The morning arrived slowly, dragging a dull, colorless sky behind it. The gray outside didn't shine—it hovered, washed out and lifeless, as if the world had forgotten how to begin again. Inside the small room, cold air slid through the crooked gaps in the wooden walls, brushing across Ardyn's bare skin like the ghost of something long gone. He stirred on the straw mat, wincing as his body reminded him it wasn't used to sleeping on the ground—or in someone else's bones.
Sleep had come in patches. Nothing restful. Just flashes of someone else's past bleeding into his thoughts—memories that didn't belong to him trying to settle like dust in a house not yet lived in.
He sat up with a groan, rubbing the side of his neck. The ache in his back felt too old for a body this young. But then again, everything about this situation felt like some cosmic joke.
And right on cue, the memory of the assassin—the blade poised at his throat, her eyes like cold fire—snapped back into focus. She'd walked away, but her presence still haunted the room. Not in sound or scent, but something quieter. Deeper. Like an imprint burned into his skin.
Then the system stirred.
[Thread Stability: 12%. Emotional engagement required to advance bond.]
Ardyn let out a dry sigh, raking a hand through his messy black hair.
"Yeah, well, she didn't exactly leave her number taped to the door."
He pushed himself to his feet. The room hadn't changed overnight. Still bare. Still quiet. The same cracked mirror sat propped against the far wall, showing him the face of a stranger he was supposed to call himself. It didn't feel like his—not yet. Too clean. Too sharp. Too unfamiliar.
He crossed to the water jug and splashed a handful across his face. The cold bit into him, a reminder that this wasn't some dream he could blink away. He wasn't Ardyn Cross anymore. The man who'd spent his nights livestreaming to bots and his days losing to kids online? That guy was dead. Literally. Choked to death alone on the floor, forgotten by a world that barely knew he existed.
He dried his face with the sleeve of his robe and looked at the door.
He couldn't stay here. Not after what she'd said. He was being watched. Hunted. And whoever was watching didn't need a second invitation to finish what she didn't.
Then the system buzzed again—this time with purpose.
[New Quest Generated: First Dominion]
Task: Gain influence by forming a bond with a high-tier Thread. Classification: Influence-Class.]
His brow lifted. "Influence-Class?"
[Definition: Threads tied to political or societal power. Bonds with them enhance Host's regional status. Unlocks high-level perks.]
"Cool. So… seduce someone with pull." He scratched at the back of his neck. "No pressure."
[Target Located: Saintess of Scorn]
Location: Veilspire Temple, Inner Slums. Status: Exiled. Cultivation: Sealed. Influence: Dormant. Emotional State: Isolated.]
"A saintess?" Ardyn blinked. "In the slums?"
[Affirmative. Rejected by divine order. Worshipped by fringe believers. Internal conflict detected: suppressed desire vs. broken faith.]
Ardyn stared at the flickering system notification, then gave a quiet snort.
"Guess we're going to meet a fallen angel."
He wrapped the robe tighter around himself and stepped outside.
The streets hit him like a slap—sour with rot, thick with smoke. The alleys twisted through crumbling buildings and half-standing shacks. Children darted behind doorways. Adults watched him with that tired, bitter look people wore when life had wrung all softness out of them.
They moved out of his way. Some looked at him and frowned. Others just stared like he was something unpleasant they'd stepped around before.
The name Kael clearly meant something here. None of it good.
He said nothing. Just kept walking until the path ended at a crooked temple wedged between two sagging towers of stone. Veilspire, the system had said.
It looked like a skeleton of faith. Blackened bricks, ivy clinging like desperate hands, a torn curtain swaying in place of a door. It didn't look like salvation. It looked like someone had buried hope here and never came back to grieve it.
Still, he stepped inside.
And immediately, everything changed.
The silence inside wasn't just quiet. It was sacred. Thick. Intentional. As though the air itself had sworn a vow. The floor under his feet was stone, worn smooth by time. Candles burned along the edges—flames steady, unmoving, unnatural in their stillness.
At the far end of the room, kneeling before a dark altar, was a woman.
She wore white, stark against the stained floor. Her silver-white hair flowed down her back in a waterfall of light, still as death. She didn't move. Didn't speak. She was too still.
Too perfect.
He took a step forward, his voice breaking the hush.
"Not what I expected when the system said 'saintess in the slums.'"
No reaction.
He tried again. "This place looks forgotten. But you… you look like something out of scripture."
Then she spoke. Her voice was soft. Unshaken. Bone-weary.
"Are you here to test what's left of my faith?"
"No," he said. "I want to understand it."
She turned.
Her eyes locked onto his, deep violet and unblinking. They weren't warm. But they weren't hollow either. They burned, quietly, with the weight of something buried too long.
"You carry sin," she said, not accusing. Just stating a fact. "And not the kind you've already committed. Yours follows you. Like smoke. Like hunger."
He tilted his head, half a smile tugging at his lips.
"Yeah. People keep telling me that."
She rose slowly, her body unfolding like a prayer left half-finished. She stood tall. Not with power, but with purpose. She was regal—not because she tried to be, but because the world had once made her believe she should.
"I gave myself to the Light," she said, voice steady. "Mind, body, soul. And in return, I was cast out."
Ardyn stepped closer. Softer now. "Why?"
"It judged me. Saw what I kept buried. And turned its back."
A soft pulse of energy flickered around her, barely visible. The system responded.
[Scan Complete: Cultivation locked by divine rejection. Core conflict: spiritual suppression, fractured identity, abandonment trauma.]
The story clicked together in his mind like broken glass refitting itself.
"You believed in something that didn't believe in you."
She didn't reply.
"But you stayed. Alone. Here. With no congregation. No miracles. Just silence."
"You pity me."
"No," he said. "I see you."
She went still again.
"Not as a symbol. Not as a cautionary tale. As someone who still wants to be seen. For who she is. Not who she failed to be."
He reached out and touched her shoulder—gentle. Honest. Not possession. Not pity.
"I see you."
She didn't flinch.
Her breath caught. A fracture ran across her composure. Not a break. Just the first sign of someone who'd forgotten what it felt like to be touched without an agenda.
[Thread Detected: Emotional resonance achieved. Initiate bonding? Y/N]
He held her gaze. "You want your strength back?"
Her voice came like a confession. "Even if I must walk a path I once condemned?"
He nodded. "Especially if it leads you back to yourself."
The system ignited within him.
[Bond Sequence Initiated.]
[Warning: Subject retains residual purity lock. Emotional clash expected.]
She trembled.
A rush of violet light exploded from her chest like a heartbeat forced to remember its purpose. She staggered. Ardyn caught her. Her hands clenched into his robe as if it were the only solid thing in a collapsing world.
She shook in his arms, whispering something in a language he didn't understand. Her agony hit him like fire, surging through the bond. Decades—maybe centuries—of silence. Of rejection. Of longing with nowhere to go.
He let it in. Let it tear through him.
And then… it faded.
The light dimmed.
Her body went limp in his arms, her breath shallow. She looked up at him, sweat on her brow, her voice barely audible.
"You're not a man of the cloth."
He smiled faintly.
"No. I'm something far worse."
A tired laugh escaped her lips. Weak. But real.
"Good."
The system chimed.
[Bond Established: Saintess of Scorn]
[New Ability: Divine Reversal – Converts sacred energy into life force. Passive resistance to spiritual suppression.]
[Influence Gained: Inner Slums]
[Thread Status: Waking Bond. Emotional State: Raw Trust]
Ardyn laid her gently on a bench near the altar. Her hair spilled over the edge like silver flame. He brushed a stray lock from her face and looked up at the altar behind her.
It glowed now. Faint. But steady.
Two days.
Two women.
One who hesitated to kill him.
One who'd been abandoned by gods.
Now they belonged to something new.
Not heaven. Not order.
Him.
He stood, eyes fixed on the flickering light.
This wasn't about redemption.
This wasn't about faith.
This was the beginning of dominion.
And it would not rise on prayers.
It would rise on sin.