Temple of the Demon Lord of Wishes

Ivaim gazed at the ruined altar, its stone surface cracked and strewn with dust. Unlit candles lay scattered across the floor, some broken, their wax trails marking where they'd fallen.

Nearby, Moris, a brown-furred cat, lay unconscious. Ivaim let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

'One of the reasons I keep getting attacked,' he mused bitterly, 'is probably because I'm not seen as an legitimate or orthodox Reality Master yet. To most people, that makes me a fair game... an easy target for anyone looking to hunt down the unknown.'

'Even without the system reminding me that I'm on the verge of self-destruction, I'm still in serious danger,' he thought grimly, eyes narrowing at the notification.

'All because I don't have enough believers.'

The thought was both frustrating and exhausting. His gaze flicked to the faintly glowing notification hovering in his peripheral vision.

[Threshold Items]

[Internal: 3/3]

[External: 2/3]

His mind turned to the Ruiner who had attacked him. The memory was still fresh, with her relentless approach, the way she ignored his words like they were meaningless.

'Did she find me through an internal Threshold item? Or was it an external one?' He frowned.

'If it was internal, that explains her eagerness to hunt me down without hesitation. That kind of direct aggression usually means she was sent by someone with authority over her.'

He ticked off the few people he knew who held his internal Threshold items.

'Kalisto, Reves, and Arkan… Arkan, who serves the Black Veil Master.'

A name rose in his thoughts.

'So, she was most likely sent by the Black Veil Master to eliminate me. But why send a Ruiner instead of a Walker?'

The question lingered, unsettling him. Then, a possibility struck him, sharp as a blade.

'Could it be because the last time she sent a Walker—Arkan—he failed? Forced to retreat after losing to my tasks? If that's the case, it makes sense she'd ally with a Ruiner this time.'

'Someone who can bypass a Reality Master's tasks and objectives entirely. How cunning.'

The word left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Shaking his head, Ivaim crouched beside Moris, carefully lifting the unconscious cat. He carried him to a soft patch of ground near the altar, laying him down gently.

A new notification appeared in the corner of his vision.

[Temple is repairing]

Of course, the attack had damaged more than just the altar. His entire Fractured Reality was slowly mending itself.

'But I can't rule out the possibility that she found me through an external Threshold item,' he thought, his mind racing.@@novelbin@@

'And perhaps Ruiners are just naturally hostile towards Reality Masters. That's just how they operate.'

He considered the difference between Walkers and Ruiners.

'Walkers are bound by a Reality Master's tasks and objectives, no matter how high their rank is. But Ruiners…' He frowned, the realization settling over him like a shadow.

'Ruiners can interfere with a Fractured Reality as long as their rank is higher than the Reality Master's. They don't play by the same rules.'

Ivaim's eyes narrowed, a flicker of determination igniting in their depths.

Enough was enough. After enduring countless attacks, he was done staying on the defensive. The thought of revenge stirred within him—a cold, calculated resolve.

It was time to find a weapon, something powerful enough to tip the scales in his favor. For once, he wouldn't just survive. He would strike back.

...

The mutated Lyria, recently forced back into the real world, froze for a moment, its warped mind struggling to comprehend its surroundings.

Its blade-like body, jagged and menacing, quivered with barely contained rage as its gaze fixed on the figures ahead.

Standing before it were Arkan and two other Walkers.

The creature's sanity, long eroded, left no room for recognition of its former allies. Instead, it saw only threats.

With a guttural screech, it propelled its heavy yet unnervingly swift form toward them, blades gleaming with lethal intent.

As it neared, a dark, guttural giggle erupted from its throat.

Activating [Pain Infliction], the mutated Lyria unleashed a wave of torment that rippled across the area, seeking to incapacitate its prey.

The Walkers staggered momentarily, but before the creature's blades could reach them, a thin, shimmering curtain of night surrounded its form.

The mutated Lyria faltered, its movements halting as confusion clouded its fragmented mind.

Then, a sudden, overwhelming dread gripped it. A deadly presence pressed down on its very core, triggering its primal instinct to flee.

It twisted violently, trying to escape, but its limbs locked in place. A starry black void filled its vision, swallowing its consciousness.

The creature's grotesque form slumped to the ground, as though cradled into a deep slumber by the very night itself.

A voice, ancient and feminine, broke the tense silence.

"Hm... For a Reality Master at the Memory Level, he is surprisingly capable," the voice observed, smooth yet laced with authority.

From the shadows emerged a figure draped in flowing robes, woven with the essence of a starry night. Every inch of her was hidden, the cloak erasing any discernible features, leaving only the impression of power and mystery.

The Black Veil Master.

"Hand me his Threshold Item," she commanded, her voice calm but brooking no argument.

"I will deal with that so-called Spirit with Good Luck myself, before he becomes a genuine thorn in our plans."

Her tone carried the weight of experience. This was no idle precaution.

She had seen too many insignificant figures rise to become insurmountable threats. In a world where power was the ultimate currency, she knew better than to underestimate anyone.

Arkan nodded without hesitation. He bent over the mutated Lyria, whose grotesque form had begun to dissolve into a pool of faint, otherworldly mist.

From the remains, he retrieved a silver coin—a Threshold Item.

As he straightened and turned to approach the Black Veil Master, a pained grunt shattered the silence.

The Walkers turned sharply, their eyes narrowing as a battered figure stumbled into view.

The man was a wreck, his tattered clothes clinging to a body marred with deep wounds. Blood dripped from his arms and legs, and a jagged piece of metal protruded grotesquely from his abdomen. He leaned heavily against the wall, struggling to stay upright.

"M-Master..." he gasped, his voice weak and trembling.

"The Tenth Throne Holder… the Guardian of Conviction… one of his Walkers ambushed us… they took one of your Threshold Items."

The Black Veil Master was silent, her veiled face unreadable. Slowly, her gaze shifted to the silver coin in Arkan's hand.

"Truly..." she murmured, her voice carrying a faint trace of irony, "a Spirit with Good Luck."

Her words lingered in the air like a prophecy. Then, her tone hardened, sharp and commanding.

"Call back all the others. Return to the Sanctum of Falsehood. I have no doubt the Guardian of Conviction will send more of his Walkers to come after me. Prepare for retaliation."

The Walkers bowed deeply as the Black Veil Master's form dissolved into the shadows, her presence vanishing as though she had never been there.

Arkan and the others remained silent, their postures rigid with deference. Slowly, they straightened, exchanging grim looks before dispersing to carry out her orders.

The starry night above seemed to darken, as if the world itself braced for the chaos yet to come.