Months passed.
Time lost all structure within the Luminous Kingdom. Practice bled into survival; survival into refinement. Alex's wings carried him farther, longer. Ursa Ignis no longer tore itself free—it answered. The phantoms were no longer threats, but instruments.
He hovered above the fading remnants of his latest encounter and summoned the system.
Status Window
Username: Lumen of the Void
Age: 17
Revolution: Awakening
Class: Starkindred
Alignment: Neutral / Wretch
Status Effects:
Shattered Psyche
Curses:
Cursed Fate Yellow Blight (Suppressed)
Abilities:
Basic Awareness — 452 / 1000Combat Fundamentals II — 58 / 800Ascension — 21 / 100
Magic:
Star Magic — 356 / 2000Orionis Sagitta — 313 / 500Ursa Ignis — 43 / 500Frenzy Magic — Active (Unstable)
Battle Arts:
Starspear Arts — 782 / 1000
Equipment:
Archaeon Warspear — 103 / 1000Ethereal Raiment — Unbreakable
Runes:
Tempus (V)Chaos (III) ×2Chaos (I)Lux (I)Tenebris (I)Aquila (II) ×3
Artifacts: Celestial Compass
Items:
Alex dismissed the display.
The numbers didn't reassure him.
They confirmed the truth.
Still Awakening.
Still fragile.
Still something that could be erased by beings like the Golden Knight.
But no longer ignorant.
No longer starving.
He turned instinctively—
Samael was gone.
No pressure.
No shadow.
No echo.
Only absence.
That, more than anything, told Alex this was intentional.
Ahead, the Kingdom reshaped itself.
Arches rose beyond scale. Stained glass shimmered with colors that bent perception. Spires twisted like frozen flame. Shadows moved when he did not.
The Cathedral.
Its doors stood open.
Alex entered.
Books lined impossible balconies. Endless shelves. Bone spines. Flesh-soft covers. Warm. Responsive.
He opened one.
Empty.
Another.
Empty.
Ursa Ignis revealed nothing. Frost revealed nothing. Violence revealed nothing.
The books were not unreadable.
They were absent.
When he turned back to the door—
Ash-gray.
Cold.
Dead.
It did not open.
Understanding came slowly.
This was not a test of intelligence.
Nor effort.
Nor endurance.
Hours passed. Then days. Perhaps weeks.
Only when Alex stopped searching—when frustration drained into stillness—did something change.
A click.
Metal.
The ring handle fell.
The door opened.
Not wide.
Just enough.
The books had never been the test.
The attempt had been.
Beyond lay a second hall—warmer. Lighter.
At its center rested a single book, bathed in living light.
The Ascent of Soul Thaumaturgy
Not alchemy.
Communion.
Rituals of self-offering. Invocation without certainty. Magic that demanded cost before comprehension.
One ritual stood apart.
Requirement: A beak.
Simple. Absurd.
Until he saw the illustration.
The Nautilodaunt.
Grotesque. Barnacled. Impossible.
A click echoed.
The doors locked again.
Another book drew him.
The Path of Knighthood
Stances. Halberd arcs.
He recognized them instantly.
The Golden Knight.
The inevitability.
The shame of retreat.
The weight of survival.
This book offered no absolution.
Only inevitability.
You will face it again.
The Art of Craftsmanship
Not tools.
Wheels.
Cycles.
Overlapping rings etched with runes that spun without motion.
Cause folded into consequence.
Action into memory.
He understood then: this Cathedral was not teaching skills.
It was teaching continuity.
The last book waited.
Scripture. Invocation. Belief.
Wheels filled the margins. Battlefields haunted the pages. A crimson skull stared without judgment.
Loss. Failure. Memory.
All bound into motion.
The lesson was complete.
A seam appeared in the floor.
Alex pressed it.
The Cathedral exhaled.
The doors opened.
He stepped back into the pale hall beyond.
— — —
Alex stepped toward the threshold.
The pale light beyond the door waited, unchanged. Continuation. Release.
Before he crossed—
The book on the pedestal shifted.
Not moved.
Acknowledged.
Its pages turned on their own, stopping at a single spread. Words surfaced where none had existed before, etched into the flesh-pale parchment with deliberate precision.
WHAT IS THE MEANING OF WHAT YOU HAVE READ?
No voice followed.
No echo.
The question simply was.
Alex stopped.
His wings folded slowly, feathers brushing stone. He looked back—not at the pedestal, but at the shelves. At the bone spines. At the empty pages. At the memories they had dragged up and refused to bury.
He already knew his answer.
"This place is punishment," he said.
The words came easily. Too easily.
"For running. For leaving them behind." His jaw tightened. "I wasn't strong enough. I chose survival. So I'm here to endure it—to suffer until it balances out."
He exhaled slowly.
"To repent."
The page remained still.
For a moment, Alex thought that was acceptance.
Then the parchment changed.
The word REPENTANCE surfaced—
—and split.
Not torn.
Rejected.
The letters warped, bending inward, collapsing like something hollowed out from within.
Beneath it, new text emerged.
INCORRECT.
The Cathedral responded.
Not with force.
With distance.
The light dimmed by a fraction. The shelves felt farther away. The open door behind him seemed less real.
Alex frowned. "Then what is it?" he asked. "If this isn't payment—"
The page answered without pause.
YOU BELIEVE SUFFERING SETTLES A DEBT.
The wheels etched into the margins began to turn.
Slow.
Unavoidable.
Each rotation pressed against his chest—not pain, not fear, but something colder.
YOU BELIEVE ENDURANCE WILL MEND.
YOU BELIEVE GUILT HAS AN END.
Alex's reflection rippled in the milky floor. For a heartbeat, it lagged behind his movements.
THE CYCLE DOES NOT CARE WHY YOU FELL.
THE CYCLE DOES NOT MEASURE DESERVING.
A crimson skull bled faintly into the page, its hollow gaze fixed and absolute.
IT ONLY CONTINUES.
Alex swallowed.
"So… there's no forgiveness," he said quietly.
The page turned.
FORGIVENESS IMPLIES CONCLUSION.
The wheels slowed.
Not stopping.
Just… waiting.
WHAT RETURNS DOES NOT SEEK CLOSURE.
Silence reclaimed the Cathedral.
Behind him, the doors unlocked.
Not warm.
Not welcoming.
Simply open.
Alex stood there longer than he needed to.
Then he stepped through.
The Cathedral did not follow.
It never had to.
— — —