"I am a part of this now," Mizuki whispered to the empty room.

  The words felt heavier than the bat she carried. Heavier than the Iron Skin of a Ferrum warrior. She hadn't just sent a letter; she had sent a lie. To her father. To the Council.

  By omitting the truth… she had, in Francis’ eyes, nailed her own name beside Noll’s on the heretic’s pillar.

  She waited for the guilt, for the panic to constrict her throat again.

  It didn't come. Instead, a profound, leaden exhaustion settled over her—the kind that sinks into the marrow.

  She didn't even have the energy to climb back into bed. She just pulled her knees to her chest, resting her forehead against them, and let the silence of the outpost swallow her whole.

  The sleep that followed wasn’t a choice, but a collapse. The adrenaline that had been holding the tide finally broke, and the darkness rushed in.

  No dream. Just a heavy, airless dark that didn’t even bother pretending to be a nightmare.

  When consciousness finally clawed its way back, it brought pain.

  Mizuki groaned, peeling her eyes open. The floor was hard against her cheek. Her neck was stiff, locked in a painful angle from sleeping against the wall. The light in the room was wrong—too bright, too sharp around the edges of objects. Just a candle, but it stabbed like noon.

  She tried to stand up, but the room spun. A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach, and her head felt like someone had packed it with wet cotton.

  This wasn’t just stress. She knew the burn of overtraining, the hollow ache after battle. This was… off. Tilted. Artificial.

  Her tongue felt thick. Her limbs lagged a half-second behind her thoughts—like in the cave, after the fire and the food, when darkness hadn’t crept up on her so much as slammed the door.

  “Did he put something in that food?” she groaned, grabbing a bottle of water and splashing its contents on her face.

  The cold water didn't wash away the exhaustion, but it sharpened the edges of the world. Mizuki stared at her reflection in the metal basin—pale, disheveled, eyes haunted.

  It didn’t matter. The nausea, the cotton in her head—those were just symptoms. The real sickness was the lie she’d just fed to the Council.

  "I am a part of this now," she repeated, testing the words.

  She had protected him. She had protected the heresy, the dark science, the Nexus-Blade. She had bought Noll time and safety with the currency of her family name.

  Why?

  Because he saved us? Because he feeds orphans? Or because of what she saw in that cave—a power that terrified her as much as it compelled her?

  She needed to know. She couldn't live with this lie if she didn't understand exactly what she was protecting.

  She grabbed her bat—not to fight, but because the weight of the steel in her hand was the only thing that felt real—and walked out the door.

  The hallway was quiet, but she could hear it. A low, vibrating hum traveling through the floorboards. It wasn't the ambient noise of the outpost; it was the heartbeat of something deeper.

  She followed it. Down the stairs. Past the empty kitchen. Toward the heavy, reinforced door at the end of the lower corridor—Noll’s room.

  The air grew warmer as she approached. The smell of lavender and old wood faded, replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of scorched air, hot copper, and stale grease.

  Mizuki didn't knock. She didn't ask for permission. She braced for the pink barrier to shove her back again.

  It swung inward without resistance.

  "Noll," she said, her voice raspy but firm. "We need to talk."

  Silence answered her.

  The room was empty. Neat. Sterile. A bed made with military precision. A desk with nothing on it but a lamp.

  But the heavy box of parts she had dragged in yesterday—the one she had left on the large, scorched X—was gone.

  Mizuki stepped inside, her eyes narrowing. He wasn't here. But the hum was louder now, vibrating up through the soles of her boots.

  She scanned the room, looking for a clue, for a sign of where the "real" Noll went when the performance was over. Her gaze landed on the large bookshelf covering the back wall.

  It was packed with books. Not the pristine, white-leather scrolls of the Council Archives. These were colorful, bound tomes, their spines uniform and stiff. She walked over, tilting her head to read the gold-leaf titles.

  Fong, the Deity of the Forge. Percival, the Apocalypse Knight. Francis, the Voice of God. Carolus, the World’s Quill. Hippocrates, the First to Heal. Ferrum, the Man of Steel. Kris, the Crystal Sage. Karyu, the Flame of Ruin. Yumaki, the Sovereign of Beasts. Vane, the Sovereign of the Shores.

  She paused, her grip on the bat softening.

  "He... has the Histories?" she whispered.

  A strange feeling settled in her chest. She expected blueprints for abominations. Instead, he had the legends of the Great Clans.

  But something was off.

  Her eyes landed on the book bearing her family name: Yumaki, the Sovereign of Beasts.

  The cover art was... vibrant. It depicted a man in a loincloth wrestling a giant wolf, his muscles exaggerated, the lighting dramatic and sensational. It looked less like a historical record and more like the cheap adventure tales bards sold in the Lower Ring. And right next to it was Vane, the Sovereign of the Shores.

  They looked like a set.

  And on the spine of the Yumaki book, right below the title, was a small, embossed number: I.

  Strange, she thought, tracing the smooth vellum. I’ve never seen these editions in the capital. The lettering is so uniform... so perfect. And why does the Sovereign look like a barbarian?

  She scoffed. Of course. He probably bought cheap dramatizations to mock us. Or maybe he just likes the pictures.

  Still, he had them. He kept them safe in his private sanctuary.

  "At least you know the names," she murmured.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  She looked back at the scorched X on the floor. It was empty. There were no visible doors. No trapdoors.

  "So where are you?"

  She looked back at the library. In the stories Genichiro used to read to her—like Rune Delta—the hidden passage was always in the library. It was a cliché. A trope for children’s fiction.

  Hide it in the most obvious place, she thought. Because no one will look there.

  It was stupid. It was too simple for a genius like Noll.

  "If you're really a fan of the classics, Noll..."

  She grabbed the top of the Yumaki book—Volume One—and pulled.

  Click.

  A heavy, mechanical thunk echoed from deep within the wall.

  Mizuki blinked, stepping back. "You have got to be kidding me."

  The entire bookshelf shuddered. It didn't swing out like a door; it sank. The wooden structure lowered smoothly into the floor with a low hiss of releasing steam.

  Warm, humming air breathed up from the gap, revealing a dark, spiraling iron staircase corkscrewing into the earth.

  Mizuki didn't hesitate. She gripped her bat and stepped across the threshold, descending into the throat of the outpost.

  The atmosphere changed the moment her boot hit the first step.

  The heat wasn't just strong; it was physical. The air rippled and shimmered, blurring the darkness below. Sweat pricked her skin instantly, soaking her tunic beneath the armor.

  Instinct took over. She called upon the cold, wrapping a thin layer of frost around her skin to shield herself from the burn.

  She reached out to steady herself against the railing.

  HISS.

  She snatched her hand back. The frost on her hand hadn't just melted; it had evaporated instantly. The iron was searing hot.

  “How does he live here?” she whispered to the oppressive dark. Her heart hammered against her ribs, racing to match the deep, rhythmic thrum rising from the pit. “If it does this to me, how can someone so fragile live here?”

  She took another step. Then another.

  But the frost armor was failing.

  Water dripped from her brow as the ice turned to steam before it could even settle on her skin. Each breath scraped her throat, dry and burning, like inhaling smoke. The heat down here wasn't natural. It was hungry.

  The air… it’s too dense, she thought, her vision swimming. I can hardly conjure the frost.

  Her knees trembled, fighting the urge to buckle under the atmospheric weight. One misstep and she’d tumble all the way down into whatever was roaring at the bottom of this furnace.

  This is bad. If I stay, I’ll get cooked. If I turn back, I stay blind.

  Mizuki poured everything into the cold, forcing it into a denser shell of ice around her—thicker, harder, more like armor than skin.

  I will not leave until I see what you are, Noll. The vow burned silent in her chest as she marched down.

  Each step she took was a battle.

  Hiss. The heat chewed through her frost armor. Crack. She forced her magic to rebuild it instantly.

  It was a violent cycle of melting and freezing, a rhythm of steam and mana that drained her with every second. By the time she reached the landing, her breath was ragged, scraping against a throat dried raw by the furnace air below.

  She stopped in front of a heavy iron door. The temperature here was slightly cooler—breathable, at least—though the staircase continued to spiral down into a deeper, redder dark.

  Mizuki leaned against the wall, taking a moment to steady her shaking hands.

  I’m here.

  Her hand hovered over the heavy iron latch. It was warm to the touch. She gripped it, shoved the mechanism down, and pushed.

  The door groaned open.

  Before she could even register the room, a shadow blurred through the air.

  Something was flying at her face. Fast.

  Instinct took over. Mizuki didn't think; she reacted. She dropped into a stance, throwing her hands up to catch the projectile, bracing her muscles for the impact of a heavy weapon.

  Smack.

  Her hands closed around it—but she stumbled backward, nearly losing her footing.

  There was no weight.

  She had exerted enough force to stop a warhammer, but the object in her hands felt hollow. Fragile. Like the shell of a crab rather than a piece of armor.

  She looked down, her breath hitching.

  It was the left arm. The prosthetic Nexus-Blade.

  She recognized the strange, dark metal from the cave. She remembered the revulsion she had felt touching it then—and the surprise of how light it was. But something else struck her now.

  No shockwave.

  She stared at the metal fingers gripping her glove.

  A Nexus-Blade rejects anyone but its master. It should be blasting me across the room.

  Since I’m not getting shocked… the soul inside doesn’t mind me holding it?

  She looked up.

  The room was a workshop, cluttered with tools and scraps of metal, lit by the angry glow of a furnace.

  Noll stood in the center.

  He was stripped to his waist, his body terrifyingly thin, ribs pressing against pale skin like the bars of a cage. He was leaning heavily on his good leg, his chest heaving, his right hand still extended in the follow-through of a violent throw.

  For a second—just one heartbeat—his face was twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. He looked at the arm in her hands as if it were a parasite he had just ripped from his own flesh.

  Then, the shutter slammed down.

  The rage vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, dead calm. His eyes remained locked on the prosthetic, but the emotion was gone. It was like watching a candle be snuffed out in a vacuum.

  Mizuki felt a hot flush of indignation rise in her chest, overpowering the heat of the room. She squeezed the hollow metal in her hands.

  He threw it.

  The realization made her dizzy. This was a Nexus-Blade. A sacred vessel housing a spirit. Warriors spent lifetimes bleeding, praying, and training just for the chance to touch one.

  And he just throws it against the wall like garbage?

  "How dare you..." she whispered, the words trembling with fury.

  “Return it.” Noll barked the order, his voice raw. He didn’t even acknowledge how she got in, or the ice armor melting off her. His eyes were fixed on the metal shell in her grip.

  Mizuki held the prosthetic tighter, her knuckles white. The heat of the room was suffocating, but her indignation burned hotter.

  “Not if you are going to disrespect your Nexus-Blade like that.” She raised her bat with her free hand, pointing the steel tip at his chest. “I have a few questio—”

  CRACK.

  “AHH!”

  Pink lightning exploded from the prosthetic, crawling up her arm like a nest of vipers. The pain was absolute—a nerve-shredding agony. It wasn't just electricity; it was a command. Let go.

  Her fingers spasmed, obeying the Nexus-Blade’s will against her own. She dropped the arm.

  The lightning vanished instantly.

  Breathing hard, clutching her numb hand, she looked up at Noll.

  He wasn’t grateful. He was looking at her with pure, unbridled disgust. As if she were a child playing with a loaded cannon.

  He stepped forward, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone, and snatched the prosthetic from the floor with his right hand.

  “You are protecting a thing, rather than a human,” Noll spat, the words dripping with venom. “You see a sacred thing and just assume it can’t be wrong.”

  He looked at the arm in his grip. The disgust on his face curdled into something darker. Pure, concentrated loathing.

  Then, he screamed.

  With all the strength his frail body possessed, he swung the prosthetic in a violent arc and slammed it against the stone wall.

  SLAM.

  SNAP.

  The sound was wet and sickening, like a dry branch snapping in winter.

  Noll didn't let go. He stood there, panting, pressing the metal arm against the wall. But his right arm—the human one—was twisted at a horrific angle. The elbow was bent backward. The forearm was bowed.

  He had put everything into the strike, and the recoil had shattered his own bones before it even scratched the prosthetic.

  He didn't scream in pain. He didn't cry out. He just stood there, his teeth clenched so hard his gums bled, staring at the undamaged metal arm with eyes that held no pain—just raw, unending hatred.

  Yet he didn’t stop.

  He lifted his leg and kicked the Nexus-Blade, his bare foot slamming into the unforgiving metal.

  Thud.

  The prosthetic skittered a few inches across the stone, scraping against the grit with a harsh screech. It remained pristine. Shiny. Mocking.

  Thud.

  He kicked it again. He stumbled after it, dragging his good leg, his broken right arm dangling uselessly at his side like a pendulum of dead meat. He was gasping, blood flecking his lips, his eyes wide and unseeing.

  Thud.

  Something in his foot cracked. A dry, small sound against the heavy silence of the room. He didn't care. He drew his leg back for another strike, his body trembling so violently he looked like he was about to collapse into dust.

  “Stop it!”

  Mizuki moved before she realized it. She dropped her bat and rushed forward, grabbing him by his good shoulder.

  He felt fragile under her grip. Hot. Feverish.

  “Let me go!” Noll wheezed, thrashing against her. But there was no strength in it. He was a bird caught in a storm. “It... it won’t break! Why won’t it break?!”

  “Because it’s a Nexus-Blade, you idiot!” Mizuki shouted, shaking him. “And you can’t break it! Look at yourself!”

  She seized his shoulders and turned him, forcing him to look at his own right arm.

  It was swelling rapidly, turning a deep, angry purple. The bone pressed against the skin, threatening to tear through.

  “You broke it,” she hissed, her voice trembling. “You broke your own arm trying to break something that you can’t.”

  Noll stared at his arm. He blinked, the red haze in his eyes slowly clearing, replaced by that familiar, hollow exhaustion.

  He let out a long, shaky breath that sounded like a death rattle.

  “Inefficient,” he whispered.

  He didn't pick it up. He knelt. The prosthetic dragged itself the final inch, latching onto his stump with a hungry click.

  From the palm of his Nexus-Blade, a small needle slid out. Noll injected it into his right arm.

  The needle slid in. There was a wet, shifting sound as muscle and bone forcibly realigned. The purple swelling vanished, sucked away by the serum, leaving the arm pale and whole again.