Hugo rushed downstairs, heart still pounding from the surreal adrenaline of the last few hours.
He stopped at the doorway — and blinked.
The so-called "ancient lich" was lounging on his bed.
Sprawled out.
Like a smug teenager who had claimed the comfiest spot in the house.
Randalf wasn't even trying to hide.
The tiny silk robe he wore was dusted with cake crumbs.
Hugo's hands twitched at his sides. "I thought I said hide."
Randalf looked up, eyes faintly luminous. "Oh, I am hiding, master," he replied brightly, as if explaining a simple fact. "I am currently invisible. Only you can see me."
Hugo blinked.
Then Randalf vanished.
No shimmer, no sound — gone.
A blink later, he was back again, same posture, same crumbs, same casual omnipotence.
Hugo dragged a hand down his face. "…Cool. Can you teach me that?"
"Ah, I'm afraid not," Randalf said with a shake of his head. "Higher existences mustn't tamper with mortal frameworks too freely. Adjusting your resonance was already… acceptable since i technically didn't do anything. But granting you techniques?" He waved a paw dismissively. "That would violate several laws of equilibrium."
"Right. Of course." Hugo didn't even bother pretending to understand.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, exhaling. "So… what now?"
Randalf straightened, tail flicking lazily. "Whatever master desires. I am at your disposal."
"Don't you have somewhere else to be? A lich council? Necromancer club meeting?"
Randalf blinked, visibly confused. "Naturally not. I am a Monarch. I go where I please."
"Figures." Hugo leaned back, staring up at the cracked ceiling. Silence settled in, heavy and strange — the kind that follows disaster or miracle, when you can't quite tell which one you survived.
He focused on what mattered.
SSS-grade resonance.
That changed everything for him.
Just looking at the rank still made him feel dizzy.
Resonance wasn't about talent — it was connection. Depth. How strongly your being could align with the world's frequencies.
A higher resonance meant you could wield deeper arts, synchronize with rarer relics, even bend elemental laws through sheer attunement.
It also determined how far you will make it in life.
He was destined to end at Initiate and just at the minor stage, which was just one level below a mortal.
"Alright," Hugo muttered under his breath. "Next step — I need to join a Domain."
Domains had replaced the old governments long ago: massive collectives of Vanguards, scholars, and opportunists who braved the Gates for relics, knowledge, power and Eon Arts.
And Eon Arts were the real currency now. They carried patterns — echoes of past resonance — that let people shape the world through will and energy.
But to read them, to connect with them, your resonance had to be strong enough.
Otherwise, they were just dead text.
Which meant… with an SSS resonance, he could potentially read anything.
He sat up straighter. "After that, I would need a good Art to start with. Something that would let stand out."
Randalf perked instantly, ears twitching. "Ohhh! Master desires arts? That's easy! I can provide them."
Hugo blinked. "Didn't you just say you can't give me powers?"
"This is different." Randalf puffed his tiny chest proudly. "What is mine is yours, master. I am simply returning your property."
Before Hugo could respond, the Lich Monarch dove a paw into his robe.
And pulled out a scroll.
Then another.
Then another.
The dull thuds of falling tomes echoed through the basement.
One after another, a cascade of ancient scriptures struck the floor, shaking the desk, rattling the bedframe.
Hugo could only stare as the pile grew — heavy tomes bound in blackened leather, slim manuscripts traced with silver ink, scrolls sealed in wax. Each one hummed faintly, exuding pressure that made his skin prickle.
One caught his eye.
Then another.
And another.
[A Weeping Goddess — SSS]
[Ocean Heaven — SSS]
[ Beast Steps — SSS]
Dozens of them.
Hundreds.
The air itself vibrated under the weight of their presence. The faint hum built into a low, resonant drone that pressed against his chest.
Hugo's mouth went dry.
He felt them — like each parchment was alive, pulsing faint echoes of awareness, waiting to be read, absorbed, understood.
Power that could level cities, shatter oceans, rewrite balance.
And they were stacked like firewood on his bedroom floor.
Randalf, perched proudly atop the mountain of texts, looked down at him with an almost innocent smile.
"Master," he said, voice smooth and brimming with satisfaction, "These are all yours."