Darkness stretched endlessly. Under flickering streetlights, countless silhouettes stumbled. Chocolate syrup seeped from the distance. Leaning sideways, he stepped forward—only to plunge into a bottomless abyss. Wind roared in his ears as he fell. Ghastly pale faces flashed chaotically before him. Then, a girl’s face emerged. Cracks bloomed across it. He reached out desperately—but watched helplessly as that familiar face crumbled into white powder, slipping through his fingers like water.

The distant tide’s echo lingered, deep yet sharp as thunder filling his ears.

Morris jerked awake.

Sunlight bathed a cloudless sky. People hurried past—most dressed ruggedly: animal hides stitched to leather jackets, belt buckles and chest pockets bristling with hunting knives.

Morris slumped against a tree, fresh from a nightmare. Traces of horror lingered on his face. Some shot him scornful glances, tsking inwardly. *How could such a lazy slacker work under Thulaken?*

He ignored them. The nightmare was over. Reality felt sweet—he’d just escaped the Church and the Holy Maiden. Everything seemed new.

A desolate breeze swept the wasteland. He looked up.

A pair of long legs sheathed in black stockings stood behind him. A girl in a tight black leather mini-dress leaned over, skirt swaying, and thrust a wooden crate half his height into his arms.

“Nap over? Time to work, lazy dog Morris!”

---

Lüweilong is a world ruled by magic and faith. Only two intelligent races dwell here: humans and demons.

Demons inherit potent bloodlines—many born at ranks humans strive a lifetime to reach. Though often mortal enemies elsewhere, here they chose coexistence. Aside from no intermarriage, any demon may cross the Demon Realm Gate in human form. Yet demons shun light, so humans more often venture into the Demon Realm for rare materials.

Magic here is revered as the Life Arcanum. Mastering it separates one from ordinary humanity—not just bloodline ascension, but evolution itself. Those who awaken become Arcane Source Wizards. They must register regularly with city Churches, receiving monthly stipends. Progress earns bonuses; stagnation revokes status.

After millennia, the system matured. Arcanum splits into five branches: Transformation, Incantation, Summoning, Revelation, Taboo—each teaching distinct magics. Wizards rank across seven tiers: Apprentice, Artificer, Lawform… culminating in Papal Tier.

Only five ever reached Papal Tier: Merlin, Muhammad, Aristotle, Judas, Caesar. Each shattered the Sage Tier within their branch, ascending to unreachable heights.

They founded churches and were honored as Popes. Gaius Julius Caesar stood tallest—not just Pope, but Emperor. His blood still flows in the Holy Roman Empire’s royalty.

No one since has discovered independent ascension. All later Popes merely inherit legacies. Thus, Sage Tier is widely seen as the true ceiling.

The Lunhai Holy Church was founded two centuries ago by Revelation Pope Judas. Yet none passed his trial. Two hundred years on, his inheritance remains unclaimed. Many now whisper it was all a jest.

---

“How can you be this lazy?” Sif sighed, watching Morris slump atop the crate after two trips. “You promised at noon you’d do anything!”

“Anything… yeah,” Morris panted. *As a former Pope, I’ve never hauled crates.* “But I never said my human limits didn’t exist!”

“Smooth talker. Knew you were slick the moment you handed in your form.” She twisted her waist lightly. Sunlight glinted off her black-stockinged legs—slender waist, sharp gaze, fair face dusted with mercenary grit. Onlookers stared. Morris lay sprawled like a dead dog, wishing to nap forever.

“I’m stating facts…”

“You’re an Arcane Source Wizard, right?” She twirled a strand of hair near her ear, gaze flicking away, then back. “What tier?”

“Artificer. Just promoted from Apprentice.”

“No way?!” She coughed to mask shock. “Don’t lie. If Captain Thulaken catches you scheming, you’ll roast on a spit tomorrow.”

Morris tossed his certificate. She caught it, flinched like it burned, dropped it, scrambled to grab it—then tripped hard onto the grass.

Hair loose, white shirt smudged, she knelt, legs tucked behind her, eyes wide with awe. “It’s real… stamped by the Pope himself! A seventeen-year-old Artificer Tier wizard!”

“Eighteen in half a month,” Morris murmured—*again*.

“How envious…” A flicker of sadness crossed her eyes, quickly steadied. “I have zero talent. Never could enter the academy or Church. Only trained in combat with Father.”

Morris stayed silent. Words would feel hollow.

“With your gift, you could be a guild master’s prized disciple! Why choose mercenary life?”

“Freedom,” he recited smoothly. “Better a free blade than chained to churches or guilds.”

*Chained… like the Holy Maiden handcuffing us together at midnight.*

“I see.” Sif stood, brushing grass from her stockings, and offered a hand. “I’m Sif. Welcome to the band!”

Morris met her shy, strained smile. He smiled faintly, taking her hand. “Don’t expect too much.”

A faint chill crept from her fingertips. He glanced down—no artifice. *No talent for Arcanum?*

*Human potential is limitless. Even a total beginner can shine in a week.*

Sif frowned as his grip tightened.

“Sorry.” He released her. “More tasks?”

“None.” Her tone cooled. “Rest. Thulaken will need you soon.”

*As expected.*

Morris watched her vanish around the corner.

A week ago, the Church flagged mercenaries in the Sindel Wastes. Plotting something.

North lay an Arcanum Abyss—once breached by a colossal beast, long sealed. The powerful were curious. Morris was wary; that abyss held old ties. Trouble there would be dire.

*Not simple at all.*

“A girl with zero Arcanum talent… huh?”

He settled under the tree, eyes closed, feeling the borderland wind three hundred kilometers from Macedon.

“Then let this escaped Pope of the Holy Church see what you truly plan.”