Fresh from the Church’s high council, the girl slipped into a shadow like a sparrow fleeing rain.

She drew a projection crystal from her chest, cool as moonlit ice.

Inside, light mirrored Birand and Ascaraun, standing before a golden, uncanny gate like a sunlit idol.

“Stashing stuff in a place like this? Either brain’s gone quiet, or it’s stewing like a pot,” Birand said, finishing his fruit and flicking the core away like a pebble into a pond.

He pointed at the vault, a gold slab naked to the wind, bright as a beacon on a cliff.

“So eye‑catching it screams, like a lantern yelling, ‘Come steal me,’ right in broad daylight.”

“A thief still has to get into this place,” Ascaraun sighed, voice thin as reed leaves in river mist.

“With a door like this, I’d break it with one kick—huh?” Birand strode up and kicked, a storm in his heel.

The gate shuddered like a drum, then settled like stone under snow.

Ascaraun turned away, face blank, like a stranger vanishing into fog.

“Hero, this lock uses fine metal packed with little mechanisms, like ants hidden in rock,” he said, tone calm as winter glass. “Behind the door sits a defensive magic array, a wall of wind and salt, cutting off soul‑sense and brute erosion. Unless you flip the whole palace like an uprooted mountain, you won’t crack it.”

“Why didn’t you say so sooner,” Birand muttered, heat flaring like sparks in dry straw.

“I thought you knew. This is Holy Paris, your old home,” Ascaraun said, shock rising like a gull from surf.

“Then why do you know so much? You barely lived in Holy Paris,” Birand shot back, eyes rolling like drifting marbles.

“...” Ascaraun exhaled, breath thin as smoke.

He rummaged left and right like a magpie in reeds, then drew out an envelope and unfolded a letter, pale as rice paper.

He cleared his throat, voice ringing like a bell in mist. “My dear Hero. I am your loyal follower, Modras Ael, and Emperor of Holy Paris. I am crushed by the Church—blah blah blah—waves upon waves.”

“Therefore, please don’t break the vault door by brute force. Next, I’ll tell you how to open it.”

Ascaraun sighed, like tide slipping off coral. “Hero, you skimmed two lines and quit. What do you say.”

“How was I supposed to know he’d ramble like a river? The first lines are nothing but greetings, like sparrows chirping forever. I can’t,” Birand said, shrugging, shoulders loose as willow branches.

“Can you even pull off revenge like this,” Ascaraun murmured, voice cool as moonlight on steel.

Birand raised a brow, impatience fluttering like moths at dusk. “Fine, fine. Tell me how to open it.”

“A key,” Ascaraun said, the word dropping like a pebble in a still lake.

“Oh. A key... huh? A key?!” Birand blinked, eyes flashing like sparks under flint.

“Yeah. A key.”

“Where?”

“Tucked in the envelope.”

“@#$%&*()!—%#@*&!” Birand barked, curses scattering like crows into a gray sky.

Eli opened his eyes, a quiet chill washing through him like winter rain.

His pupils shifted color, left sclera inking black like spilled night, right eye paling white like frost on jade, until the hues set, left all black, right all white.

He smiled, a thin crescent like a cut moon. Judge Mode reaches the soul—sharp as a blade under silk.

It’s powerful, like thunder coiled in a quiet cloud.

The first time he used it was fighting the Bloodkin, a storm over stone, to save the little Demon King and her sister, two candles in wind.

Judge Mode belongs to his second memory, a pathway in five stages like steps up a cold mountain.

He only holds the first stage, a door cracked open to the world like dawn seeping under eaves.

Mana content, defense, speed, resistance, and senses surge, like sap rising in spring; the rest stays out of reach, like stars beyond mist.

He struck Isco with a palm, a wave shoving a boat, and sent him flying; bats scattered like torn leaves in a gale, while nearby residents shut doors and sealed windows like shutters against snow.

Eli swept the street with his gaze, eyes deep as a lake before rain.

He meant to pull everyone out, like shepherding birds from a burning grove, but the threat pressed from all sides like wolves in fog, and he hesitated.

The Bloodkin sat on a throne made of bats, a living crown like ink swirling, holding a tall goblet like frozen wine, and smiled at Eli’s charge.

“Seems you carry a few tricks,” he said, words smooth as oil over stone. “If I catch you too, then...”

Golden light rose behind Eli, a sunburst under cloud, blasting the bats back like straw before a wind.

From Judge Mode’s senses, a mass of black energy pooled where the Bloodkin sat, heavy as tar under tide.

Isco tumbled away, his inner power gathering like stormlight in a hollow; magic, or better, an esoteric force coiling like serpents.

“Space jump!” White light, like a court of lanterns, slid beside Eli; the mark he’d left on the Bloodkin flashed like a firefly, and Eli flickered to the Bloodkin’s flank, his golden energy blade lancing in like sunlight on water.

The Bloodkin’s pupils shrank, little wells under ice; he snapped his head aside, and the blade bit a strip of skin like a razor, before he clamped it in his fist.

Sizzle sounded like meat on iron, and the air filled with scorched scent like burnt sugar.

When he first took Judge Mode, his blood changed too, a river turned milk‑white, like snowmelt that rejects red.

He thought of it, a rough sketch in smoke: a pure white fluid at odds with blood, like chalk and ink refusing to blend.

Kondeli felt fire in his mouth, a blaze behind teeth, and glared at Eli, eyes like coals.

“Didn’t expect it—your blood’s not normal,” he growled, voice gravel in a jar. “I’m starting to doubt what race you even are.”

Seeing the slight swell at the man’s lips, Eli smiled, a fox curve under a willow. “Look at me now; anyone with a brain sees I’m not normal. You still bite. You’re bold—like a werewolf.”

Where the Bloodkin bit, a few drops fell, white as lime in rain.

On his flesh, the blood boiled like water over flame, bubbles racing like hail in a pan.

Eli glanced at his hands and smiled, quiet as a cat before grass.

It’s fierce, like a tiger’s shadow, but not truly his, like borrowed steel.

Judge Mode braids his power with natural elements, a rope of wind and stone, giving strength and recovery beyond flesh, like pine standing in snow.

On land, Celestial Realm energy—the famed God’s power—only those at Sacred Rank with Divinity can barely wield, like lifting a bell with reeds.

Judge Mode fuses nature and self, then forces a line to God’s power, like throwing a bridge of ice over a gorge.

That’s how it grants strength early, a harvest before autumn.

How much of God’s power you can attune to decides Judge Mode’s evolution, like a river’s width deciding the boats.

Birand split it into five stages, each a rung against Celestial Gods, like armor plates hardening layer by layer.

Every rise thickens the God’s power in your body, like honey deepening in a jar.

At the fifth stage, you carry perfect Divinity ahead of time, like a seal hammered before the throne, and you won’t need to break into Sacred Rank to sense and claim a Divinity and a seat.

By then, Birand can shrug off the Celestial Gods’ leash, like a hawk snapping a tether and finding sky.

Eli’s gaze went wider, deep as wells under starlight, measuring the world.

His soul was repaired by a force in the cosmos he’d never seen, a current under black sea, cold and brilliant like glass.

If Judge Mode could merge with that power, if river met sea—what height could he reach, like a mountain spike under dawn?

Curiosity lit in him like a lantern catching wick.

He was idle here, time pooling like rain in a basin; better to try.

He sat cross‑legged, posture a pine on rock, while a huge disk rose above his head like a pale moon plate.

Then a hidden fragment unfurled in his mind, like a seal melting into wax.

“Ha! Right, someone still needs a bit of help,” said the man in the mask, fingers tracing a circle like a ripple on a pond, then the ring was covered in white light like snow on slate.

He flicked his finger, and the light ring flew through trunks like swallows, over countless trees like a wind‑drawn path, then found Eli’s hiding place far away like a needle seeking thread.

The white ring sank into Eli’s forehead, a dew bead into moss; his furrowed brows eased like thaw, and his face filled with comfort, like warm tea after frost.

The mask man smiled, eyes crescent like boats. “Kid, whatever fortune comes is up to you.”

Eli blinked, surprise opening like a flower, and stared at the white energy and the gentle smile, caught between clouds and stone.

“What... what is this,” he said, cutting Judge Mode, frown tight as knots, watching the floating energy like a lantern in drift.

He was only a soul now, a wind without weight; absorbing was impossible, like trying to drink mist.

The energy felt strong, a river under ice, but carried no bite, no blade.

It only pointed, faint as a compass leaf, toward a direction like a bird’s wing.

Eli blinked, lashes like reeds. Maybe it’s the path home, a line through fog.

He poked the white energy, touch light as a feather on water.

Another memory surged in, a wave breaking over sand.

“Didn’t expect you to get stuck on such a small thing,” Zero laughed, patting Eli’s shoulder like dust off a cloak. “This time is still too young, like spring not yet summer.”

Eli shrugged, shoulders rolling like swallows, thinking what trick the man would play, curiosity flickering like sparks.

Zero looked him up and down, gaze soft as old smoke, then showed a hint of nostalgia, like leaves remembering rain.

He frowned. “Young man, have you dreamt a dream, a subtle dream like moonlight behind clouds?”

Is this the energy of the one who taught him the sword, a river guiding the blade?

Eli frowned, a crease like a ridge, feeling so many things still hidden, like stones under silt.

He raised his head to the endless stars, a field of cold fire, and sighed, breath like mist.

Stars, will you answer me, silent as snow on pines?

He even suspected Edlyn, that troublesome girl, knew more than he did now, like a fox already counting the hens.