The others aren’t looking good. Even I can’t sense Yi or Augustus right now. The Church’s True God relic is the real deal. It can’t harm me, but it raises an iron fog that blinds my sight.
At Aphelia’s question, the Valkyrie sighed, the sound like wind over winter reeds, and spread her hands—no remedy in sight.
“Then… Violet?”
Aphelia spoke the name with a tremor. Unease flickered in her eyes; her heartbeat stumbled like a drum knocked off rhythm.
“Violet… in a sense, this war tempered her in the forge. She’s honed her edge. She’s stepped ahead and already become a Titleholder.”
The Valkyrie’s deliberate pause hung like a taut bowstring. Aphelia held her breath, pupils tightening to points, then relief washed through her like a soft tide.
She sagged back, closed her eyes. “That’s… wonderful,” she breathed, a feather falling from a high ledge.
Seeing that, the Valkyrie chuckled, tapped the table like rain on wood, and spoke softly. “Aphelia, adapt to this power. Only by mastering Ouroboros and raising yourself to a True God will you have the capital to face the Church.”
Aphelia scratched her head, sat up, a knot of doubt tugging at her chest. “Master, I can restore a Titleholder’s confidence, even open a mindscape. But becoming a True God… without decades—can that really happen?”
The thought nipped at her like cold teeth: after decades, would her friends even endure that long?
Across history, those who became True Gods spent a lifetime. At death’s brink they grasped truth, condensed a domain, and rose to a sovereign throne like lightning sealing the sky.
By twenty-something she’d already become a Titleholder, even poised to break into Demigod. For a human, aside from the Pope of the First Epoch, that’s genius. But True God—it was a mist without a path.
“Decades? How do you have that much time?” The Valkyrie’s eyes narrowed like crescent moons, her laugh soft as bells.
“Right, Master. If I reach Demigod, that’s enough—”
“I want you a True God within a year.”
The words dropped like a blade into quiet wood. Aphelia froze, slapped her own cheek to wake herself, then stared and tested the line. “Master, did you say… a True God within a year?”
“That’s right. Within a year. I don’t lie.”
The Valkyrie’s certainty struck like a gong. Aphelia stood stunned, the phrase looping in her mind.
A True God within a year.
Impossible. Even the Church’s False God path—where you hitch yourself as a vassal to a deity—needs a suitable inheritance. Unless… the Valkyrie meant to make her a vassal?
If so, a year might be doable.
She found breath to ease—until the Valkyrie’s next words cut through like a cold knife.
“I don’t intend to make you my vassal. You must find your own Origin, and with it become a True God—a one‑of‑a‑kind True God.”
“How could that be! Master, people sought for years to reach True God, I—”
Her protest faltered as the Valkyrie’s pale finger touched her lips. She shook her head once, quiet as snow.
“This year, you will become a True God. That’s why you must stay in the Demon World.”
The Valkyrie withdrew her hand. Crimson Flame flowed like a river of embers, and an image rippled into being before Aphelia.
A shabby young man. A white robe draped loosely over him. Black bangs veiling his eyes. He looked like a walking corpse, all life washed out like color from old cloth.
“This is the one you’ll seek. What you do this year depends on his guidance.”
Let a no‑name guide her True God path? It wasn’t arrogance. A True God isn’t something others can choreograph; the Origin is a spring only the self can find.
Aphelia’s gaze held its doubt, but she fixed the image in her mind like carving on stone. “Master… who is he, really? Guiding someone to True God isn’t a joke. Even with your recommendation, I still think only you can teach me on that path.”
“Aphelia, it’s your fate—and his. I don’t have the ability to guide you, and I shouldn’t stand in front of you forever.”
Aphelia drew breath to argue, but the Valkyrie cut her off and rose. Her black eyes looked down, cold as deep water. The chill ran over Aphelia’s skin like frost. The Valkyrie’s voice came low and even.
“Aphelia, I’m the real obstacle on your road to a True God.”
“Master, that… that can’t be! You’re my benefactor—”
She scrambled for words, yet under that winter gaze fell quiet, head bowed, unable to meet the ice.
“You’ve mastered Ancient Martial Flow and made it yours. But you inverted root and branch: both Arcane Power and your Title serve your techniques.”
The Valkyrie leaned, brushed her ring, and drew out the Silver Lance, moonlight metal whispering, then fed it into Crimson Flame like a star swallowed by dusk.
“With this weapon, you sank deeper into form. How much of your Titleholder power have you truly used?”
The question bit. Aphelia clenched her jaw, unable to lift her eyes.
Since she became a Titleholder, she’d chased Ancient Martial Flow, even built her Title as a base to forge that ‘Fleeting Blossom’ strike—a flare in an instant.
The Valkyrie was right. From the moment the Hero named Aphelia met her, she stepped off her own road. Bit by bit, she slid into the Valkyrie’s legacy, her shadow overlapping that towering figure like ink bleeding into ink.
The Valkyrie had become a wall on Aphelia’s climb to True God. Even if guided, the end would be a counterfeit Valkyrie—power in shape, hollow in spirit.
“But… that man—can he really guide my road to True God?”
Teeth bared to her doubt, Aphelia’s tone carried a spark of refusal. The Valkyrie sighed, then smiled, because that spark meant acceptance.
As a Hero, Aphelia was sharp. In a thousand battles against invading demons, she learned what choices carve toward strength—steel on whetstone, rain on stone.
It was just that the Valkyrie’s blaze was too bright. Unnoticed, it replaced Aphelia’s road and stood in her way like a mountain.
“Of course. You’ll understand, in time, what he truly means.”
The Valkyrie sat again. Aphelia lifted her head, and they faced each other like two stars across a dark river.
“You should surpass me. Only beyond the Valkyrie can you save your partners. When you become a True God, I’ll point the way, serve as your general, and together we’ll stitch this world’s torn wounds.”
“I understand, Master.”
At the Valkyrie’s unguarded smile, Aphelia answered softly. As one of humanity’s former strongest, pride lived in her bones—tempered by standing before death and never bowing.
The Valkyrie never flatters. With her strength and station, she needs no flattery. If she approves of Aphelia, it’s clear spring water—no dust, no gloss.
So Aphelia asked nothing more.
“I’ve arranged a companion to walk with you in the Demon World. She’s my guarantee. If you can’t become a True God, don’t return to the human world. Die by her hand.”
Soft words, steel beneath. Aphelia couldn’t help a wry smile. Only the Valkyrie motivates like a blade wrapped in silk.
The Valkyrie snapped her fingers. The Crimson Flame around Lilo melted away like snow under dawn, revealing a half‑draconic woman wrapped in vast wings.
A faint dragon might rolled out, a low thunder under skin. Two red fire‑motes orbited her like twin stars.
As the flames faded, Lilo’s eyes opened. Golden slit pupils flashed, and a tidal wave of dragon might crashed forward. Her great wings unfurled, shadowing the room like storm clouds.
“Honestly, how did I end up with such a slow vassal god who can’t recognize her master?”
Facing that ferocity, the Valkyrie only shook her head. Her right arm swept, and Crimson Flame rose like a sudden gale, carrying the dragon pressure away in one blazing surge.
