm, the tone of someone cutting through unnecessary nonsense. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he kept them just a little to the side, refusing to meet the figure's gaze directly.
A short silence followed, then—
"Hahaha…"
The laughter that answered him wasn't mocking at first.
It began as a soft, smooth chuckle—light, elegant, almost melodic. But it quickly died down, replaced by a shifting expression. The woman's face—emerging faintly within the cracks of the statue—tilted ever so slightly, silver eyes narrowing.
Then confusion bled into her features, disbelief layering over curiosity. She blinked slowly once, twice, her lips parting with the smallest tremor of surprise.
"Are you… seriously telling me," she said, her voice lowering into something more human, more bewildered, "that you don't know who I am?"
Wolf straightened a little.
"No. I have no clue who you are. Even the slightest," he answered flatly. There was no hesitation in his voice, no subtle fear—just a simple statement of fact.
He didn't think that dancing around her's ego was a good idea.
And more importantly, lying to a voice inside a cursed statue didn't strike him as smart.
She stared at him in silence for a heartbeat too long. Then—
"…Haaah."A long sigh, drawn out, carried on a faint breeze that curled through the clearing.
Her shoulders, the faint outline of them inside the statue slumped just slightly in a way that was almost imperceptible, but enough to be read as exhaustion—or resignation.
"Fine," she muttered softly at first, before straightening again. Her voice sharpened like a blade drawn from a sheath, regaining its lofty air.
"I am Lamentia Aeterna," she declared, the words rolling out with practiced grandeur, each syllable dripping with old pride.
"The Crown of Perpetual Paradox."
The title echoed faintly around the clearing, the violet cracks flaring a little brighter with each word. The air itself seemed to tighten, like the world recognized the name even if Wolf did not.
"Surely," she continued, her tone rising as though this was a punchline to some obvious truth, "that is enough to enlighten you."
Wolf blinked once. Then twice.
Who? the thought crossed his mind in the most unimpressed fashion imaginable.
His lips twitched—not in awe, but in faint, almost irritated confusion.
"I still have no clue who you are," he replied honestly, tilting his head slightly to the side.
"But sure. Nice to meet you, Lamentia."
The name came out a little awkwardly, like he wasn't sure how seriously to treat it. He rubbed his thumb idly along the grip of his saber and then added with a casualness that didn't fit the ominous setting, "Now about—uh…"
"No. Stop That!"
Her voice snapped like a whip, ricocheting through the air with unnatural sharpness.
Wolf stiffened, fingers tightening on his hilt, though he didn't flinch.
"What the hell do you mean, you don't know me?!" she demanded, disbelief and anger intertwining in her tone.
"I said I don't. That's it. It's not a joke," Wolf shot back calmly, expression firm. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he still didn't fully look at her.
He wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of seeing if she could intimidate him.
"Now," he continued with a faint exhale, "about that—how did you end up like this?"
But his words didn't reach her.
Lamentia's expression twisted as if his statement hadn't even entered her ears.
Her gaze flickered back and forth, unfocused, like someone digging frantically through old, dusty shelves in their mind. Her silver eyes glazed over as she muttered something inaudible to herself, her lips moving fast, as though she were cross-referencing centuries of memories.
Wolf tilted his head slightly, brows furrowing.
"…Hello?" he called, voice edged with cautious irritation.
"You still there?"
No response. Then, abruptly—
"Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!"
The laugh that erupted was nothing like the earlier one. It was manic. Shattering.
So loud that it felt as if the forest itself recoiled.
Wolf's entire body went rigid; the ground beneath him vibrated faintly as the violet cracks along the statue blazed like a beating, deranged heart. His eardrums throbbed with the force of it.
Her laugh alone is this strong? Wolf clenched his jaw. His muscles quivered—not out of fear, but because something in that sound resonated deep, vibrating against his bones.
When her laughter finally died, she stared down at him with a gleam in her silver eyes—no longer confused, but burning with revelation.
"You… must be one of those humans from the prophecy!" she said, voice rising with giddy certainty. Excitement. Disbelief. A cocktail of emotions too intense to belong to someone sane.
Wolf's brows furrowed, his fingers flexing on the hilt of his weapon.
"What prophecy?" he asked, his voice clipped, cautious, but steady.
Lamentia's lips curved into a smile that was far too wide, her voice lowering into a breathy, delighted murmur."Oh, this is going to be… interesting," she whispered, and let out another soft laugh—not mad this time, but thrilled.
The forest around them seemed to darken even more, as though the forest itself had decided to lean in and listen.
Every blade of grass beneath Wolf's boots felt damp, almost feverishly warm, the ground breathing with the faint, unnatural pulse radiating from the statue.
The faint silver light of the broken crown glimmered like a dying star.
Lamentia tilted her head downward, an elegant, almost theatrical movement, as though she were looking at him from a throne far above rather than from the confines of carved stone.
Her lips curved into something between a smirk and an indulgent smile, the kind someone gives when they find a mortal creature unexpectedly entertaining.
"I'll enlighten you," she purred, her voice gliding like silk dipped in something poisonous.
"Since you are this much… interesting."
The way she said interesting sent a faint, instinctive chill crawling up Wolf's spine.
She sounded delighted. Too delighted.
She shifted slightly inside the statue, and the violet cracks along its body flared softly, in slow rhythm with her words.
When she spoke again, her tone deepened—no longer playful, but steeped in an eerie, reverent weight.
"Long ago," she began, "even before I was born, there was this prophecy. A prophecy that has lingered in the fabric of this world for longer than kingdoms, longer than nations, longer even than the thrones built upon bones." Her eyes narrowed, gleaming.
"They said it was spoken by god. A prophecy of the first saint… Saint Valen."
The name rolled out of her mouth like a relic pulled from dust. The surrounding air almost seemed to stir in recognition of it, the faint wind brushing past Wolf's hair, carrying a distant, hollow sound.
Lamentia's voice lowered, becoming more measured, deliberate, like someone reciting sacred scripture:"It was said that when the time comes, the humans chosen by the gods will appear and lead this world into progress. And thus shall begin the Endless Golden Age."
The forest fell into complete stillness after she spoke. No wind. No insect song.
Just the low hum of leaking power from the cracks in the statue.
Wolf's expression stiffened. His brows drew together, his jaw setting.
Humans…?
He repeated in his mind, a cold ripple of unease creeping down his spine.
"…The humans?" he muttered under his breath, almost as if testing the word.
"That makes no sense."
His inner thoughts ran fast, sharp as if they were cutting themselves into shape.The chosen humans are literally the whole other world's population? he thought, his gaze flicking down briefly to the bodies he had dragged away earlier.
Even if that rock creature is a god… that still doesn't add up.
His teeth pressed lightly against each other as the line of his jaw hardened.
The image of that rock-like being—the so-called god—flashed in his mind.If that's the source of this prophecy… it's already shaky.
Then something snagged.
Wait.
The thought stopped him cold for half a heartbeat.
What if… we're not chosen?
A thin breath left him through his nose. His eyes darkened, unfocusing briefly as possibilities slithered through his mind like smoke.
What if we're just here to fill the population of this world? Just… bodies. Warm, breathing bodies to replace what was lost?
His hand unconsciously tightened around his saber's grip.
But for what? he thought sharply. That makes no sense either.
He tilted his head slightly downward, lips tightening. His heartbeat drummed in his ears—not out of fear, but because his thoughts were moving too fast. A short, sharp exhale escaped him before a small, humorless chuckle broke through.
"Heh," he muttered under his breath, a dry sound.
Or perhaps… there really are chosen humans among us.
And then, unbidden, a name floated into his mind like oil rising to the surface of water.
Hyung-woo.
Wolf's fingers tapped once against the hilt of his saber, a reflex. His brow furrowed a little deeper as fragments of their past encounters began threading together.
Linking the prophecy to him… it actually makes a bit of sense, he admitted inwardly, reluctant but honest with himself.
He remembered Hyung-woo's presence—his unshakable confidence, the way people looked at him. The way he carried himself.
The casual way he had once said "blessing" without hesitation.
"Coincidence?" Wolf whispered to himself, but even his own voice didn't sound convinced.
His mind tightened around the memory.
The fact that he said something religious like that… it's not nothing.
A low breeze swept through the clearing again, making the violet light on the statue flicker faintly. Lamentia was still watching him, the corners of her mouth pulled upward slightly, as though she could read every thought flickering behind his eyes.
Her expression was sharp, intent, hungry—for reaction, for understanding, for a piece of something she'd been waiting for far too long.
Wolf's own expression hardened into a quiet, calculating stare.
This prophecy… he thought. I don't trust it.