East Coast of Pritt, Tivian
The day before the World Expo’s opening ceremony, during daylight hours.
After personally welcoming the visiting little fox and his grandfather and escorting them to the hotel she had pre-booked, Dorothy took a carriage alone to return home. However, midway through the trip, she suddenly sensed that someone was trying to contact her through the Literary Sea Logbook.
When she opened the communication page inside the Logbook from within the carriage, she found that it was someone she had only recently become acquainted with—an old acquaintance, of sorts.
“It’s that Lady Devonshire. Judging from what she told me yesterday, she should be searching her family’s ancestral home today for clues about her ancestor, Ampere. Is she reaching out now because she found something?”
Dorothy thought to herself, then began reading the new message that had appeared—sure enough, it was about Misha’s discoveries from her investigation.
“Scholar, I found a book in our family’s study that might contain some useful clues.”
“Oh? What kind of book?”
Dorothy wrote back, curious. Misha promptly responded.
“It’s an old volume, seemingly about the ‘Mad King’ Worsioff. It dates back quite a long time—likely from Ampere’s era. The writing is extremely dense, and I can’t make much sense of it.”
“What intrigued me wasn’t the content itself, but the texture of the book’s cover. It felt strange in my hands. Upon careful inspection, I found that the cover had a hidden compartment.”
Misha’s quick handwriting unfolded before Dorothy’s eyes. Reading it, Dorothy raised an eyebrow and then wrote back.
“A compartment? Did you find anything inside?”
“Yes. A bundle of old papers—dozens of sheets. But they were completely blank. Nothing written on them at all. It struck me as odd that something like that would be hidden inside such an old book, so I wanted to ask if you could see anything from your side.”
Dorothy’s interest was now thoroughly piqued.
“Place all of the sheets in front of you.”
“Already done.”
Misha replied at once.
Dorothy then used the Logbook’s communication channel to tap into Misha’s vision. What she saw was a series of yellowed, brittle sheets carefully laid out across the surface of The Literary Sea Logbook. They were nearly identical in size and entirely blank—aside from the texture of the parchment, nothing discernible could be seen.
At first glance, Dorothy saw nothing of particular note either. After a moment of thought, she wrote again.
“Flip open the book.”
Shortly after receiving Dorothy’s message, Misha moved the old papers aside and opened the pages of the book. Dorothy took one look and confirmed: the text was indeed archaic and difficult to read—deciphering it would take time and effort.
After reviewing the clues Misha had provided, Dorothy paused briefly. Then, after a moment of silence, she responded frankly.
“Very well, Lady Devonshire. I’m giving you an address. Bring everything you’ve found there and meet someone. He may be able to interpret your discovery.”
Dorothy had many responsibilities to prepare for tomorrow’s grand opening of the World Expo and didn’t have the capacity to investigate Misha’s findings herself. Fortunately, she knew someone else who could.
…
The evening before the Pritt World Expo’s opening ceremony.
The setting sun bathed Tivian in golden light. As the festival atmosphere swept across the city and evening festivities approached, in a secluded, quiet corner far from the bustling celebrations, a man was engrossed in his research.
In a residential area on the outskirts of Tivian’s northern district, a thin, graying man in his fifties sat behind a desk. He wore ordinary clothes and thick-rimmed glasses. Bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun streaming through the window, he carefully examined several ancient sheets of parchment spread out on the table. His desk was piled with books, and beside him lay an open old volume.
Seated behind him was a fully cloaked figure, wearing a hat and scarf that concealed her face. She sat silently, occasionally glancing between the window and the wall-mounted clock—clearly waiting for a specific moment.
“Sir… have you found anything?” the figure finally asked. Her voice was that of a young woman—Misha.
The old man paused slightly at her words. Adjusting his glasses, he slowly turned his chair to face her and spoke.
“You may call me John, my unnamed lady… What you’ve brought me is quite interesting. For now, I can offer only a preliminary assessment.”
John Acheson—a professor in the Archaeology Department at the Royal Crown University, expert in ancient Pritt history, former research partner of Duke Barrett, and one of the few scholars who once sought to uncover the buried secrets of Pritt’s past. He was also once a teacher of Nephthys.
Due to his collaboration with Duke Barrett, John had previously been targeted for assassination by the Eight-Spired Nest. He had been saved by Dorothy and later helped her locate the Mirror Moon Temple in Glamorne. Afterward, with Adele’s assistance, he went into hiding in a quiet corner of Tivian, where he lived under protection. The address Dorothy gave Misha was his safehouse—because when it came to Pritt’s ancient history, no one on Dorothy’s side was more knowledgeable.
“I’ve examined everything you brought,” John continued after taking a sip of tea.
“First, the book—it’s indeed about the ‘Mad King’ Worsioff. The content primarily criticizes and condemns his tyranny. In general, it aligns with most current records describing him as a deranged despot.”
After hearing this, Misha responded bluntly.
“So… the book isn’t of any real value?”
“No, no… it still has value. Because it was written much earlier, its records on Worsioff are a bit more detailed. There are some subtle but intriguing differences compared to the widely accepted modern accounts.”
“For example… most modern portrayals of the Mad King describe him as a vain, cruel tyrant—obsessed with grand, costly projects and public spectacles. He forced the citizenry and nobles alike into endless toil for his deranged whims.”
“But the record in this book is different,” John explained, his tone focused and serious as he spoke to Misha.
“According to this account, Worsioff’s ‘madness’ and ‘tyranny’ were separate phases. He was a tyrant first—and only later did he go mad.”
Misha furrowed her brows as she listened.
“What? His madness and tyranny were separate? First tyrant, then mad? What exactly does that mean?”
John paused for a moment, then explained plainly.
“Let me put it this way. The modern perception of Worsioff centers on two key traits: ‘tyrant’ and ‘madman.’ Most current records suggest these traits were linked—that his madness caused his tyranny. That he drove the people to construct senseless monuments, launch excessive projects, and hold grand spectacles because he was insane.
“But this book tells a different story. According to it, Worsioff was already a tyrant from the very beginning. When he issued orders for massive constructions and events, he was firm and methodical—not irrational. He was unreasonable, yes, but not unhinged. There were no signs that his mind was unstable.
“This book suggests that his true madness came much later, in his final years. His insanity then manifested as incoherence, delusions, and the inability to function or communicate properly. Before his madness took hold, he had already ceased all grand construction and public activities. He entered a long period of silence—then the madness surfaced. So while he was undoubtedly mad at the end… he was no longer a tyrant—just mad.”
John’s tone was thoughtful and composed as he laid out his conclusions drawn from the book Misha had brought. Misha fell silent for a moment, then murmured in response.
“So… the Mad King’s tyranny wasn’t caused by insanity. He stopped being a tyrant after he went mad…”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Interesting… So you’ve more or less interpreted the book. What about the papers? Can you tell anything from those blank sheets?”
That was what mattered most to Misha—those seemingly blank sheets hidden in the book’s cover. She wanted to know: were they hiding a secret?
John picked up two sheets from the desk and studied them under the light. His expression turned slightly more serious.
“I can’t see anything on the surface… but I have a feeling they contain writing—hidden somehow.”
Misha’s eyes lit up with curiosity.
“A feeling? Can you explain what makes you think that?”
John gathered the pages and examined their edges closely before answering.
“These pages are uniformly sized, precisely trimmed, and they bear distinctive cutting marks. I’ve seen similar cuts in other documents from the same era. These usually come from a kind of nobleman’s pocketknife—specifically carried by war-oriented nobles who often trimmed paper for one reason: writing letters.
“Moreover, the paper’s dimensions match the common correspondence size used between nobles of that era. The material is similar too—like some old letters I’ve collected. So I believe these are pieces of letter paper—the kind nobles used to write private correspondence.”
He spoke with the authority of someone who had studied Pritt history for decades. Misha tilted her head.
“Letter paper? So you’re saying the book cover was hiding a bunch of unused letter paper?”
“No,” John said flatly.
“I don’t think they’re unused. No one hides blank paper like this. These sheets were almost certainly used—but the writing isn’t visible.”
Misha’s frown deepened. John continued explaining.
“From what I know, these letters were likely written during the Wind King’s Rebellion. At that time, among the nobles aligned with the Black Venerator, there was a trend of using a special ink called Mirror Moon Ink—a kind of ink that remains invisible under normal light and only becomes visible under moonlight.”
He inspected the blank pages carefully as he spoke. Misha’s interest grew.
“So you’re saying the writing was done using that magical ink?”
“Yes. Highly likely. Which means if we want to see what’s written, we just need to wait for nightfall,” John said, glancing out at the sky.
The sun was already low. Thankfully, the wait wouldn’t be too long.
…
Soon, day faded and night fell. The sun disappeared beyond the horizon, and the moon slowly rose into the sky.
Under the dark sky, atop a hill in the northern outskirts of Tivian—far from the city lights—John Acheson had set up a delicate device with multiple lenses. On the platform of this apparatus, several sheets of aged paper were laid out.
The device had been built by John and Duke Barret long ago, designed to study the ancient Pritt moon cult. Its lenses focused and concentrated moonlight, which was needed to reveal artifacts and texts written in moon-sensitive ink. Tonight, John was putting it to use on the pages Misha had brought.
“How’s it going, Mr. Acheson? Can you see anything?”
Misha asked from nearby, robed and watching attentively. John frowned and replied as he glanced at the sky.
“Not ideal. There’s definitely Mirror Moon Ink on these pages—but it’s faint. Much fainter than what I’ve seen before. We’d need strong moonlight to reveal anything properly. And tonight… the moon is too dim. I can’t make out anything clearly.”
Misha looked up. In the night sky was a waning crescent—a moon barely holding its shape. Its light was too weak to illuminate anything.
At this rate, tomorrow the moon might vanish completely—New Moon. Tonight was the very edge of the lunar cycle.
“So this moon isn’t enough?” she asked.
John nodded.
“Correct. Based on the ink density, I estimate we’d need the light of a half-moon at least. Which means… we’ll have to wait about half a month before we can decipher the contents of these letters.”
John spoke plainly to Misha, and as she listened, she couldn’t help but ponder—tomorrow was the opening day of the Expo, precisely the time when the Eight-Spired Nest was expected to make their big move. Was it really appropriate to wait half a month?
While she thought this, Misha pulled out the communication page of her Literary Sea Logbook, lit a lamp, took up her pen, and sat cross-legged on the floor. She wrote to the distant and mysterious “Scholar,” informing them of the results of their experiment. Before long, she received a reply.
“If even with instruments you need at least half-moon light to read the ink on the letters, then without any tools—what degree of moonlight would be required?”
Reading the message, Misha paused, then turned to John and asked.
“Mr. Acheson, without using your device—just with the naked eye—what kind of moonlight would be needed to see what’s written on the paper?”
John paused for a moment, then answered.
“This device was developed with an old colleague over many years. It greatly enhances moonlight’s effect on artifacts. Without it… I’d guess you’d need a full moon to see the writing clearly.”
Misha transcribed his answer directly into the logbook. Shortly after, a new message from the Scholar appeared.
“So without instruments, the content of the letters can only be revealed under a full moon—that means the letters can only be read once per month. Even with instruments, you need at least a half-moon—so for half the month, the content is inaccessible.
“Either case is extremely inconvenient for communication. In the worst-case scenario, each letter exchange could take up to two months: one to read and respond, one to receive the reply. That’s far too slow.
“If these letters really do originate from the Wind King’s Rebellion, then both timeliness and secrecy would’ve been crucial for correspondence. It seems unlikely that the writers would use ink only readable during a full moon. They must have had some other, more practical method for decoding the letters efficiently.”
The Scholar’s analytical message appeared swiftly in front of Misha. She nodded thoughtfully, then asked another question.
“Then, Scholar… do you have any suggestions or ideas?”
Soon, more handwriting emerged on the page.
“Suggestions…? I’m no expert in this ink. But since it’s called ‘Mirror Moon Ink,’ and considering that the ancient lunar goddess of Pritt moon worship was associated with mirrors, perhaps you’re unaware—but the moon is, in essence, a giant mirror. It reflects sunlight, which is what we perceive as moonlight.
“So… why not try using sunlight, reflected through something, to reveal the writing?”
Misha blinked, staring at the message.
“Sunlight? A mirror…?” she murmured, clearly skeptical.
…
Soon, the moon sank, and the sun rose.
While all of Tivian rejoiced in the grand opening of the World Expo, in a quiet residential building in the northern district, John remained focused on completing the task he had started the previous night.
Sitting at his desk, he experimented with various lenses, attempting to refract the brilliant sunlight pouring in from the window onto the old, blank letters spread across the surface. His expression was tense and serious.
“This isn’t working… not a trace of the ink is appearing,” he muttered, frowning as he removed another lens from the apparatus and redirected the light away from the blank paper. He turned toward Misha, who was seated nearby, watching his every move closely.
“Have you tried every mirror you’ve got?” she asked.
“I’ve used all I have, but nothing’s worked,” John replied.
“You might be right about the moon being a mirror and moonlight being reflected sunlight—but we don’t have anything made from the same material as the moon to reflect sunlight properly.”
Misha fell silent, clearly thinking. After a moment, she reached into her clothes and took out a small silver medallion shaped like a shield.
“Mr. Acheson, maybe try using this to reflect the light,” she said, standing and walking forward. She handed him the silver token. John blinked, recognizing it immediately.
It was the same silver badge Dorothy had once brought to him—Ampere’s relic, discovered by Misha at the Devonshire family crypt.
“This thing…”
He examined it again, then removed a lens from the apparatus and installed the silver badge in its place. After some adjustments, he used the badge to reflect a concentrated beam of sunlight onto one of the old blank letters.
And then, it appeared—a flowing script, revealed in the light.
“There it is… this is it! This reflection works—the ink is showing up!” John exclaimed, excitement in his voice as lines of graceful handwriting emerged under the focused sunlight. Misha exhaled in relief.
She had suspected it. The Devonshire family’s old study—she had searched it before, but never seen this book. The key difference now… was the silver badge. Without it, the book and the hidden letters would have meant nothing.
“Can you read it now? What does it say?” Misha asked.
“Hold on, be patient. I need a moment…” John replied, eyes locked on the page as he adjusted the light for better clarity.
He began reading quickly, using the sunlight reflected off the badge. After finishing one sheet, he pulled it aside and replaced it with another, continuing the process.
After decoding four or five sheets, he finally began to speak while still working.
"You were right," John said steadily to Misha.
"These sheets really are all letter paper—each one contains the text of private correspondence between two individuals who exchanged secret letters over a long period during the Wind King’s Rebellion."
“These two individuals,” he continued slowly, “were none other than your ancestor, Ampere Devonshire, and the founding ruler of the Hyacinth Dynasty, ‘True Successor’ Baldric.”
John’s words caught Misha by surprise. She blinked, startled.
“Ampere and Baldric? If I remember correctly… during the Wind King’s Rebellion, Ampere was part of the Black Venerator Geoffrey’s faction, wasn’t he? He defected to Baldric’s side later. These letters—could they be where Baldric secretly persuaded Ampere to switch sides?”
John adjusted his glasses and replied with a serious expression.
“The letters are indeed related to Ampere’s defection. But it’s not as you imagine—it wasn’t Baldric trying to persuade Ampere.”
“Then… could it be that Ampere voluntarily betrayed Geoffrey and joined Baldric instead?”
Misha asked in surprise. John shook his head.
“It’s more complicated than that…” he said, picking up one of the letters and placing it beneath the light-reflecting device. Then he added.
“First, let us offer a prayer to the god of knowledge—so we may be shielded from the poisons hidden in truths.”
John reminded Misha with solemnity. After seeing her quietly finish the prayer, he began to read aloud part of the letter’s contents.
…
"Baldric, I know that after our clash on the battlefield and the failed strategies, you’re now full of doubt toward me. But I ask you now—set aside that suspicion. I have no intention of feigning surrender, of setting traps for you. There is no trickery or deception in my approach. I hope that we may trust each other—just this once.
"Your doubts are reasonable. I was one of King Geoffrey’s most loyal and trusted lords. I was not someone who would ever harbor treasonous ambitions. And in truth—I still do not. My reaching out to you is done not in betrayal, but in service to my liege’s will.
"In the past, King Geoffrey told me that if one day, he ceased to be himself—if he ever followed in Worsioff’s footsteps—then he would no longer be fit to be king. When that time came, someone else must take his place—someone worthy to become the new ‘Keeper of Secrets,’ the new Secrecy Sovereign of Pritt. You were his chosen candidate. That is why I have come to you.
"So please… believe what I say. I act now in obedience to my king’s command, to aid you…”
…
At his desk beneath the sunlight, John read steadily from the aged paper. Behind him, Misha stood frozen, stunned by what she had just heard.
“What?” she exclaimed.
“You mean… Ampere’s defection to Baldric’s side—wasn’t due to persuasion, and it wasn’t voluntary either? It was… Geoffrey’s will?!”
John straightened his posture, his tone heavy.
“At least, that’s what the letters suggest.”
“This… this doesn’t make any sense. Why would Geoffrey ask his most loyal subordinate to defect to the enemy? And what does he mean by ‘Keeper of Secrets’?”
Misha’s eyes were filled with disbelief as she questioned John further.
John replied calmly.
“To answer that, we may need to read further into the rest of the letters.”
With that, he picked up another letter and placed it under the light-reflecting device, beginning to decode its contents.
…
“I’m glad you’re willing to place your trust in me again, Baldric. It seems my earlier efforts were not in vain. I hope that trust continues—it will be the foundation of our cooperation.
“You must still be confused—why would King Geoffrey order me to aid you in secret? I can only say that it concerns secrets so profound that they strike at the very root of this land. I myself do not yet know the full truth, but what little I do know, I will share to help illuminate the matter for you.
“It all began with the arrival of a certain ‘Oracle Witch.’ You should know that ever since this so-called divine envoy came to King Geoffrey’s side, we have been working under her direction to uncover ruins related to the ancient cult of the Queen of the Night Sky.
“Whenever discoveries were made, they would be handed over to the cult under her command. Even I was dispatched not long ago to search for such ruins. These activities were widespread across our territory. Our goal was simple: to seek power from the Queen of the Night Sky—to resist your side, backed by the Radiance Church.
“Of all the excavation efforts, the most significant was the dig at the ruins of Salforston, the former royal capital. After we took full control of its ruins last year, King Geoffrey personally oversaw the work, determined to uncover something of value from the city that had been destroyed by the Mad King’s sons.
“What none of us expected was what we found beneath the ruins—Howard, the eldest son of Worsioff, rightful heir to the throne, long believed to have been poisoned during his coronation.
“Yes, Howard is alive. He was never killed. He survived—buried in the ruins of the city destroyed by his brothers. He was emaciated, mangled, barely more than a rotting corpse… and yet he was still alive. He had lain there for years in that state. How he survived, no one can say.
“The discovery shocked us all—especially King Geoffrey. He and Howard were once close friends. Upon finding him, Geoffrey immediately had him treated and cared for. When the Oracle Witch learned of this, she insisted that Howard be handed over to her. Geoffrey refused—choosing instead to care for Howard personally.
“At first, Howard was mute. It took several days before he could speak. When he finally could, Geoffrey and Howard held a private meeting—an all-night conversation between the two of them, with no witnesses.
“No one knows what they talked about. What is known is that two days after their talk, Howard succumbed to his injuries and died for real. But after that night, something in Geoffrey changed.
“The most obvious change was how he began distancing himself from the Oracle Witch and her followers. He also ordered a halt to all excavation efforts across our lands. I had just returned from a successful search, only to be summoned by the king and told not to share my findings with anyone—especially not with the Oracle Witch or her people.”
"Your continued trust honors me, Baldric. Let us now resume where we left off.
"King Geoffrey referred to both Worsioff and his son Howard as Keepers of Secrets. They were tasked with guarding a mystery that concerned not only the kingdom of Pritt, but also this land, and the power of the storm itself. Maintaining this secret required the performance of a ritual—an irregular, cyclical one—without which disaster would eventually follow. Madness was only one of the possible consequences.
“‘The king must keep the secret. Madness in the king’s bloodline is the prelude; the ritual must be conducted afterward—lest true madness consume all.’
"These were King Geoffrey’s exact words. It seems that since ancient times, the kings of Pritt have borne the burden of protecting this secret. The ritual must be conducted every so often to maintain its balance, or catastrophe would follow.
"At the same time, there exists another power—an ancient and malevolent entity—always seeking to steal this secret. It aims to sabotage the ritual, especially in the years it must be held."
"Worsioff was one such king tasked with performing the ritual during the appropriate year. His tyrannical acts—the forced labor, the vast constructions, the extravagant events—were all intended to conceal the true nature of the ritual. The enemy, hidden in the shadows, was always watching. Worsioff hoped to disguise the ceremony among noise and chaos, so it could not be easily located or sabotaged."
"But he failed. The enemy had already infiltrated his court deeply. The ritual was sabotaged, left incomplete… and his descent into madness was the consequence. In his madness, he could no longer fulfill his duties."
"In his final moments, Worsioff passed on the role of Keeper—and the secret—to his son Howard. Howard might have corrected his father’s mistake. But the enemy had already infiltrated the royal palace. Howard was poisoned during his coronation. His brothers, manipulated, turned on each other. Salforston burned, and the royal line of the Roaring Lance was extinguished."
"Yet, due to his role as Keeper, Howard survived. Though poisoned and buried beneath ruins, he lived—until King Geoffrey found him. Only after passing on the secret and the role did Howard finally die."
"King Geoffrey now intends to complete what Worsioff could not. As the new Keeper of Secrets, he has discovered the true ritual site—hidden beneath Salforston. He intends to complete the forgotten ceremony there."
"But the enemy’s shadow still looms. Though Geoffrey drove away the Oracle Witch, her influence lingers—embedded deep within his army and his court. Geoffrey fears his court has been penetrated just as Worsioff’s was."
"Aside from me—who’s always been posted away on archaeological missions—he trusts no one."
"Except… you. His enemy. You, Baldric, are the only one not compromised in the eyes of that ancient foe. The enemy cannot predict Geoffrey’s choice to place his hope in you."
"So, if Geoffrey fails, you must be the one to take his place. On the day of the ritual, launch an assault on Salforston with your troops. That will allow Geoffrey to send his infiltrated men to defend against you—giving him cover to perform the ceremony."
"Your attack will divert the enemy's attention. Meanwhile, I will guide you through a hidden underground passage straight to the ritual site. Bring your most trusted companions."
"If the ritual succeeds, I, Ampere, swear to ensure your safety and your retreat. If it fails, Geoffrey will pass on the secret and the mantle of Keeper to you. You will become the next Secrecy Sovereign—the founder of a new Pritt dynasty."
"I understand this all sounds unbelievable. You may think it's a trap. So Geoffrey will offer you a private meeting—on your own turf. He will attack East Mog County. Meet him in battle. He’ll find a way to speak with you face to face amid the fighting."
"And one final word of warning: the power of the secret lies in the secret remaining unknown. Do not tell anyone about this. Especially not about the source of the information. Not even that the secret exists."
…
Seated at the desk, John examined each piece of ancient, seemingly blank letter paper under his apparatus, one by one. Line by line, he read aloud the text of correspondence written centuries ago.
At the back of the room, Misha sat in stunned silence, listening as John recited the words exchanged between her ancestor Ampere Devonshire and the founder of the Hyacinth Dynasty, the "True Successor" Baldric. The contents left her thoroughly shaken.
“What… the duty of Pritt’s kings… a Secrecy Sovereign? Keepers of Secrets? Secret-keeping rituals… I’ve never heard of any of this before! It’s unbelievable… King Geoffrey, the Black Venerator, willingly ceded the crown to Baldric?”
Misha shook her head slowly in disbelief as she spoke.
John, meanwhile, was carefully organizing the remaining letters on the table. He responded with a grave tone.
“The content of these letters truly is astonishing. If it’s all true, then it could utterly upend everything both the mundane world and the mysticism world believe about the Wind King’s Rebellion. I’ve studied that period for years, and I’ve never encountered documentation this disruptive…”
Still studying the letter, John murmured in disbelief, shaking his head. Misha, too, muttered to herself.
“If… if these letters are genuine—and they really do reflect mutual trust between Ampere and Baldric—then that means all three kings during the rebellion… Geoffrey the Black Venerator, Baldric the True Successor, and Worsioff the Mad King… were all working toward the same goal?
“They were all trying to maintain the secret, all performing the ritual of secrecy… The infamous ‘Mad King’ wasn’t a tyrant after all—his tyranny was just a cover for building and protecting the ritual site?
“And the secret enemy they were all fighting against… could it be… the Lady of Pain?”
The comparison hit her like a thunderclap. The way these letters described infiltration into Baldric and Geoffrey’s courts sounded eerily similar to the current state of the Pritt government and the Serenity Bureau. Could the Spider Queen’s influence in Pritt have spanned centuries, not just the period since the Eight-Spired Nest emerged?
If the last great outbreak of the Spider Queen’s power corresponded to the last time the ritual was held—could the current surge in Eight-Spired activity be another cycle?
As the thought struck her, Misha’s eyes snapped toward the window, toward the east—toward the main venue of the World Expo. She realized she had to relay all of this immediately to Scholar and their allies.
…
East Coast of Pritt, Tivian.
As the World Expo opened, Tivian was alight with festive celebration. Joy spread across the city, its people immersed in the jubilant atmosphere. But high above the ground, far from the bustling streets and beyond the reach of any mystical detection, a pair of eyes watched from the sky.
Hovering above the clouds was a thin, winged woman clad in a form-fitting black and red robe, her head adorned with countless embedded pins, heavy eye makeup framing her sharp gaze. With a solemn expression, she surveyed the city and the surrounding coastline from this lofty vantage.
From her height, she could see the full layout of Tivian, the eastern coast of Pritt’s main island, and—beyond that—the enormous vortex over the sea. That massive storm was still surging and spiraling, growing rapidly as it absorbed the surrounding cloud systems.
Because of its immense pull, the skies above Tivian and its nearby regions were completely clear. Not a cloud in sight. The sunlight blazed unrelentingly on the city below.
“A stronger cyclone… preventing the dark clouds from advancing… No movement from the dream yet, and everything on the stage is still proceeding as normal…”
Her voice was filled with venom and hatred as she growled.
“When… when exactly was our plan so thoroughly exposed?”
This woman was Gaskina, and she spoke with fury. So far, not a single step of their operation had gone according to plan. Everything had gone sideways. Clearly, they had once again been seen through. Under some unknown counter-mystery, the scheme she and the Blackdream had devised was now crumbling.
Normally the ones weaving conspiracies, the Spider Queen’s agents had recently become the victims of counterplots. Now a devastating blow had struck—they were being outmaneuvered.
By now, Gaskina had a pretty clear idea of who was responsible.
“The Rose Cross Order… Heaven’s Arbiter Sect… the Pritt Vigilance Faction… Or maybe I should just drop the pretenses and call you what you are—those of the ‘Revelation.’ You’re an organization that should have no connection to this land. Why are you so obsessed with interfering here? Is it for that moon witch? What did she promise you?”
Grinding her teeth, Gaskina muttered through clenched jaws. She had concluded that the only force capable of opposing her camp so thoroughly, capable of outscheming the Spider Queen herself, was the newly revived power of Revelation—no matter what other names they operated under.
“You’ve outplayed us this time. But this battle… we must win. Even if it ends in mutual destruction.”
With grim finality, Gaskina spoke her last words above the clouds. Then, she tilted forward—and let herself fall.
Her body plunged from the sky like a meteor, accelerating rapidly as she fell toward Tivian.
She had realized the original plan was completely compromised. So she no longer intended to fight on the battlefield of strategy—where her enemies now held the advantage. No more schemes. No more shadows. Only overwhelming, brute-force confrontation.
Gaskina fell like a missile, howling through the air. As she plummeted toward the city, she adjusted her trajectory—aiming straight for East Tivian, the World Plaza, and the main venue of the Expo.
She would punch through the perimeter, bypass all mystical surveillance and tiered perception safeguards, and crash into the battlefield herself.
Now was the time to stake everything. Trying to keep up with the enemy’s clever tricks had only led her deeper into their traps.
If they were better at scheming, then she would respond with force.
With ruthless determination, Gaskina’s descent became a blur. The city grew rapidly in her sight. As she pierced through the limits of Layered Vision, she could already see the grand performance underway at the main Expo stage below.
"BOOM!!!"
With a deafening crash, Gaskina slammed into the ground. Her landing caused the earth beneath her to sink and crack apart in all directions. Shards of stone exploded into the air, and a massive cloud of dust surged outward.
Shrouded in rubble and dust, Gaskina slowly rose, bracing herself with one hand on the ground. She listened intently, expecting to hear the gasps and screams of the crowd at the Expo venue.
But what she heard instead… was silence.
Frowning, sensing something was off, she swept her arm through the air, generating a powerful shockwave that blasted the dust away. When the view cleared, what she saw was nothing like what she had expected.
She looked around and found herself surrounded by towering spires and gothic structures. In front of her stood an enormous cathedral—its bell tower ringing with a heavy, resonant chime.
This wasn’t the World Expo main venue.
This was a cathedral.
Specifically, she was standing in front of the Hymn Cathedral in the northern ecclesiastical district of Tivian—on its vast stone plaza. Gaskina’s eyes widened slightly in disbelief.
She had aimed her fall straight at the Expo grounds. How had she ended up in the cathedral district?
Suspicion gripped her. She abruptly looked up—toward the sky. Something about Tivian’s sky… didn’t seem right.
She had to get to the ritual site—immediately.
Realizing she had been lured to the wrong location, Gaskina prepared to flee. But just then, the massive cathedral doors behind her creaked open—and a figure stepped out.
Clad in regal robes, crowned with a bishop’s mitre, holding a ceremonial staff, with a stern face and eyes that burned with unwavering resolve—the man who appeared was none other than Archbishop Samuel, the current spiritual leader of Pritt.
He was supposed to be attending the World Expo’s opening ceremony. And yet, here he stood.
“Messenger of the Lady of Pain… since you’ve come this far…
“Why not stay a while longer?”
Samuel raised his staff high, then struck it down upon the ground with immense force.
Instantly, beneath Gaskina’s feet, intricate magical circles flared to life—layer upon layer of glowing arrays, radiating divine brilliance.
"Layered Shackle!"
As the spell activated under Samuel’s command, the faith of millions of Radiance followers across all of Tivian stirred in response—rushing toward the Hymn Cathedral in a tidal wave of belief.
This colossal current of faith, under Samuel’s orchestration, was pulled from the entire city’s “Layered Vision Field” and converted into a different form, surging straight toward Gaskina.
At the same time, high above the city, something vast and unseen watched silently.
Hovering silently above Tivian’s sky was the Twilight Devotion, Saint Steel Vessel of the Court of Secrets under the command of Artcheli. It was perfectly cloaked in the clouds through state-of-the-art optical camouflage and concealment systems—hundreds of meters long, hidden flawlessly in the sky. It had been providing covert support for Dorothy’s movements across the city, such as enabling her and the little fox to vanish in optical stealth.
Among the church's Saint Steel Vessel, the Twilight Devotion was the most advanced in concealment. Recently, it had been lent to Dorothy by Artcheli.
Moments earlier, the Twilight Devotion had been casting an enormous light-manipulating illusion over Tivian. Using a massive-scale optical distortion, it overlaid a false image over the entire city from above—so that from the sky, all of Tivian’s locations appeared altered.
Which meant that everything Gaskina had seen while falling—was a lie.
The Expo grounds she had aimed at? A fabricated illusion.
The real location she landed in was the cathedral district, and it had been prepared as a trap—woven using the combined faith of millions of Radiance believers in Tivian.
Even by using brute force, even by abandoning stealth…
Gaskina had still walked straight into the trap.