The instant Jacob was drawn fully into his own shadow, his body gave out, and he collapsed without resistance; it was hardly surprising, for he had strained himself far beyond what flesh, mind, and mana could endure, and the true wonder was not that he fainted but that he had continued to move at all until that moment.

Within the safety of the shadow and the faint but stable thread that tied him to Belemir, his vigilance faltered, and as soon as his eyes closed he slipped into a deep sleep, though even there, in the supposed refuge of dreams, peace was denied him.

When his eyes opened again he found himself at the familiar table, seated across from his brother just as he always was, yet there was a difference this time that unsettled him more than he wished to admit.

Looking down, he saw that the corpses clinging to him were no longer vague and faceless but wore the robes of priests, their mouths moving ceaselessly as they cursed him and pulled at his clothes with skeletal fingers, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of bitterness and condemnation.

Footsteps echoed, and Jacob turned his head with the weary expectation of finding Yggdrasil ready to torment him again, but instead Mary appeared, smiling warmly as she approached the table and began to pour tea with a gentleness that stung all the more for its familiarity.

He did not move, did not protest, only thought with dull resignation that he deserved it, for he had shaped his dreams deliberately to manifest his guilt, knowing full well it would cut into him but believing the pain was necessary if he was ever to hold himself accountable.

"This place has grown worse than before, hasn't it," Yggdrasil's voice came, smooth and unhurried, and Jacob exhaled sharply at the sound.

"What do you want," he asked, his tone heavy with fatigue.

Yggdrasil appeared beside Lucas, regarding him for a few moments with unreadable eyes before raising a hand and casually sweeping it through the air; at once Lucas, Mary, and the priests vanished as if they had never existed, leaving the table bare and the silence heavy. He then lowered himself into a chair, leaning back with a smile.

"Congratulations on killing the woman," he said lightly, "you have completed my little impromptu quest. One of your rewards is that I offer you assistance, but the other is that I reveal a secret to you. So then, Jacob, what would you want to know?"

Jacob did not answer immediately. He sat in silence, studying Yggdrasil's expression and posture, wondering how much truth might be hidden behind the offer, wondering how much was bait, and most of all wondering what the being truly wanted from him.

"What is that light you placed in my mind," Jacob asked at last, his voice steady but edged with the kind of urgency that came from days of silence, for out of everything that haunted him, that single question mattered most, whatever it was, it had been enough to draw the attention of Whisper, and if his life was already endangered because of it, then he at least deserved to know what purpose it served.

Yggdrasil tilted his head, his expression carrying the faintest trace of amusement, and after a pause he replied, "And what made you so certain that I was the one who put such a light there?"

Jacob frowned, confusion flickering across his face, for the thought that it could have been anyone else seemed absurd. "If not you," he said slowly, "then who else could it have been?"

With a small shrug Yggdrasil answered, "I promised you a small secret, Jacob, and what you are asking for is far too large a request."

Jacob leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharpening, "Then what would I need to do to find out?"

For a while Yggdrasil seemed to consider, his hand absently stroking his chin, and then at last he smiled, the expression wide and disarming in the way that always left Jacob wary. "If you can kill someone at rank zero, then I will tell you the origin of the light within your head."

The words made Jacob's chest tighten and his body stiffen for a heartbeat, yet rather than answer he shifted the question, forcing his voice to remain level. "Then tell me something about true runes. How do I find them, and how do I make them stronger?"

Yggdrasil's grin softened into something almost indulgent. "That is much simpler. First you must understand that true runes have no ranks, they are true runes, nothing more and nothing less. They are the foundations upon which everything else is built, the very architecture of the world itself. Ordinary runes only carry ranks because as they inch closer to imitating the nature of true runes they grow more complex, more complete, and therefore stronger."

Jacob listened carefully, his brow tightening as Yggdrasil continued.

"To answer what you are truly asking: finding a true rune is not about searching in the usual sense, for they are everywhere. Even now, around us, countless dream runes drift unseen, hidden in the folds of this space, and yet they remain impossible to perceive with ordinary senses. Even the rune of fire you use, useful as it may be, is not perfect, it is only close enough to function, a construct born of your calculation, and thus by nature it falls short of what it seeks to imitate. Still, you need not despair. I will teach you true runes when you complete the quests I set before you, so work diligently and you will come to see them in time. As for how to strengthen them…" Yggdrasil's eyes flickered, carrying a private amusement, "I believe Lazarus will show you soon enough."

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Jacob did not speak further, for he knew there was nothing more Yggdrasil intended to say, and indeed, in the very next moment the figure dissolved into nothingness. The corpses returned in his absence, pulling at him once more, and Jacob, unbothered by their hands, lifted the cup of tea from the table and brought it calmly to his lips. As he gazed across the shifting faces that crowded him he exhaled softly and murmured, "I wonder how many more will appear here before the end."

Two men appeared at the entrance of a small village, their heavy armour catching the pale light in muted glints, and though they were two in number they might as well have been one, for they moved in the same way, carried themselves with the same rhythm, and even shared the same face, as though they had been cast from a single mold and then set loose side by side.

They walked steadily through the narrow dirt path that cut across the village, the metallic scrape of their armour accompanied by the faint but inescapable scent of blood, a smell that clung to the air and seemed to grow stronger with each step that brought them nearer to the centre. There, at the heart of the village, stood a small wooden shack, and gathered before it were dozens of figures, kneeling in the dust with their hands clasped tightly together in prayer.

"What a bunch of fools," one of the men muttered under his breath as they pressed forward, brushing past the bodies with little care. Yet the villagers did not so much as flinch or raise their eyes, their lips moving ceaselessly, their devotion, or perhaps their delusion, so absolute that even rough hands shoving them aside could not pull them from their trance.

At last the two men reached the shack itself. The door, a crooked piece of wood held on by rusted hinges, was neither locked nor reinforced, and it looked as though a single push might be enough to splinter it. Whoever lived inside clearly did not concern themselves with safety, though perhaps such concerns had never applied to them. The men pushed the door open and stepped inside.

One might have expected the dwelling to be lavish, considering the reverence that filled the air outside, but the interior was plain to the point of austerity. The single room was sparsely furnished, its wooden floorboards worn and creaking, its roof cracked in places where light spilled through, and its windows left open to let in a thin, restless draft.

At the far end of the room sat a man on a modest chair, his posture relaxed as he conversed quietly with the woman at his side. His hair was white and his eyes black, his features carrying an ageless quality that defied easy description, and though his clothes were plain they did nothing to diminish the strange weight of his presence.

"We've done what you asked," one of the armoured men reported as both approached, his tone respectful though tinged with confusion. "Though I still don't understand why you made us give up that spy, we reported her to the Skydrids under Jacob's guarantee."

The man raised his gaze to them, a smile spreading across his face as he rose from his seat with a deliberate calmness. "Very good," he said evenly. "We cannot allow that bastard to have everything he desires. I assume he still managed to take what he wanted from Jacob?"

"For a brief moment, yes," the soldier replied. "But that was enough. He has what he needs from the boy, and it won't be long before he begins to move his plans forward."

The man's expression lingered somewhere between amusement and calculation as he turned slightly toward the woman beside him. "Rena," he said, his tone shifting from warm to commanding without effort, "have cardinal bishop watch the royal family closely for now, and leave us for a moment."

Without hesitation, the woman stood, her steps measured as she made her way out of the shack, leaving behind only the creak of the wooden floor and the presence of the three men who remained.

The man's smile remained fixed, yet the air around him shifted, the easy calm falling away to reveal a harder edge, and when he finally spoke his voice carried with it a quiet command that left no space for doubt. "I regret the loss of so many of your bodies," he said, "but our plans cannot wait. Tell me, how long until you are able to recreate all six?"

The figure before him lowered his head slightly, his tone restrained though reluctant. "You will have to give me at least a year or it will be incomplete."

"Two weeks," the man replied without hesitation, his words cutting across the room like a blade. "Do it in two weeks. Make use of the blessing while it still lingers, and when that is done, begin moving toward the prisons in the Holy Kingdom."

For a moment the other hesitated, weighing both the impossibility and the futility of arguing, before bowing his head more deeply. "As you command, my lord."

"Good. And enough of this charade, return to your usual form. Stop playing games."

At that command, the two identical men turned toward each other, their smiles widening in a strange, almost mocking unity. Then, in a display that was as grotesque as it was unnatural, their bodies began to merge; their armour softened and melted into nothingness, their flesh knitting together in twisting folds, and their bones shifting and locking into place until the two were gone and only one figure remained, a figure whose face carried the unmistakable features of Asmodeus.

"You still prefer that body," the man observed with a hint of amusement, his tone no longer stern but tinged with familiarity.

"Best way to annoy my old man," Asmodeus answered as he rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Besides, it still serves me well enough. That said, the grand scholar Lazarus, he is far stronger than you led me to believe, and the way he manipulates time… it is unsettling."

"I will handle Lazarus before the matter spirals out of control," the man replied, his tone firm yet measured. "He is not the problem we must concern ourselves with right now. The true danger lies in keeping Cardinal Broken Smile contained."

Asmodeus's expression darkened, his brows pulling together in frustration. "You are our leader, why not simply force him into line?"

The man exhaled slowly, as though the weight of such matters pressed even on him. "You know as well as I do that he enjoys the favour of our god, for reasons I do not claim to understand. That makes him untouchable, at least for now. Still, his ambition troubles me, and ambition unchecked can be more dangerous than any enemy. Tell me then, what did he see in the boy's mind that made him so desperate to uncover it?"

Asmodeus lowered his gaze, the arrogance gone from his posture for once. "I wish I knew. Apostle Prisca could not even describe what she had seen before her end. It was beyond her understanding, and mine as well."

The man murmured something under his breath, words too soft to catch, and then turned from Asmodeus, walking back with a measured pace toward his seat. He sank into the chair, his dark eyes drifting to the distant window as though the horizon itself might give him answers. "That will do for now," he said at last. "You may leave. And as for the villagers outside, end them. They have served their purpose and have no further use."

Asmodeus bowed with a smile that was both cruel and mocking, then strode to the door. As he stepped across the threshold, a dark aura coiled around his arm, thick and suffocating, and he let out a low, delighted laugh. "Glory to Whisper," he murmured, before vanishing into the open air. Moments later the laughter was gone, but so too were the villagers, their prayers silenced forever.

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