Aphelia stared at her own body, a dull ache knotting behind her eyes like a tight cord in rain. She didn’t care much about gender; in this world, strength spoke louder. But she’d lived over twenty years as a man, and even if she tried to ignore it, the questions lay ahead like stones in the path.

“Find a necromancer and swap bodies?” The thought rose like a bubble from the lake where she floated, then burst. She dismissed it, wry and cold.

Success was a dice roll tossed into fog. Where would she find a Titleholder’s body to prepare? That was the hardest bone. If she settled for a quasi-Titleholder shell, her power might sink back to quasi-Titleholder. That loss would cut deeper than any wound.

Soul and flesh, two strings in one instrument—if they rang out of tune, quick correction might save a song. If not, the worst ending was a body breaking and a soul erased, like ash scattered on wind.

Fine. She’d use this vessel for now, a temporary raft on a dark river.

Gentle Arcane Power drifted around her like warm mist. She let her mind roll loose, sank completely. As her spirit eased, the body that had been strung taut softened like silk in water.

She dared to relax because she trusted her own lattice of wards, carved into the rock wall like vines. Woven with a Titleholder’s force, they were a gate only a Titleholder could break. The weak would stagger inside them, spinning like moths in a maze.

In the still lake, the sleeping woman lay like a lotus about to open, pale petals cupping a quiet heart.

As sleep drew her down, her sea of consciousness loosened its watch. In that slack second, a jade-green light darted in like a swift fish, slipping deep into the vast sea. It vanished without a ripple.

Dream-haze rose. She saw Violet, on the northern icefields where wind cut like knives, leading ranks and grinding against southbound orcs. Her crimson armor had been dyed a darker red by blood. In her eyes burned a steadiness she hadn’t carried in the past.

Even in the enemy’s press, she kept her breath steady. Her spear spun like the Reaper’s scythe, harvesting lives. The orcs, famed for ferocity, stepped back, step by step, like waves breaking against rock.

What was this? A chill pricked her. She should be asleep—so what were these visions? Her memory held no such scenes, like a book with missing pages.

The picture shifted, like a wind flipping a scroll. She was back in the southern forests of the Nature Elves where green sang. Peace had been devoured by flame. Knights wreathed in holy light hunted Nature Elves as if they were deer in winter.

Lena retreated under the cover of kin, heading for the deeper wards in the woods. Her state was bad—bleak as frost. Several elf magi worked on a huge wound in her abdomen, hands glowing, yet the flesh refused to knit, like ice that wouldn’t thaw.

Who did that? What monster had driven a spear into Lena’s belly? Anger rose in Aphelia, cold and sharp, like a blade pulled from snow.

She reached for Arcane Power, and the image wavered, a pool rippled by stone. She stopped at once, caged the fire, kept watching through narrowed eyes.

This stream of scenes flowed through a probe planted in her sea of consciousness. Lena had set that needle there when Aphelia was young, a hidden talisman to guard her. They hadn’t expected her to climb to Titleholder so fast; their method was meant for high to low. Now she was stronger than Lena, and the old channel faltered like a cracked pipe.

She only saw this much because she had slackened her guard, letting a gap open like a door in rain.

The vision turned again. The burning forest shrank into scorched earth, black flames venting from fissures like breath from a dragon’s maw. Heroic knights closed from every side, shields up, lances down. The place announced itself without words.

It was the Church’s prison for those they deemed a great threat, a field of ashes that hid a tomb. Beneath it lay the First Epoch knights who had followed the Pope to war. Blessed by a god, they’d become worldly heroic spirits, set to punish the Church’s enemies like watchmen of iron.

They didn’t hunger or tire, and they fought forever at their peak, like a storm that never breaks. If they fell, they rose again from the scorched earth, then charged whatever foe the Church named, until the target died and the ash field stilled.

Their prey now was Augustus and Yi. Yi’s wounds were brutal—his proud gaze had been halved, only the left eye burned blood-red. The right socket was an empty cave.

Still, he drew a crude wooden bow, loosing wooden arrows that found the chests of charging knights, precise as starlight. He and Augustus guarded each other, backs like walls.

Augustus wasn’t better. His body was a rag sewn with scars, dried blood caked like rust. In his pupils burned endless anger and pain, a furnace with no door. Another gash opened on his arm, and he didn’t flinch. His sword bit and swung, ruthless, trampling the heroic spirits he’d once set as his stars to chase.

What kind of fury and grief could turn a paladin who’d been loyal to the Church into a man who cut down legends? Aphelia guessed, a faint thread pulling tight. It had to touch the young cardinal in scarlet who had saved her.

“Aphelia, when you see this…” The images snapped shut. Lena’s gentle voice spread through the dark like lamplight in fog.

“No matter where you are, don’t try to rescue us.” Warmth softened her tone, but iron lay beneath. “I truly hope you’re hidden in a pocket space. I don’t know how long this message can hold, so I’ll keep it short.”

She sighed, and the sound carried strain, like a bow creaking. Distant shouts, steel and prayer, bled through the recording.

“Everything’s shifting too fast to sum up in a few lines. The two empires, prodded by the Church, are at war again, and the flames have reached the Nature Elves. The orcs of the northern Exile Lands are marching south. They seem to have struck deals with human duchies, and Violet’s position is dangerous.”

Orcs marching south was a yearly tide, but from Lena’s words, this tide carried knives hidden under foam. Backed by petty principalities, it came hard. Aphelia’s gaze went ice-cold. Those nobles, fat under the Northern Grand Duke’s shelter, had let their fox faces slip to wolf.

“Augustus and Yi are in bad shape. The Church has sent Titleholders. When Yi tried to take Augustus and the others back to the East, they were intercepted. Now we can only pin our hopes on Easterners.”

Noise tore the air. Lena was driving some great spell, and the recording buzzed like a hive.

“I don’t know if you can hear the rest…” Lena panted, breath ragged. Even without the earlier images, it was hard to tell if she was wounded or spent. Aphelia knew too well—Lena’s abdomen must be broken open, just like in the vision.

“If you can, don’t ever come back to this place. The gods have abandoned it. The Church, borrowing their name, has lost all control.”

The voice stopped, clean as a blade’s end. Aphelia’s fury thinned to a clear lake. Lena was right. The Church had slipped its leash. Walking alone back into the human world would be throwing a spark into storm.

The Church held most of the human world’s resources, and the Titleholders they trained in shadow and sun would number far beyond what she once knew. Even with her unusual power, a lone Titleholder couldn’t cut through that wall.

So saving old friends narrowed to two roads.

One: become a True God. That star was far, faint as frost. As a former Hero, she had no deeds sung by the world strong enough to lift her into godhood. Killing the Demon King marked you “Hero,” not “God.”

Two: borrow the Demon World’s power. She already stood with a crown prince. If she could raise him to the throne, doors would open like dawn. That was surer than chasing a god’s mantle.

With that, rest felt like wasted drift. Aphelia pulled free from her sea of consciousness in a sharp breath. Inside the hardened amber, she opened her eyes, light like knives.

To help Nero claim the Demon World, she had to move fast. Any delay birthed more variables in the task here, and every hour added a shadow of death over her friends in the human world.

Her wards screamed at once, a violent pulse shaking the mine like thunder rolling under stone.

She stepped out of the dried pit, snatched the black robe from the ground, and threw it over her shoulders. A shock like that meant a Titleholder might have found her, an enemy’s hand brushing her door.

If so, she’d vent the storm inside on them.

Black armor locked into place with a bite. The Holy Sword flickered into shape in her grip. Her vast Arcane Power surged, a tide becoming burning black flame and obsidian wings.