With every heartbeat, the mist thickened, curling like the smoke of a dying pyre.
Samuel's throat tightened. His voice came out low, grim.
"Moon Slash."
The blade answered.
A faint crescent of abyssal energy flickered into existence… soared about five feet… and then pathetically fizzled out mid-air like a drunk moth flying into a lantern.
Silence.
He blinked. "…Huh."
Lyra raised an eyebrow, deadpan. "Was that an attack or a cry for help?"
Samuel turned slowly. "That was a warning shot."
"To who? Yourself?"
He sighed, staring at the sword like it owed him rent.
Lyra stepped closer, voice dry. "You need to pour more abyssal energy into it. That spell isn't just a party trick—it's a test of control."
"Control," Samuel echoed. "Right."
"Black Robes like us? We don't get the luxury of brute force," she continued.
"Small reserves. Tight margins. So we learn to make every drop count. Efficient. Precise."
Samuel sighed, dragging his sword's tip across the dirt like a weary traveler pulling a dead horse.
The training with Lyra was… productive, in the same way being smacked with a cold fish was technically an educational experience.
He hadn't landed a proper Moon Slash, his reserves were pathetic, and now the sun was dipping low, casting long, ominous shadows across,
Perfect time to do something stupid.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Wait…" he muttered, "That spell Aurion traded. I never checked it."
Because naturally, when a half-dead golden boy with a royal grin and murder in his aura offers you a spell after nearly blowing up the entire camp, you say "thank you" and don't question the fine print.
Samuel closed his eyes, pulling his focus inward.
Voice of the Void
[Skyrend Wings–
Conjures a pair of unstable abyssal wings from raw void energy. Enables short bursts of flight. Highly volatile. Zero control. Zero brakes. Zero survival guarantee.
You were never meant to fly. But hey… defy nature. See what happens.]
Samuel stared at the floating script.
"…This feels less like a spell and more like a dare," he muttered.
Still. He was curious. And tired. And a little dead inside.
Perfect state of mind for testing volatile abyssal flight magic.
He stepped away, glanced at Lyra—who was now lounging by a rock with her eyes closed—and whispered under his breath:
"Skyrend Wings."
The effect was immediate. A blast of pressure tore outward, wind whipping through the trees like a hurricane.
From his back erupted two massive jagged wings—like shattered glass glued together by shadow and spite. They shimmered in hues that hurt to look at, somehow flapping and not flapping at the same time.
"Oh. That's new."
Then—without warning—Samuel shot up into the sky like a firework that changed its mind halfway through launch.
"WHAT THE FU—"
He rocketed above the treetops, arms flailing, eyes wide with existential regret.
The wings did not flap. They howled.
Steering? Nonexistent.
Direction? Vague suggestion.
Elegance? Somewhere between a drunk pigeon and a cursed umbrella.
Down below, Lyra slowly opened one eye, watching Samuel pinball through branches and nearly decapitate a passing bird mid-air.
"…Idiot," she muttered, with surprising fondness.
Samuel was now doing loop-de-loops he hadn't asked for, spiraling uncontrollably like a comet having a nervous breakdown.
"WHO BUILDS WINGS WITH NO BRAKES?!"
And then—mercifully—the spell ended.
The wings evaporated.
Samuel had just enough time to look down, whisper, "I regret everything," and then crash-land into a bush with all the grace of a potato hurled from a catapult.
Leaves exploded. A squirrel screamed. The world went silent.
Lyra strolled over, peered into the wreckage of greenery and broken dignity.
"You good?"
A muffled voice came from the bush.
"Define 'good' without using words like 'conscious,' 'upright,' or 'uninjured.'"
She snorted. "So, no then."
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting long shadows over the clearing, Samuel didn't stop.
Slash after slash, crescent after failing crescent, he poured everything into Moon Slash. His arms trembled. His legs burned.
Occasionally—because some part of him still believed in miracles—he hurled himself into the air with Skyrend Wings, only to crash into bushes, rocks, or once, tragically, a squirrel nest.
Each attempt was more of a nosedive than flight. He learned exactly three things from the experience:
1) Trees are less forgiving than clouds.
2) Pain builds character.
3) Squirrels hold grudges.
Eventually, he collapsed to one knee, lungs on fire, his abyssal reserves scraping bottom.
But then—Lyra.
She didn't say anything. Just stepped forward and placed a hand on his back. A quiet surge of energy pulsed through him, her abyssal energy flowing into his aperture with a warmth that was almost shocking. He blinked, startled, but she was already looking away—pretending she hadn't just saved his training from ending in a faceplant.
So he pushed on. Again and again, until his robes were soaked—not from the water like the others—but from sweat. Grit. Relentless will.
Then, just as the others were packing up, preparing to move on,
Samuel raised his sword one final time.
He didn't hesitate.
He focused—on the blade, on the energy in his aperture, on the growing familiarity with that strange rhythm between breath and control.
"Moon Slash."
The crescent arced forward—not a sputtering flicker, but a slicing, howling cut of abyssal force.
The nearby boulder didn't resist. It shattered with a thundercrack.
Everyone turned.
Samuel was breathing hard. Grinning harder.
He still couldn't fly straight, and Skyrend Wings had turned him into a very emotional bird-shaped projectile, but now… now he could feel it.
The current. The connection. He could strengthen his sword, reinforce his body.
Even Lyra raised an eyebrow. Impressed.
He didn't say anything.
But damn, it felt good to finally break something on purpose.
***
The sun had long dipped behind the trees by the time they reached it.
The forest thinned out, as if nature itself had no interest in growing too close. The ground changed—dirt giving way to blackened stone, veins of glowing crimson etched in jagged patterns beneath their boots, pulsing like a slumbering heart.
Then they saw it.
The Cathedral.
It rose from the earth like a scar across the sky.
No spires, no bells, no stained glass.
Just obsidian walls—towering, jagged, unnatural. A monolith of sorrow and silence. Its surface wasn't smooth stone, but layered with petrified carvings of screaming faces, their mouths forever open in silent agony. Some looked human. Others… decidedly not.
Above the warped gates, an inscription shimmered faintly in abyssal runes, as though written in starlight soaked in oil. It pulsed when they drew near. Like it had noticed them.
Samuel stopped walking.
His breath hitched.
That feeling in his gut—the one that had been gnawing at him since they began this march—twisted like a knife. His skin crawled.
He didn't know what it meant.
Didn't know what waited behind those doors.
But he was certain of one thing.
He was going to regret this for the rest of his life.
Assuming he still had one after today.
He had the [Skyrend Wings] spell now. That made him valuable.
Which meant Aurion would never let him walk away.
Not after all this.
Not with the key to whatever lay inside that cursed cathedral.
And finding another one? In this cursed, sprawling realm, with time bleeding out like a slit throat?
Impossible.
So he stood there, anchored in dread.
Then, Lyra's voice—soft, almost hesitant—cut through the noise in his head.
"…You good?"
Samuel blinked. She was looking at him, really looking this time. Not with that usual cold mask of calculation, but concern. Real, unguarded concern. Maybe for the first time.
He swallowed hard. Managed a nod.
"Yeah," he lied. "Peachy."
Before she could press further, Aurion turned.
Like a stage actor sensing his moment, he faced the group. His battered robe still carried bloodstains, but his posture was tall.
Regal. Dangerous.
His golden eyes scanned them, lingering a moment too long on Samuel.
Then he smiled.
That damned, princely smile.
"Look alive," Aurion said, voice smooth and commanding.
"You've survived beasts, betrayal, and bloodshed. You've clawed your way through the Umbral Threshold, carrying scars most cultivators never earn in their lifetimes."
He spread his arms, gesturing to the towering cathedral behind him.
"And now you stand before the door of truth. Salvation… or damnation. Both lie beyond."
A beat.
He turned serious.
"This realm was not made to be kind. It doesn't reward the weak. It devours them. And yet here you are."
His hand clenched into a fist.
"You've earned the right to knock."
The group was silent. Not out of awe, not entirely. But because they knew—behind that obsidian gate, something waited. Something that didn't care about rights or speeches.
Samuel glanced at the cathedral again.
Still felt the warning screaming in his bones.
Still knew he had no choice but to go forward.
And still…
He hated how convincing Aurion sounded.
They soon reached the closed gates, and Samuel's gaze was drawn to a massive nest nearby—twisted branches and scorched feathers piled high.
It had to be the Thunderbird's nest.
He thought, 'So Aurion really did spawn here…'
'Is it true the Thunderbird and Ravoc are guardians? '
The thought pressed in his mind.
'But why did Aurion spawn so close to this cathedral?Are all golden disciples are summoned near cathedral?'
'Is the temple manipulating our spawn locations?'
Soon, they reached the towering door—its surface ancient, etched with deep, unsettling runes that seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light.
Aurion stepped forward, his voice low and steady, breaking the heavy silence.
"This is where Ravoc's spell comes in."
He raised his hand, fingertips glowing with a swirling crimson light—the raw, surging essence of [TitanBlood]. The abyssal energy crackled, dark and alive, as it spilled from him like a storm unleashed.
With a grinding groan that echoed through the still air, the massive door began to shift. Slowly, agonizingly, it pushed open—revealing the unknown depths beyond.
A chill swept over the group, the weight of the darkness pressing in. Samuel's breath caught.
This was only the beginning.