Alone.

  Buried in a hollow room deep beneath the Wastelands — a chamber carved into the stone with a stone door and only a faint torch with no warmth — Whitehall sat cross-legged in the dark.

  Madra flowed. Slowly. Reluctantly. As if even it knew this moment wasn't about cycling.

  His mind was spinning.

  A single name echoed louder than the madra.

  Tseria.

  The name felt alien—and yet disturbingly familiar. It stirred a deep desperation in him, tangled with a revulsion he couldn't explain, like he'd once screamed it into a burning sky.

  Her, Whitehall repeated in his mind. Why did he instinctively know Tseria was a woman?

  Her

  Whitehall repeated in his thoughts. Why did he know it was a woman? There was no proof. No memory to match the name. Just a flash of... loss . A taste of blood and stone in his mouth. A scent of salt and sea.

  Who was she?

  He didn't know. And yet it left his spirit twisted in knots.

  Whitehall's hand drifted to his stomach, brushing against the cloth. He pulled off his shirt and stared at the long, angry scar crossing his belly — jagged, darkened purple, pulsing with faint madra. Another lay across his arm. A mirror of pain.

  From his void key, he retrieved a cracked metal mirror. He looked into it.

  His reflection greeted him with a constellation of scars. His ribs were a road map of trauma. His shoulders bore marks like brands. Some were physical. Some… weren't.

  He traced his face next, slowly reverently removing the wooden mask. The mask was smoother than the skin it covered.

  He ran his fingers down the marred side of his face. The side of his face was ruined. Twisted flesh, bubbled and uneven, hissing poison into the air. He would not miss the scars, but he would miss the mask. It had made him feel invisible and invincible at times. The mask had been his shield . A gift . A way to hide.

  He set it beside him like a trusted companion. Maybe he would choose to keep wearing it. After all, it was a gift.

  He decided there was time to reflect on his scars and looks later when he was no longer missing any chunks of organs. He opened his void key and began scattering natural treasures around the room.

  Some of the Sacred Beasts wanted to witness his and Sadi's advancement. They rarely have the chance to witness the advancement of humans, and most of them are curious. The Beast King had banned it, though, citing it could be dangerous. But he did allow the Sacred Beast to use their perception on Whitehall and Sadi from outside their respective rooms.

  With the knowledge that he had the attention of hundreds of Sacred Beasts, Whitehall whispered his revelation as softly as possible.

  "I practice the Sacred Arts, so nobody else will have to."

  The Soulfire inside him began to hum. But his advancement had not yet begun . It wasn't enough.

  "I practice the Sacred Arts so those I care about wouldn't have to go to war."

  It rumbled. Hungrier now.

  "I practice the Sacred Arts so they can find peace," Whitehall tried again, a little bit louder this time.

  No. Still not enough. His teeth clenched. His body trembled.

  There was a sound rising in his spirit, a low, endless scream like a kettle left too long on the fire.

  The Soulfire demanded more.

  And so did his past.

  Whitehall gritted his teeth as he spoke. "I practice the Sacred Arts so the next generation does not have to know what it is like to kill ."

  More! The Soulfire inside him demanded as it hummed like thunder.

  Whitehall shut his eyes tighter. And when he opened them, he realised they were wet.

  He remembered when he had cried in a burning village. Another life, another war.

  He remembered the smell of charred wood and ash, and the silence of a child's body in his arms.

  He remembered the heat of a bullet tearing through his chest.

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  He remembered being ready to die.

  And waking up in a new world he never asked for.

  Whitehall raged against it. Each word that came out was laced with his frustration . With his anger . With his desperation.

  "I never asked to practice the Sacred Arts! I was never given a choice! But this world is cruel, and so I shall! I go to war so that no child needs to die needlessly! I never cared about freedom! I only wanted peace!"

  The Soulfire hummed like a volcano, ready to erupt. But not yet.

  GIVE US MORE! The Soulfire screamed inside his spirit.

  Whitehall yelled with an eruption of poison madra. "I GO TO WAR SO THAT NO ONE ELSE WILL NEED TO PICK UP A WEAPON AND FIGHT!"

  His fists slammed into the ground.

  His voice became a growl, a snarl, a storm.

  "SO NO CHILDREN WILL FIND IT NECESSARY TO PICK UP A GUN AND KILL TO SURVIVE!

  His Soulfire howled.

  "I GET MY HANDS FILTHY WITH BLOOD SO THEY WOULD NOT HAVE TO."

  His breath was poison. His blood, venom. But his voice was—

  —rampaged with life.

  "I PRACTICE THE SACRED ARTS—"

  His eyes lit with silver.

  "— TO GO TO WAR! "

  The Soulfire burst from his core like a tidal wave, tearing through the chamber. It devoured the natural treasures in an instant — a storm of silver and black — and then surged back inward, flooding his flesh , remaking his body.

  His muscles screamed. His blood seared. His body shattered and reformed in a single breath.

  And when it was done—

  He was still on his knees, gasping, trembling.

  His scars were gone, and his face was smooth. Where it had previously been poxed , three smooth lines remained , lining down from his forehead to his jaw and towards the back of his head.

  He had advanced.

  Not because he had found peace.

  But because he had accepted his rage.

  Far beneath the surface of the Wastelands, deeper than roots could reach, deeper even than sound could carry, Sadi sat alone in absolute darkness.

  It was not the kind of dark that frightened children — not shadows on the wall or the flicker of candlelight extinguished.

  This was the kind of darkness that made you question if you still existed at all.

  She had chosen this place for her advancement: a hollow chamber untouched by light or sound. But she was not afraid.

  Because light was always present.

  Sunda's remnant was a quiet presence within her Soul, not loud or overwhelming, just… there. Warm. Gentle. Constant .

  Just like light.

  Even now, in this utter black, she saw everything. The world glowed for her. Threads of madra shimmered faintly in the chamber. The natural treasures surrounding her pulsed like stars waiting for a constellation.

  Still, her spirit was unsettled.

  She was poised to advance — everything was in place — but her Soulfire would not stir. It was asleep. Or waiting.

  Waiting for the truth.

  So she closed her eyes, even though it didn't matter.

  And she looked inward.

  Why do I practice the Sacred Arts?

  The question should have been easy. She had asked herself it a thousand times while training until her bones screamed.

  Her first answer came quickly — the one she always told herself. The one she'd whispered in sleepless nights back in Sacred Valley.

  "I practice the Sacred Arts to prove I mattered," She said aloud, and the words echoed off the stone.

  Her Soulfire stirred. Once. Then fell still.

  It wasn't enough.

  It might have been the truth once. Back when she was climbing blindly, trying to catch up to her brother — always ahead, always untouchable. He had been Iron when she was Copper. Jade when she was still dreaming of reaching it. An Elder once she'd achieved it.

  She had chased him like a child chasing the moon.

  And every time she reached for him, her family reminded her just how far behind she really was.

  She had trained harder . Smiled less . She fought for scraps of recognition from people who never truly saw her.

  So yes, once, that had been her truth.

  But it wasn't anymore.

  Because she hadn't stayed in Sacred Valley.

  She had left. She had sworn oaths. She had chosen her path.

  So why?

  Why had she abandoned the one place where her name still meant anything?

  Why had she followed a disgraced Elder into the wilderness?

  Because I was scared , she thought.

  And there it was.

  The flicker.

  "I practice the Sacred Arts… because I was scared of being helpless."

  Her Soulfire stirred again. A tremor.

  But not quite.

  It wasn't helplessness she feared most.

  It was something deeper .

  Losing. Being forgotten.

  Her thoughts circled back to that moment in the ancestor's tomb, watching Yerin crush her — the Sword Sage's disciple. Elegant. Lethal. Brilliant.

  Sadi hadn't stood a chance. And worse, she'd known it the moment the fight began.

  At that moment, she hadn't just lost a duel.

  She had felt erased.

  Like she was a mistake, no one had the courage to fix.

  And that was when the darkness began whispering.

  That maybe she didn't matter.

  That maybe she was lost.

  Her eyes filled with tears she didn't bother to stop.

  "I practice the Sacred Arts…"

  Her voice shook.

  "…because I was afraid of being left behind."

  The Soulfire stirred more now. Waking. Listening.

  "Afraid of being forgotten."

  The warmth of Sunda's remnant stretched gently through her Soul — a calming pressure across her heart.

  "Afraid that when the world moved on, no one would come back for me."

  She inhaled shakily.

  And smiled.

  Because she hadn't been forgotten.

  Sunda had stayed.

  Whitehall had stayed.

  And the light — the light had never left her.

  Even when she was drowning in darkness.

  Even when she thought she was alone.

  "I practice the Sacred Arts," she whispered, her voice soft as dawn, "because I was scared of being lost in the dark."

  "But now I know…"

  Her spirit bloomed with warmth.

  "…light is always present."

  Her Soulfire ignited — not in a blaze, but a radiance. Gentle, silver, calm.

  It rose through her, not like a firestorm but like the rising sun — filling every part of her with light , chasing away the fear.

  It swept through her spirit. Rewrote her body.

  Sunda's remnant hummed in harmony — two lights in concert.

  And Sadi advanced.

  Not because she conquered the darkness.

  But because she learned to carry her own light through it.

  The Beast King sat on his wooden board, also known as his bed, as he felt his apprentices begin to advance. He had carved a silencing script in their chambers; whatever their revelation, he didn't want to know. He shouldn't know . And no one should know.

  When Bert brought them home, he felt Whitehall's spirit and was caught in two minds. On the one hand, they were peak Truegolds with void keys packed with natural treasures, and on the other hand, the Sage had done everything she could to get them killed other than slaying them herself.

  He was quite proud of the fact she had failed, and now both his students had been greatly rewarded. But he felt slightly slighted that Charity had tried anyway.

  He smirked. And she had failed without his students having to show their hands.

  There would be payback, just not anytime soon. They were the Wastelands, and they bid their time.

  Meatball, alongside her new friend, Orthos, had stopped by the Wastelands and left before Sadi and Whitehall returned. The bird had mentioned that she needed to execute her plans and would be gone for a while. Well, now it was the Beast King's turn to execute his orders.

  "Ziel," he called out.

  A few moments later, a man with green horns and dead-looking eyes knocked on the door, and the Beast King opened it with a wave.

  "Mhm?" Ziel hummed questioningly.

  "How's the scripts ?"

  Ziel shrugged. "It should be stable. Maybe not if another Dreadgod attacks."

  The Beast King nodded in satisfaction. "Good, good."

  The Herald pulled out a vial of blue-green liquid from his soulspace and tossed it to Ziel.

  "It should do your spirit more good ," The Beast King explained.

  Ziel caught the vial and looked at it with blank eyes. "I've taken a lot of it. Haven't felt much of a difference the last few times."

  "Diminishing returns", The Beast King replied. "But if your scripts are as good as you're describing them, then it won't matter."

  Ziel nodded once in response. "I probably understand why you bound me to secrecy with that soul oath now."

  "Just a precaution," The Beast King waved a hand dismissively. "Can't have anyone revealing it even by accident."

  Ziel shrugged and began to turn away.

  "Oh, by the way," The Beast King stopped him. "You're right. I think it's time I take a more hands-on approach to their paths."

  Ziel gave a long sigh. "You want me to train them," he stated.

  "Not exactly. I want you to teach them about how to discover their Overlord revelation."

  "Don't you think that might be too soon?"

  The Beast King shrugged. "Maybe, but if we're going to prepare them for Herald, better start early."

  "Herald, huh?" Ziel asked. "Don't you think that's looking a little too far?"

  "Maybe," The Beast King smirked. "But I don't think so."

  Ziel eyed the Herald questioningly.

  The Beast King's smile did not waver. "I can't tell you more since you didn't swear the oath."

  Ziel shrugged, "Fair enough.