Deep within the inner realm, inside a fragment of apocalyptic history.
At the edge of the grand cityscape reconstructed by mystical might, a fierce battle raged on. Powers of ancient dominion reemerged, entangled in combat with the decaying forces of the grave.
Spiritual threads—countless red-glimmering lines of spirituality—whipped through the sky at high speed, chasing after their quarry like serpents. Their target: an ancient wraith exuding freezing cold.
“Freeze…”
A raspy voice escaped the withered skull. As Setut once again found himself surrounded by countless spiritual threads from all directions, he released an aura of frigid cold, shrouding himself in chilling mist that froze and stalled the oncoming threads. Just as he prepared to retaliate and destroy them—
A sudden ambush arrived.
From within the white fog burst a blazing fireball. Hurtling through the mist came a stout, armored figure—a dwarf clad in heavy armor with a bushy beard, completely wreathed in flames. Wielding a glowing warhammer, he barreled through the cold like a meteor, crashing hard into Setut!
Setut swiftly conjured a shield of solid ice before him. The fiery dwarf collided with the shield in a massive explosion. The shield shattered, and Setut was blasted backward out of the freezing fog, only to immediately face yet another wave of attacks.
Wind. And fire.
Gale-force wind blades screamed down from the sky. The earth quaked and cracked open as pillars of flame erupted from below, roaring toward Setut from all directions.
Facing a pincer attack from above and below, Setut paused briefly, then unleashed a pale-white aura that rapidly expanded to envelop him. The glow swelled to nearly a hundred meters in height, and when it dissipated, a massive ice dragon stood in his place—entirely constructed from solid ice. Setut himself was encased within its chest, sealed in the frozen heart of the dragon, using it as a shell.
A deafening roar echoed as the storm of wind blades and rising pillars of fire collided with the ice dragon. But the attacks left it largely unharmed. Setut, along with the dragon, turned his gaze toward the skies—to the direction from which the wind had come. There, he saw a figure: a dark elf in light armor, skin dark as night.
Without hesitation, Setut had the ice dragon unleash a massive blast of icy breath. The torrent was so vast it was nearly impossible to dodge, and so intense that even the dark elf’s wind manipulation couldn’t hold it back. The elf was quickly frozen solid and fell like a stone, shattering on the rooftop below.
But as Setut examined the remains, he noticed something strange—what lay in the icy shards was not the true body of the dark elf.
“A spiritual thread swap? Hah… As expected. Once a marionettist gains that ability, their trickery multiplies tenfold… Isn’t that right, Taharka…”
From within the ice dragon, Setut spoke in the soul speech. As he spoke, he turned the dragon’s body toward a familiar figure in the distance.
Atop a high-rise, a pale-skinned, long-haired man in a dark cloak stood with indifference, facing the enormous ice dragon. Three other figures stood beside him.
A heavily armored dwarf with a warhammer.
A half-bare dark elf in ornate light armor.
A knight in full white plate armor, with no visible features, though his legs bore clearly non-human, reverse-jointed structure.
Facing this old acquaintance, Taharka’s expression remained cold. He spoke slowly, almost like a warning.
“You know what state I’m in now. You should know there’s no chance for you to win this fight. Give it up, Setut.”
Setut was silent for a moment before replying.
“I don’t know what brought you here like this, Taharka. Did that child upon the divine throne promise you something? Or do you actually believe Hafdar’s nonsense—that the godling is the true Divine Mentor?”
At this, Taharka’s expression flickered. After a pause, he replied solemnly.
“That twisted being upon the throne is no Divine Mentor… Only a madman like Hafdar could believe such foolishness. I know what that thing is. I know how blasphemous it is to follow its will… and yet… I still chose to do it.”
As he spoke, Taharka’s face contorted. The calm expression he wore cracked into something feral. Madness swirled in his eyes.
“Because now I understand! That is the Great Tide! What that twisted thing symbolizes is the unstoppable, inevitable tide of fate! Any resistance is meaningless… even the Divine Mentor cannot defy it! It is a destiny even they cannot command. It is absolute. Irreversible.
“In the face of that destiny… resistance is futile. Struggle is futile. Better to embrace it… than defy it…”
As he finished, Taharka’s tone turned hazy, his expression unfocused… His mental state was clearly abnormal. Seeing this, Setut’s expression sharpened.
“You… you’ve been corrupted. When did it happen?”
“Ah… that? Probably during the last defense of the Revelation sacred land. That was when… I witnessed the unstoppable tide… saw our powerlessness…”
Covering his forehead, Taharka murmured. And Setut immediately understood.
“The last defense of Heopolis…”
Back during the battle of Heopolis in Busalet, all four undead pharaohs had gathered to defend the Revelation sacred land against the Afterbirth Apostle Unina. At that time, because his auxiliary spirituality was aligned with the Chalice, Taharka had become a target of spiritual domination by Unina, who possessed the divinity of the Mother of Chalice.
During the attack, Taharka was severely wounded—and more importantly, forcibly linked to the Mother of Chalice through Unina. He caught a glimpse of her.
Of all the fallen foreign gods, the Mother of Chalice was among the most powerful and thoroughly corrupted. That fleeting connection tainted Taharka’s will. Though the corruption was subtle at first, it grew with time. And it was in this broken state that Hafdar—already half-mad—approached him. Taharka accepted his offer without hesitation.
To the corrupted Taharka, the tide of corruption was now unstoppable. The Mother of Chalice was corruption, the godling upon the Throne of Fate was corruption—and even though he knew the godling was not the true Heaven’s Arbiter, he still chose to serve.
“…Sigh…”
Realizing Taharka’s condition, Setut sighed quietly. Then he commanded the ice dragon to unleash a furious roar—blasting a beam of icy breath toward the distant rooftop, engulfing it in a glittering cascade of frost.
When the icy torrent faded, Setut examined the rooftop and surrounding buildings—only to find no trace of Taharka or his marionettes. Just a few ordinary people, clearly substitutes swapped in via spiritual threads.
Seeing this, Setut had the ice dragon take flight, wings beating powerfully as he soared into the sky. At its mouth, another, even more powerful breath attack began to form—this time, Setut planned to freeze the entire area within several dozen kilometers, wiping out every marionette Taharka might have hidden.
But Taharka saw through his intent instantly.
Relocated to another building, he looked out the window toward the charging ice dragon and sent his most elite marionette into action.
BOOM!
The earth shook. From a street below, a blazing fireball soared into the sky like a reverse meteor. It was Taharka’s dwarven marionette!
Now fully transformed into a living weapon, the warhammer-wielding dwarf burned with roaring flames. His entire body had been reforged into hardened metal, glowing white-hot. Behind him howled a violent wind, propelling him like a cannonball toward the ice dragon.
As a Gold-rank marionettist, Taharka’s abilities went far beyond simple thread-based body-swapping. The extraordinary individuals under his control retained full access to their own powers—and marionette form didn’t strip them of any abilities.
Not only that—Taharka could reallocate and combine abilities across his marionettes.
And now, he had concentrated the powers of three distinct marionettes into one devastating combination.
The dwarven marionette reforged and superheated itself, becoming an unbreakable projectile. The armored marionette added further heat, creating a flaming shield that wrapped around the dwarf. The dark elf marionette accelerated the "dwarf cannonball" with stormborne winds—launching it like a missile toward Setut’s ice dragon.
Upon witnessing Taharka’s combination attack, Setut couldn’t help but feel a flicker of danger. He halted the ice dragon’s charged breath, redirecting the accumulated frost power downward toward the oncoming projectile, preparing to clash head-on.
But just then, Taharka made another move.
From inside the building, Taharka pulled out a remote control-like device and pressed a button. In that instant, Setut—still inside the ice dragon in the sky—suddenly felt his body falter. A strange rejection sensation began to push his soul out of his body.
“What... is this?!”
“You entered this world with Heaven’s Arbiter’s charm. While concealing your presence, it also triggered changes in your body... and those changes aren't necessarily good ones... especially for you, Setut…”
Gazing coldly at the ice dragon now visibly lagging mid-air, Taharka murmured. As he said, the anomaly afflicting Setut was a side effect of the integration of Heaven’s Arbiter’s charm.
When one enters a fragment world while bearing the Arbiter’s charm, their body integrates into the fragment according to their nature. For Setut, as an undead, he would become that world’s equivalent of the undead—or the closest possible interpretation of such an existence.
However, in this cyberpunk setting, the undead weren’t traditional necrotic beings. They were posthumous laborers. In this hyper-capitalist world dominated by megacorporations, dying in debt was normal. If a deceased debtor had no heirs to inherit their debt, then the only remaining asset—their body—was used for repayment.
For the weak and infirm, even their corpses had no value. For ordinary people, bodies were harvested for implants and organs. But the corpses of powerful cyborg-enhanced warriors were invaluable assets. With gene-modified bodies and perfectly integrated implants, they were too valuable to simply discard. Corporations would surgically replace their dead brains with signal transceivers, reanimating their corpses as functional puppets to continue working after death.
This was posthumous labor—the world’s version of the undead. And Setut, having entered this world, had become one such cyber-dead, now property of True Universe, the sole surviving megacorp.
That was why Taharka could interfere with Setut’s body using a remote control.
Due to this interference, the ice dragon faltered mid-charge, its response delayed. Setut missed his opportunity to counter. All he could do was watch helplessly as the blazing dwarf projectile struck the high-flying dragon squarely. The superheated dwarf pierced straight through the ice dragon, shattering it from within. Steam hissed, and shards of ice exploded into a blizzard that rained down across the city.
Staring at the falling ice fragments, Taharka’s expression turned serious. His miniature marionettes—scattered across the battlefield—moved swiftly, scanning the debris. Soon, they located Setut’s shattered body among the fragments.
But not his soul.
“Where… is the spirit?”
The question had barely formed in Taharka’s mind when he felt the surrounding air temperature plummet. Frost suddenly formed across the room, and his body was instantly frozen into a sculpture of ice.
BOOM!
With a thunderous crash, the ceiling above exploded. A figure shot through the dust—Nephthys!
Clad in jet-black ice armor, wielding a massive black-ice battle axe, she brought it down hard on Taharka’s head.
Setut’s full combat strength as a Gold-rank undead required both a body and a tomb. So when he volunteered to face Taharka alone, Dorothy was wary of the risk. She secretly instructed Nephthys to remain nearby and provide support if needed.
Nephthys had hidden herself and drawn a summoning array tailored to Setut. At the moment his ice dragon was destroyed, she activated the ritual, pulling Setut’s spirit into safety. Her ability borrowed a split-spirit from the True Spirit Shaman, granted to her in the real world when Setut sought aid.
After summoning Setut’s spirit, Nephthys entered possession and followed Harald's tactics—conjuring ice armor and axe—then launched her ambush.
“Got him!”
Seeing Taharka shatter into frozen pieces, Nephthys exclaimed joyfully. But Setut’s voice echoed gravely in her mind.
“No. That’s not him… we were just a step too late—he reacted in time and escaped.”
Nephthys’s heart sank. She looked down at the corpse entombed in the ice shards and saw it wasn’t Taharka at all.
Clearly, Taharka had once again used spiritual threads to swap himself out with another marionette and flee. Setut had missed him again.
Staring at the aftermath, Setut chuckled bitterly.
“Hah… what a repulsive ability…”
…
While the ancient pharaohs of the First Dynasty were “reminiscing,” intense battles raged across other parts of the city.
High in the skies above the city cluster, a massive aircraft with a wingspan over a hundred meters cruised overhead. Its underbelly opened, releasing rows of aerial bombs that whistled downward, leveling skyscrapers and scouring streets with successive blasts. Wherever its shadow passed, only devastation remained.
Suddenly, from the rubble of the bombardment zone, several shadow blades sliced upward. They struck the plane midair, easily cleaving its fuselage and even severing its wings.
But the sliced edges liquefied and wriggled like living metal—reforming and fusing seamlessly in an instant. The damage was completely healed.
Then, from the dust, a flashing shadow flare shot skyward. It didn’t strike the plane directly but grazed its side. The intense light cast a sharp shadow beneath its wing—out of which a figure burst forth.
Artcheli.
She launched her ambush from the shadow, wielding her shadow blade, which extended into a colossal weapon dozens of meters long. Without hesitation, she cleaved the massive aircraft midair—slicing it clean into four pieces.
But the aircraft didn’t fall.
Instead, the four chunks reshaped like putty, morphing in midair into four separate fighter jets. Each soared off in a different direction and opened fire.
But their "bullets" weren’t ordinary projectiles.
One fired blazing fireballs.
One launched frigid air blasts.
One sprayed high-pressure water jets.
One unleashed swift, slicing wind blades.
Each of the four jets wielded a different elemental power, launching an all-out assault on Artcheli.
Struggling to find footing midair, she descended while dodging rapidly—nimbly twisting through the barrage. Despite the overwhelming firepower, she deftly swung her elongated shadow blade and struck down each fighter one by one, cleaving them into scattered debris.
Eventually, Artcheli landed steadily—landing right on the asphalt of a city street. The dismembered remains of the fighter jets she had just sliced apart rained down around her, but strangely, none of the debris made any impact craters. Instead, they fell into the ground as gently as raindrops falling into a pond, silently merging into the pavement as if they were ginseng fruits—each fragment sinking naturally into the earth without a trace.
Then, just as those shards vanished underground, danger erupted around her.
From beneath the street, from the walls of the high-rises on both sides, countless dark-golden metal tendrils sprouted out like tentacles. These metallic appendages writhed and twisted constantly, reshaping themselves into a multitude of weapons—blades, spears, sabers, halberds, cannons, chainsaws…
Each of these weapons radiated a different elemental energy—some burning hot with fire, others as cold as frost. Together, they lunged toward Artcheli from all directions.
Artcheli immediately launched a counterattack. From her shadow, dozens of shadow clones split off, all wielding their own shadow blades. In unison with her original self, they slashed through the swarming metal weapons, cutting them into fragments. But as soon as those fragments hit the ground, they too merged silently into the pavement, vanishing without a trace.
“This is troublesome…”
Faced with danger from every angle, Artcheli’s expression grew tense. She had no effective way to counter this Umbrum Gargoyle—a polymorphic monster of the Gold-Devouring Path.
Once a Beyonder reached the Gold-rank on the Gold-Devouring Path—or the “Metal Demon” Path—they lost the concept of a core or fatal weak point. Their bodies became entirely liquid metal: capable of infinite division and limitless transformations into different weapons. An infuriatingly difficult foe.
The best method to deal with such an enemy was spiritual or soul-based attacks. That was what Artcheli had used against the Dark Coin Noble, and it had been very effective—her strikes carried soul-damage, forcing him to constantly burn life-saving cards to survive. But the current Umbrum Gargoyle seemed to be just a soulless puppet remotely controlled—making soul damage useless.
Against a fast-regenerating, amorphous enemy like this, the ideal method was vaporization by high heat or total freezing. But unfortunately, this enemy could absorb elemental energy. Fire and ice, unless on a divine scale, would just be consumed. Her slashes were ineffective. And though it couldn't easily defeat her either, it was enough to keep her pinned down—preventing her from reaching the ritual’s center.
“Tch… What a pain.”
With a cold snort, Artcheli cut down yet another weapon-forged tentacle. But even when sliced apart, the metal simply slithered back into the ground, returning to the demon’s main body. It was a battle with no end in sight.
Just as she was growing frustrated, a voice echoed in her mind. She paused slightly.
“This method...? It might be worth a try…”
With that thought, Artcheli changed tactics. She and her clones stopped going for powerful sweeping slashes. Instead, they began delivering faster and more frequent strikes—unleashing a flurry of high-frequency swings from their shadow blades.
Empowered by her Gold-rank Shadow ability, both Artcheli and her clones moved their arms and swords so rapidly that they blurred from sight—like spinning rotors, only far faster.
These high-frequency attacks turned her shadow blades into a kind of super shredder—rather than slicing, they pulverized. The incoming tentacles weren’t cut but ground into microscopic metal dust.
However, even dust-sized particles weren’t enough to disable the Umbrum Gargoyle. As long as they fell back into the ground, they could be reabsorbed and reconstructed.
But then—
Something happened.
As the powdered metal fell, it began to change.
It changed color—rapidly. The dark-gold dust transformed into blood red as it descended.
Viewed under a microscope, those fine metal particles were becoming tiny clumps of flesh. Bits of blood and muscle. And just before they hit the ground, one of Artcheli’s clones tossed a sigil into the air—summoning a blaze of searing fire that incinerated the blood-flesh particles into blackened ash.
The one behind this transformation knelt behind a large window on the second floor of a nearby building—gazing down at the battlefield.
It was Sister Vania.
“Transform… cast aside your original form… embrace the truth of gentleness…”
Hands folded in prayer, Vania chanted as she invoked her power upon the battlefield below. She used her ability to transform matter into flesh—just like she once gave bodies to the dream-form.
Vania’s power could incarnate other forms into flesh. While her strength wasn’t enough to affect a Gold-rank enemy like the Umbrum Gargoyle directly, she could influence a billionth of it.
Artcheli’s pulverization reduced parts of the demon’s body to a fine enough scale for Vania to interfere. Vania converted the metal dust into vulnerable flesh, and then with a touch of divine flame, it could be destroyed.
Together, Artcheli and Vania had finally discovered a way to effectively harm the Umbrum Gargoyle. With every high-speed slash, metal dust rained down. Vania transformed it. Artcheli’s fire destroyed it.
The gargoyle’s main body began to suffer real losses. If it kept fighting like this, it would consume itself into nothing.
Sensing this, the Umbrum Gargoyle changed tactics. It targeted Vania—the linchpin of the strategy—and launched an attack at her vulnerable position.
But Artcheli had already anticipated this.
In Vania’s prayer room, metal tendrils burst forth, attempting to pierce the praying nun from all sides—each shaped into a different lethal weapon.
However, just as the weapons struck, Vania’s shadow darkened—deepening into a thick, swirling mire. It swallowed her whole like a pool of living darkness, pulling her body into the shadow realm.
That shadow then merged with Artcheli’s own, transforming into her personal domain. From it emerged a shadow blade, which lashed out in all directions, severing the attacking weapons and retreating rapidly toward Artcheli’s true body.
This was Artcheli’s countermeasure: using her shadow domain to protect Vania from all harm—keeping the lynchpin of their strategy out of the demon’s reach.
Now, Artcheli held the upper hand in this battle.
And if she could keep Vania safe—
The Umbrum Gargoyle would soon be no more.
…
On the other side of the city, at another battlefield, the most intense wave of conflict had already passed. The devastated battlefield had now settled into a tense new standoff.
Countless skyscrapers had been leveled. Streets were trampled beyond recognition. What was once a towering forest of steel and concrete had been violently felled into sprawling ruins. And those responsible for felling these "giant trees" now stood upon the desolation they had wrought.
On one side stood a colossal undead bone stag, its skeleton inscribed with ancient runes, towering atop the rubble. Around it stood ranks of massive skeleton warriors clad in heavy armor. Opposing them was a no less awe-inspiring sight—countless stone giants, each tens of meters tall, lined up in strict formation like a disciplined army. In front stood soldiers wielding swords and shields; behind them were valiant knights on high steeds, fortress-like structures, and grand bishops robed in finery.
“…Heh. Still using the same tricks, the same formation… Everything’s where it used to be… You haven’t changed a bit.”
Suspended in midair between two massive bishop statues, Aldrich gazed at the skull atop the undead stag’s head and remarked with a hint of emotion. The skull—Deer Skull—responded with a gloomy look and voice.
“Indeed… as familiar as ever—so familiar it makes me sick. Every time I feel this sickening familiarity, it means our old grudge remains unresolved…”
Hearing that, Aldrich smiled faintly and clasped his hands behind his back.
“True. The way we keep repeating this rivalry is truly pointless. Still—this time, something is different. Today, we settle this, once and for all.
“One of us… must fall today.”
As Aldrich declared this, Deer Skull also raised a hand and sneered.
“Agreed. But the one who falls… will be you!”
As he spoke, a flash of light appeared in Deer Skull’s hand, revealing a small ornate box. When he opened it, an even brighter glow radiated outward—then faded, revealing an object in his hand.
—a luxurious skull.
Its mouth was filled with alternating gold and silver teeth, fixed firmly between upper and lower jaws. Giant gemstones were set into the eye sockets, and a variety of exquisite ornaments and dazzling jewels adorned the skull in meticulous detail. Just looking at it stirred both fear and greed in the heart.
“Recognize this, old man?”
Deer Skull asked smugly, holding the ornate skull aloft.
Upon seeing it, Aldrich’s eyes widened in shock.
“Impossible… How did that thing end up in your hands…?
“Could it be… the Commerce divinity?! But I never even revealed it…”
Aldrich was visibly shaken. He knew exactly what that item was. It was his creation—his ritual piece for advancing to Gold-rank.
In the past, Aldrich and Deer Skull had competed for a seat in the Golden Triad, racing to complete their advancement rituals. Aldrich won, earning the Guild’s resources to conduct his advancement. But Deer Skull sabotaged the process and fled to the Nether Coffin Order for refuge. The cult agreed to shelter Deer Skull—but under pressure from the Guild, they forced him to hand over his ritual piece to Aldrich for safekeeping. Without it, Deer Skull was never able to complete his advancement.
From that day forward, Deer Skull's greatest wish was to destroy Aldrich and reclaim his work to restart his ritual. And now—he hadn’t defeated Aldrich, but he’d retrieved the piece, or rather, forcibly purchased it...
“Revealed? Heh… I don’t need anyone to show me what I already own. As long as I know it exists, and that it’s on your person—and as long as I still have a sufficient mystic connection to it… that’s enough.”
Deer Skull’s grin widened.
“Thank you, Aldrich. For carrying my creation with you all this time. Or rather, you probably couldn’t feel safe without it, right?
“Either way… thank you for bringing it. Now—join me in witnessing this long-overdue ritual!”
Using a Commerce divinity box left behind by the Dark Coin Noble and the mystic link he still shared with the piece, Deer Skull had forcibly bought back his ritual item from Aldrich. And with it in hand—he acted immediately.
Dark clouds gathered in the sky. A massive ritual array unfolded beneath the undead stag’s hooves. In the heavens above, a vortex began to swirl. The earth trembled.
This was his advancement ritual—Deer Skull’s ritual for rising to Gold-rank. With help from the godling and Hafdar, he had prepared everything within this realm long ago. All that was missing was Aldrich showing up with the ritual piece—so Deer Skull could take it by force.
And now, the ritual was underway.
He would ascend to Gold before Aldrich.
“Not if I can help it!”
Aldrich’s eyes flashed. He waved his arm, sending all his divine statues into motion—they launched toward Deer Skull, aiming to interrupt the ritual.
But Deer Skull wasn’t unprepared. He sent his skeletal army to intercept them, buying time.
Once again, Aldrich and Deer Skull clashed. Explosions of apocalyptic force rocked the battlefield.
But this time… the pressure was on Aldrich.
Still, amid the chaos, Aldrich didn’t seem truly panicked. As he gave commands and orchestrated his constructs, a subtle, almost imperceptible smile crept onto his lips…
…
The final battlefield—also the closest zone of conflict to the central tower—was still raging. Yet now, the tide of battle was clearly shifting.
Riding atop a massive red dragon, Hafdar soared through the skies. As the dragon rained flames below in sweeping bombardments, Hafdar simultaneously manifested creatures from legends and myths—dropping them like bombs onto a single, persistent enemy.
A three-headed sea monster capable of capsizing entire fleets…
A withered giant strong enough to demolish high-rises…
A black-winged eagle so vast it blocked out the sky…
An endless wailing legion of undead…
And ghost ships roaring through the heavens…
One after another, these legendary or horrifying entities were materialized through Hafdar’s power and hurled into the fray—against a single impossible target: a bolt of brilliant lightning that continuously flashed and flared, obliterating everything it touched.
Above, dark clouds surged like tides. Thunder rumbled as divine judgment descended. From the gaps between storm clouds, heavenly lightning—symbolizing divine wrath—crashed down, striking Hafdar’s summoned creatures and reducing them to ash. All manner of specters and horrors were drowned in searing, merciless brilliance.
“Damn…”
High above, Hafdar’s brow furrowed as he watched lightning rain down from the heavens. Against Dorothy’s relentless divine thunder, his myth-creature legion was quickly unraveling. Since his previous tricks had been seen through, the tide of battle had shifted against him.
“Divine Mentor…”
Hafdar glanced toward the tower in the distance, where a violet pillar of light still surged into the sky, piercing the massive eye overhead. He refocused, continuing to command his dragon and trade blows with the flickering lightning darting through the city below.
But then—another bolt of lightning crashed down from the clouds, this time aimed directly at Hafdar.
Warned by his pet parrot, Hafdar had already prepared. As soon as the divine thunder began to gather, he leapt from his red dragon. Moments later, the beast was engulfed by multiple simultaneous lightning strikes and vaporized with a thunderous cry.
Stumbling slightly, Hafdar landed atop a high-rise rooftop. But more divine thunder was forming again. Glancing at the brilliant light accumulating in the heavens, his expression grew grim.
Just then, the world changed.
A strange power parted the clouds—blowing open the heavy sky to reveal the enormous eye suspended above. The violet beam from the tower still pierced into the pupil. And then—
A harsh, distorted, booming voice—like a chorus of countless voices overlapping—echoed across the world. It was near. It was far. It was inside every creature’s ears.
A beam of light shot down from the giant eye, bathing the entire city in a dim, ghostly violet glow. Within this purple haze, shadowy symbols flitted about like schools of swimming fish. Upon close examination, they were complex, shifting glyphs—floating everywhere through the city.
At the same time, the thunder in the sky fell silent.
Dorothy, who had been darting through conductive surfaces as lightning, stopped atop a rooftop. She clutched her forehead, her brow deeply furrowed.
“That thing again… it’s back…”
She could feel it: an insidious consultation—a malicious memetic contagion—spreading across the entire realm. And it was invading through every channel imaginable.
Sight… Sound… Smell… Taste… Spiritual sensation… Even her sixth sense—
Every perception was being infiltrated. Messages of madness and corruption flooded her mind in every possible form.
Among these signals was cognitive poison—something she could still manage. But there was something far worse…
The memetic corruption of the godling.
She had faced it before in Tivian, when it interfered with her divine abilities. Now, that same kind of memetic infection surged into her mind once more, unstoppable.
“Not good…”
Her body wavered slightly as she felt her condition deteriorate. The godling’s new batch of memetic data—distinct from the last time—was rushing in like a tidal wave. The only way to resist was to direct all of it into the part of her brain already influenced by Mirror Moon's divinity, shielding her divinity from the invasion.
But the problem was: unlike in Tivian, this wasn’t a trickle—it was an onslaught, endless and overwhelming.
And her Mirror Moon concealed brain region was limited.
If she kept shoving memetic information in, it would soon overflow.
That was exactly what the godling wanted.
“Damn it… at this rate, my shadow-brain region will be completely overrun. Once that happens, I won’t be able to use my divinity. And I’ll never make it to the ritual tower in time. I have to eliminate Hafdar first—he’s the last obstacle.”
“But if Hafdar just keeps avoiding a direct fight, I won’t be able to deal with him fast enough… My only option now is to pretend my divine access is blocked—draw him into attacking, then strike.”
Dorothy narrowed her eyes and quickly laid out her new plan.
But as she turned her gaze toward Hafdar—
—she saw something that surprised her.
Hafdar had already re-manifested his red dragon and was hovering far away, clearly keeping his distance. He just stared ahead, motionless, with no intent to attack.
That unsettled her.
“It’s pointless, Usurper… I will not take any risks before your stolen divinity is completely sealed.”
“And as for your current condition… I know it precisely. The Divine Mentor has revealed it to me. Your tricks can no longer deceive me. Don’t waste your time feigning weakness.”
As he spoke, a vertical purple eye slowly opened on Hafdar’s forehead—gazing at Dorothy, who stared back in alarm.
“…He’s reading my mind…”
“Indeed… this is the power of the Divine Mentor’s partial awakening. Do you see now?”
Hafdar confirmed her fear.
The godling, seated upon the Throne of Fate, had grown significantly by feeding on the world’s power. It could now directly interfere with the battlefield—an interference that was extremely dangerous for Dorothy’s side.
…
Elsewhere on the battlefield, bone soldiers and towering war statues clashed. Towers crumbled. The ground shook. Streets were obliterated.
Commanding his army of magical statues, Aldrich continued to battle Deer Skull. At that moment, Aldrich was waiting—waiting for a specific opportunity to strike.
By all logic, that opportunity should’ve come by now.
But nothing had happened.
That silence unsettled him.
“Still no reaction… could it be—”
“Could it be,” Deer Skull interrupted mockingly, “that I’ve already seen through your little plan? That I discovered what you tampered with on my treasure?”
He smiled smugly—and as he spoke, a third purple eye slowly opened on his forehead.
Under Aldrich’s startled gaze, Deer Skull held up the ornate skull—his ritual piece—and declared.
“Under the guidance of that great being, nothing can be hidden from me now, Aldrich! You tried to sabotage my ritual by planting a trap within my artifact. Clever plan…
“But too bad—the Eye of the God saw through it.”
“I know you’re waiting for me to begin the ritual… well, soon. Very soon. Just a little longer—after I finish purging your little tricks…”
Deer Skull drank in Aldrich’s shocked, despairing face with relish. The minds of those infected by the godling’s memetic corruption became transparent to it and its followers. Even if cognitive poisons had failed, those memetic traces still existed in their minds—acting as spies.
And before the god who ruled over knowledge and thought—
No scheme could remain hidden.