The Silver-haired woman introduced herself as Deborah.
She led the way to my quarters, her silver hair swaying against the emerald silk of her gown.
The room she gave me looked like it had been ripped straight from a Game of Thrones set—heavy oak furniture, walls of jagged black stone, and a massive bed draped in furs and deep crimson velvets. A hearth roared in the corner, casting flickering orange light that made the shadows dance.
The walk there had been surreal. We'd passed dozens of women in the torchlit corridors. They were clothed, unlike the mages in the ritual chamber, but their eyes were just as intense. They pressed themselves against the stone walls as I passed, whispering in hushed, reverent tones.
"Is it him?"
"The Lord of Convergence... he's finally here."
I played it cool and ignored them, but my mind was racing. I hadn't seen a single man since I arrived. Every guard, every servant, every face in the hall was female. It was a literal paradise, but the "how" was eating at me.
I sat on the edge of the massive bed, the fur soft beneath my palms. Transmigration. There was no other word for it. Whether it was a parallel dimension or a forgotten past, I was light-years away from that drafty barn.
"W. Weinberg, you son of a bitch," I muttered. The "Succubus Ritual" was a lie. It wasn't a summoning; it was a cosmic kidnapping. I wondered if I could ever get back, or if I even wanted to.
This world was thick with mana—I could feel it buzzing in the air like a live wire. If there was a way in, there had to be a way out, but right now, I was the "Lord" of a world I didn't understand.
The heavy iron-bound door groaned open. Deborah stepped inside, followed by an elderly woman whose face was a map of elegant wrinkles and sharp intelligence. They both wore flowing emerald gowns and heavy black cloaks that smelled of dried herbs and old parchment.
The older woman didn't just walk; she glided. She stopped a few paces away and inclined her head in a deep, respectful bow.
"Lord of Convergence," the old woman said, her voice like the rustle of dry leaves. "It is the greatest honor of my long life to finally stand in your presence. I am Lady Isobel of Tar, Guild Mistress of the Sisterhood of Vandera. I have spent decades praying for this moment."
So, this was a Guild. A Sisterhood. These weren't spirits or succubi—they were mages. Real, flesh-and-blood sorceresses who could weave the fabric of reality, unlike the "luck rituals" I'd wasted my time on with Zayn.
"My sisters summoned you, my Lord. And as the prophecy promised, you answered our cry and crossed the veil," Isobel continued.
I leaned back, trying to mask the chaos in my head with a layer of cool indifference. "And you're sure about this? You really think I'm some kind of messiah?"
"You are whom the gods promised," Deborah said, her silver eyes burning with a conviction that made my skin crawl. "The Lord of Convergence."
I wanted to laugh in their faces. I wanted to tell them they'd made a colossal mistake—that I was just a guy from a barn who got lucky with a stolen book. But as I looked at Deborah's curves and Isobel's reverent bow, I choked the truth back down.
If they wanted a god, I could play the part. In fact, I could play it very well. This was a winning hand, and I wasn't about to fold. If fate wanted to hand me a kingdom of beautiful women, who was I to argue?
"Tell me more about this Black Emperor," I said, my voice dropping into a deeper, more commanding tone.
"He is the shadow over the world," Deborah recited, her voice hushed as if speaking his name might draw his gaze. "When the Four Continents face extinction under his heel, salvation will not come as a hero clad in light. The heavens will not send a knight."
Isobel stepped closer, the emerald silk of her gown straining against her heavy chest as she breathed. "The Emperor has already devoured three of the Four Continents. He turns men into mindless husks—dogs for his army—and women into his personal playthings. This continent, our home, is the last stronghold. But the mana is stagnant. The world is drying up, my Lord."
She reached out, her fingers hovering near my hand but not daring to touch. "A soul from a world without magic acts like a lightning rod. You are the spark we need to reignite the fire."
I looked at my hands, then back at them. "I don't wield magic. I don't feel like a lightning rod. I'm just a man."
"Oh, you wield it, my Lord," Lady Isobel said, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips. Her gaze dropped to my waist, then back to my eyes. "But your magic is not found in dusty books or chanted rhymes. It is in your blood. It is in your essence. You do not cast spells... you empower them."
She took another step, her scent—something like jasmine and old parchment—filling my lungs. "The Four Pillars you saw in the ritual room? They are some the most powerful mages of this continent. But they are empty vessels. They need a Lord to fill them. They need you to unlock the power they were meant to hold."
"As the prophecy says," Isobel continued, her voice gaining a rhythmic, hypnotic quality, "you shall walk every path... and you shall master all of them."
I felt a cold prickle at the back of my neck. "What does that even mean? I'm sensing some serious Avatar shit here. You think I'm going to start bending the elements or something?"
Isobel let out a soft, melodic laugh that made her heavy cleavage tremble beneath the emerald silk. "Not quite, my Lord. In our world, magic is divided. A mage is born into a single path—Fire, Frost, Shadow, or Light. To attempt to master a second is to invite madness. To attempt a third is certain death."
She leaned in closer, her eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. "But you... you are the Convergence. Your soul is a blank slate, untainted by our laws. You don't just 'use' magic; you bridge it. When you bond with a Pillar of Fire, you become the Master of Fire. When you take a Pillar of Frost, you command the cold."
Deborah stepped forward, her silver hair shimmering in the firelight. "It means that the Four Pillars are your keys. By binding them to you—body, blood, and soul—you don't just save us. You inherit the power of an entire world."
I looked from Deborah to Isobel, the weight of the "sacrifice" they were asking for finally clicking into place. This wasn't just about being a hero. This was about becoming a god through the ultimate indulgence.
"So," I said, a slow, predatory smirk finally breaking across my face. "To 'master the paths,' I have to master the women who walk them. Is that the gist of it?"
Isobel bowed her head, a flush of rose-pink creeping up her neck. "The prophecy is quite literal, my Lord. The deeper the bond, the stronger the magic."