WHOOSH!!!
The Lantern Rays cut through the night sky like arrows of light, their massive wings beating in synchronized rhythm as they carry us northward.
These flying Magivores are among the fastest ans of transportation in the kingdom—massive creatures with bioluminescent patterns along their bodies that glow like living constellations.
The Royal Family keeps a small fleet of them for ergencies.
This qualifies.
I ride the lead Lantern Ray, Klein seated behind , his hands gripping the harness with white-knuckled intensity. He’s never been comfortable with heights, but his determination to find Seraphina overrides his fear.
Behind us, more Lantern Rays carry Aunt Leila, Seth, and twenty of the Kingdom’s finest Royal Knights.
I would have gathered more, just in case, but we’ve run out of ti.
Each one is equipped with their best Armants and loaded with Potions specifically chosen for combat against unknown paranormal threats.
We’re as prepared as we can be.
Whether it’s enough remains to be seen.
The Silent Thrones appear on the horizon as dawn begins to break—ancient ruins jutting from the earth like broken teeth.
Once, centuries ago, this was the seat of a kingdom that predated Randalorion itself.
Now it’s nothing but crumbling stone and whispered legends.
’It’s a tourist attraction, but there are dangerous places and dark regions that aren’t shown to visitors.’ I think to myself with narrowed eyes.
It’s the perfect place to hide a Threshold.
We land the Lantern Rays in a clearing several hundred yards from the ruins, not wanting to announce our presence too obviously.
"Rember," I address the group as we dismount. "We don’t know what we’re walking into. Stay alert. Stay together. And if things go wrong, prioritize getting the prisoners out alive."
The Royal Knights nod in unison, their discipline evident in every movent.
Klein adjusts his spectacles nervously, his scholar’s robes looking distinctly out of place among the armored warriors.
Aunt Leila checks her collection of Alchemical vials one more ti, her fingers steady despite the tension in her face.
Seth simply mumbles to himself.
In his hand is a blade which he readily grips, his gaze shining with resolve.
None of them are warriors by any ans. But they’re here anyway, driven by love and desperation.
We approach the ruins cautiously, weapons drawn, senses alert for any sign of danger.
The entrance Seth described in his vision is exactly where he said it would be—hidden among collapsed pillars, marked by symbols that would be invisible unless you knew to look for them.
I activate Existential Resonance briefly, confirming the presence of Trace Elents leading downward.
"This is it," I whisper. "Stay close."
We descend into darkness.
The passage slopes downward at a steep angle, the walls carved from stone that predates any architectural style I recognize. The symbols etched into the rock pulse with faint luminescence—not enough to see by, but enough to create an eerie, otherworldly atmosphere.
After what feels like an eternity of descent, we hear it.
Chanting.
Low, rhythmic, in a language that makes my skin crawl just hearing it.
I signal for everyone to stop, then edge forward carefully until I can see into the chamber beyond.
It’s massive—a cathedral-sized space supported by pillars so large it would take ten n to encircle one. Underground streams flow between the pillars, their water black as ink in the dim torchlight.
And at the center, arranged in concentric circles, are hundreds of robed figures.
—The Enlightened Witnesses of Truth.
Their ceremony has already begun.
"We need to blend in," I whisper, pulling back to address the group. "Royal Knights, remove your armor. Everyone, we need robes."
It takes precious minutes, but we manage to scavenge enough loose fabric and concealing cloaks to approximate the cultists’ appearance. The disguises won’t hold up to close inspection, but in the darkness and chaos of the ceremony, they might buy us ti.
We slip into the chamber, joining the outer rings of worshippers.
The chanting continues, building in intensity.
At the center of the circles stands an altar—and beyond it, a doorway that seems to lead nowhere. The air around the doorway ripples and distorts, like heat waves rising from sun-baked stone.
—The Threshold.
A figure in more elaborate robes—presumably a high priest—raises their hands, and the chanting stops abruptly.
"Brothers and sisters of Truth!" the priest’s voice echoes through the chamber. "The hour of Enlightennt is upon us! Through sacrifice, we shall ascend! Through consumption, we shall beco as gods!"
The cultists roar their approval.
"Bring forth the offerings!"
My blood runs cold as I watch robed figures erge from a side passage, leading a line of people.
The prisoners.
They move like sleepwalkers—eyes open but unfocused, bodies compliant but clearly not in control of themselves.
’Drugged,’ I realize. ’They’ve been given sothing to make them docile.’
I scan the faces desperately.
There—in the middle of the line—
Seraphina.
She’s thinner than I rember, her skin pale, her beautiful features drawn with exhaustion.
But it’s unmistakably her.
And beside her, the Bishop. The man who ntored Seth, now reduced to a shambling, drugged victim.
Behind , I feel Klein’s body go rigid.
"Seraphina," he breathes, and I know imdiately he’s about to do sothing foolish.
"Klein, wait—" I hiss, but it’s too late.
"SERAPHINA!" Klein screams, lurching forward, his scholar’s composure completely shattered.
Every head in the chamber turns toward us.
For one frozen mont, nobody moves.
Then chaos erupts.
"INTRUDERS!" the high priest shrieks. "Kill them! Protect the ceremony!"
Cultists surge toward us from all directions.
The disguises are worthless now—our only option is to fight.
"ROYAL KNIGHTS, ENGAGE!" I roar, drawing my blade.
The Knights throw off their concealing robes, revealing their armor and weapons.
They form a protective circle around Klein, Aunt Leila, and Seth—the non-combatants who shouldn’t be here but are anyway.
I activate Frontflow, the world slowing as my perception accelerates.
Cultists move like they’re wading through water while I flow between them, my blade finding gaps in their defenses.
These aren’t the low-ranking mbers we fought before. These are the true believers, the higher initiates. They have real training, powerful Armants, and even high-tier Potions coursing through their systems.
But they’re still no match for the Royal Knights.
CLANG!
Steel clashes against steel.
Armants release their powers—blades that cut through multiple opponents, shields that deflect mystical attacks, spears that pierce through defensive enchantnts.
Aunt Leila throws vials that explode into choking clouds of paralytic gas.
Seth’s Armant flares with intense light, causing cultists to recoil in pain.
And Klein—gentle, scholarly Klein—fights with desperate ferocity, a borrowed sword in his hands, cutting down anyone between him and his wife.
"SERAPHINA!" he screams again, pushing toward the altar.
I fight my way to his side, clearing a path through the cultists. Around us, the Royal Knights execute their duties with lethal efficiency.
Bodies fall.
Blood pools on the ancient stone.
The ceremony descends into complete chaos.
In the confusion, our group gets separated. Knights scatter to engage different clusters of enemies.
I lose sight of Aunt Leila as she disappears down a side passage, presumably chasing after the cultists who fled with the remaining prisoners.
’There are Royal Knights around and their priority is to protect the civilians. She should be fine...’
I take my gaze away from her and take in the chaotic atmosphere around .
Seth fights to reach the Bishop, with brilliant light blazing from his hands. Klein finally reaches Seraphina, catching her as she stumbles, her drugged state making her unable to recognize him.
"It’s ," Klein sobs, cradling her face. "It’s , Seraphina. You’re safe now."
I provide cover, my blade singing as it cuts down cultists trying to reclaim their sacrifice.
The battle doesn’t last long.
For all their fanaticism, the cultists simply aren’t prepared for a coordinated assault by trained warriors. Within minutes, most are dead or fleeing into the darkness.
I do a quick headcount.
Klein—safe, holding Seraphina.
Seth—safe, kneeling beside the unconscious Bishop.
The Royal Knights—mostly uninjured, securing the prisoners.
But—
"Where’s Aunt Leila?" I demand, scanning the chamber.
One of the Knights points to a passage. "She went that way, Lord Javier. Said sothing about finding her husband among the second batch of sacrifices."
Sigh...
Of course she did.
’All the cultists were gathered for the Grand Ceremony, so there’s no chance of any of them ambushing her. But I have to account for hidden traps... just in case.’
"Thoroughly investigate this place once you are done securing the prisoners and kidnapped victims. I’ll be going on ahead to find my Aunt." I tell them with a loud sigh.
WHOOSH!!!
I sprint down the passage, Frontflow now active. I make sure to focus my gaze on every single detail around , my senses straining for any sign of her.
The passage opens into another chamber—smaller, cruder, clearly a holding area for prisoners not yet brought to the main ceremony.
And there, in the dim torchlight, I see her.
Aunt Leila stands in the center of the chamber, her arms wrapped around a man.
Lord Dracus Krawford.
He’s in poor condition, appearing gaunt and exhausted. His fine clothes have been reduced to rags, but he is still alive.
"Leila..." He whispers as he holds her with what appears to be equal desperation, his face buried in her shoulder, his body shaking.
"... You really ca."
Aunt Leila says nothing. She just holds him, tears streaming down her face, all her brilliant deanor completely abandoned.
I stand at the entrance, not wanting to intrude on the mont.
A smile forms on my face for a mont.
We did it.
Against impossible odds, we actually did it.
’I wonder where the others are...’ I take a step forward, into the room, when I suddenly feel sothing off.
Terrible!
Completely overpowering!
’What’s happening?’ My body shudders as these strange emotions assail .
I can’t explain it, but...
... Sothing feels wrong!
"A-ahh..." I nearly choke on my own breath.
It’s so strong.
This oppressive sensation simply won’t leave .
Why?
What’s going on?
Why am I the only one who can feel this?
It won’t go!
The feeling keeps hitting like a physical blow—an instinctive warning that screams danger despite the seemingly heartwarming scene before .
Before realizing anything, I activate Existential Resonance.
The world around transforms.
That is when I see it.
’No...!’
The man holding Aunt Leila isn’t just a man.
His Existence burns with intensity that shouldn’t be possible for a kidnapping victim.
It is far too defined for a human.
No...
... He’s a Leviathan.
Not Rank 1.
The density of his Existence far exceeds mine, even with my partial advancent toward Rank 2.
Not Rank 2 either.
I can feel the qualitative difference, the vast gulf between us.
He is at least Rank 3.
—An Adept.
The man—Dracus Krawford—turns his head slightly, and our eyes et.
His expression is cold.
Completely deadpan.
And in that cold, silent gaze, I see recognition.
He can see !
My Existence... everything!
But there’s also sothing else.
Dissatisfaction.
A kind of mild annoyance plays on his rather peculiar face.
He looks slightly different from what I rember in the pictures burned in my mories
His features are handso, distinguished.
Perhaps I didn’t notice it in the pictures before, but this man is really tall. And perhaps it is due to his ti being captured here, but he has a rather scrawny physique.
He also has a deadpan face, eerie black eyes, and a monocle.
As I blink, I notice sothing rather drastic. His ragged attire has completely changed into a deep gray trench coat, and resting atop his head is a fedora.
Aunt Leila doesn’t seem to have noticed.
But I see it clearly.
The transition is so smooth—as though a fra in the world was replaced by this figure.
This... this is...!
His gentle, yet condescending eyes crinkle at the corners. This man, he has a gentle face that belongs to a beloved husband and respected noble.
But there is sothing off-putting about it.
I rember now!
In Zarius’s journal... There are entries about a certain Leviathan.
In the descriptions of that mysterious Leaper, the current appearance of Lord Krawford perfectly fits.
’Could it be—?!’
So they were the sa, after all.
The sa man who’s been orchestrating the kidnappings. Who emptied the vault before I could examine it. Who erased weeks of investigation by jumping back and preventing it from happening.
The ssenger of God that the cultists worship.
All of this... was Aunt Leila’s husband.
—Lord Dracus Krawford.
He’s the one who has been behind everything from the very beginning!
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