Within the vast and intricate magical system of the Aland World, certain ritual magics were jointly banned by the HolySee and nations across the land. Their materials were cruelly obtained, uncontrollable, devastating, and ethically abhorrent.

Among them was the creation of Synthetics.

Naturally born humans awakened magical talents purely by chance. Forging a powerful body demanded years of grueling training. Gaining wisdom and knowledge often consumed an entire lifetime.

Thus, some inevitably sought twisted shortcuts.

Roughly three to four centuries ago, an ancient mage—whose name was erased from history—proposed crafting "New Humans," or "Synthetics."

His theory claimed: forge bones from alchemical alloys etched with high-tier runes; meld the flesh of elite warriors with summoned Netherworld creatures to temper an invincible physique; weave a mind that comprehends past and future using divination spells. Thus, a perfect lifeform would be born.

Theoretically, this being would wield high-tier magic from three disciplines the moment it drew breath. It would possess an unbreakable body, terrifyingly rapid regeneration, peerless combat instincts, and a lifespan of five to six centuries—without needing the Heavenly Father’s blessing.

Moreover, these humans could reproduce. Their offspring would *always* inherit magical talent, not awaken it randomly by the Eternal Father’s will.

This ancient mage once attempted an experiment, striving to create his "flawless, perfect New Human."

He believed his creations would become the Eternal Father’s true beloved children, guiding flawed and ignorant mortals to build a divine kingdom on earth.

But his experiment was profoundly blasphemous. His radical ideology drew the HolySee’s wrath.

Cornered by Holy Knights, the mage ultimately burned himself alive within his own castle.

Most of his manuscripts were seized and sealed by the Church.

Yet several disciples escaped with fragments of his research. Over centuries, they formed a clandestine mage organization—the Sacred Body Cultivation Society—still obsessed with creating "New Humans."

Whether they ever succeeded remained unknown.

Operating mainly in the central mountain ranges, this tiny group was a heretical sect explicitly targeted by the HolySee.

Each time the Church believed their lineage extinguished, they resurfaced—stirring fresh trouble.

Like now.

Viscount Plafadin had conspired with the Sacred Body Cultivation Society. Lured by promises of "power rivaling the Sword Saint," he set this trap.

Their divination revealed Aether Monroe would likely mediate the dispute. Seizing the negotiation in the capital, they smuggled a stealth-specialist mage disguised as a servant into the council chamber where nobles clashed with words.

After the Viscount provoked Monroe with clownish antics and splashed his own blood onto the Sword Saint during their duel, the disguised servant seized the chance. He offered a towel, collecting sweat and skin flakes from His Eminence.

They dared not harm the Sword Saint—any lethal intent would be sensed by his instincts.

So the mage-servant held his breath, approaching Monroe. With that coarse towel, he gathered mere drops of sweat and facial dander.

That was enough.

Boiling these droplets with the sect’s secret arts, they brewed a sinister potion.

"This essence, refined from Aether Monroe’s fluids and dander, combined with our arcane rites, grants near-miraculous regeneration," they assured him.

"Really?" The Viscount doubted. "This little can make such a potion?"

They dripped one drop onto a dying lab rat. It instantly revived, darting about energetically.

"Question not our power. Monroe’s strength *originates* from us. His sweat and skin suffice… This potion decays soon. Do you crave power? This is your only chance!"

After hesitation, the Viscount drank it.

…………

When Shel reported Hilna’s discovery to Monroe—head bowed, silently eating—the Sword Saint immediately grasped the gravity.

Counting the servants present—none matched the one who’d handed Monroe the towel that day.

This critical oversight sent panic through everyone.

Shoving aside the drunken Duke, Monroe rallied the Holy Knights still feasting. He ordered horses prepared.

Within moments, a dozen armored knights charged out of the Duke’s manor, chasing Viscount Plafadin’s retreating party.

The Viscount’s fief lay north of the Duchy—a day’s hard ride on swift horses.

Before departure, Hilna suddenly tugged Shel’s sleeve as he mounted. "Teacher, take me! I can help!"

After a few seconds’ pause, he lifted her onto the horse behind him. Her robe was too long; he had to hike it up, letting her cling tightly to his waist.

She naturally wrapped her arms around him, pressing her body against his back.

Though separated by his chainmail shirt, Hilna felt thrillingly alive. Had it not been so dark, Shel would have seen her neck and face flushed pink.

Monroe, driving a two-wheeled carriage, shouted warnings for pedestrians to clear the way. Beyond the city gates, he accelerated northward on the main road, knights galloping close behind.

Monroe raised his Greatsword one-handed, chanting a light-gathering spell.

Countless white-gold orbs—large and small—swirled beside their charging steeds. They carved luminous trails through the night, guiding the riders.

The cavalry column resembled a white serpent gliding along the dark road.

They rode all night but failed to intercept the Viscount en route. Only in the deep hours before dawn did they reach the heart of his territory.

His castle—a cylindrical stone fortress beside a stream—stood silently on dewy riverside grass. Moonlight cast its towering silhouette.

The Viscount’s guards mistook the Holy Knights for invaders, forming a defensive line. An impatient Monroe simply charged through them with his carriage.

During the ride, he’d realized the dire consequences of his oversight. A grim premonition tightened his chest.

Before the knights could storm the castle to seize the Viscount, he emerged himself.

The castle shuddered violently. A prolonged roar echoed as the ancient structure collapsed, raising a dust cloud that blotted out the night.

The Viscount’s guards scattered in panic.

Holy Knights dismounted. Hilna summoned several elementalist knights. They conjured night winds to clear the dust, then gathered light-orbs to illuminate the ruins.

Amid the rubble, they saw the Viscount—hideously transformed. His head had fused grotesquely with his chest. Seven or eight arms flailed wildly. His lower body sprouted spider-like legs with four or five joints each, crawling on the ground.

His skin was a mass of open sores and malformed growths. Crimson flesh oozed pus and bore countless scars. The head embedded in his chest emitted eerie, guttural shrieks.

Five times larger than a man, his monstrous form loomed terrifyingly in the darkness.

During the ritual, the Sacred Body Cultivation Society had urgently extracted Monroe’s sweat from the towel. They brewed a potion promising "mortal power rivaling the Sword Saint’s divinity"—and forced the Viscount to drink it.

This was the result. Their experiment failed, birthing a twisted abomination.

Squinting past the ruins, Shel spotted over a dozen figures in black robes slinking from the debris, attempting escape.

He knew nothing yet of the Sacred Body Cultivation Society—but anyone could guess their link to this horror.

"Chase those robed mages. I’ll handle this monster," Monroe ordered his knights.

He drew his Greatsword, leapt from the carriage, and strode toward the Viscount-monster.

No one worried for his safety. He was the Sword Saint.

The sudden transformation troubled Shel deeply.

This routine assignment had spiraled wildly out of control. The grotesque fusion of human parts revolted him.

*If only I’d taken a day off.*

"Hilna! Stay put! I’m pursuing those black-robed fugitives. Don’t move!"

Without waiting for her reply, he lifted her off the horse and spurred his mount toward the fleeing figures.

"Teacher Shel! Don’t rush in! You’ll lose control again!" Hilna cried desperately.

He didn’t hear.

Meanwhile, Monroe’s Greatsword—long, wide, and etched with elemental runes and warding glyphs—flashed in his grip.

Moving faster than mortal eyes could follow, he closed the distance. Crouching, he swung. A single arc of steel severed all the monster’s spider-legs. Blood gushed as limbs scattered like broken twigs.

Monroe reversed his blade. A heavy downward chop—crimson lightning crackling along the edge—split the fused head clean in two. Sparks flared.

Two strokes. No hesitation. Utterly efficient.

Monroe planned to assist the knights after finishing the monster.

But before he could turn, the bisected corpse writhed. From every severed limb and gash, flesh regrew at terrifying speed. Each fragment twitched, regaining life.

Wriggling legs skittered across the ground. Shattered pieces trembled nearby. The bloated body sprayed putrid pus and stench, swelling even larger. Its grotesqueness now defied human imagination.

Monroe cursed inwardly. Then he raised his sword again, resuming the fight.