A sun-drenched afternoon.

Somewhere on the plains outside Arvin Hamlet.

A meticulously crafted, altar-like formation stood silent.

Dense jungle surrounded it; thick foliage concealed the three-meter-high array so completely it appeared an ordinary hillock. Only an archer with exceptional eyesight might suspect otherwise.

Dim light filtered through the canopy, scattering into fragmented patches like shattered candy.

A slightly slender man pulled on a cloak, drew up his hood, and ascended the broad path to a clearing at the summit.

Here stood the hamlet’s sole teleportation array. A hooded magic apprentice guarded it, face hidden, selling magic cards to all who sought passage.

Since The Spire’s emergence, industries bloomed across Ayn Continent. Magic scholars skilled in array construction seized the opportunity, installing teleporters to spare adventurers grueling journeys between guild halls and The Spire.

For climbers, each use cost merely a handful of Ayn Coins—saving days of travel for the price of a loaf of bread. Only a fool would refuse.

For the scholars? Hundreds passed through daily. The accumulated sum became tantalizingly handsome.

At this moment, several young adventurers clustered around the device. The youngest appeared thirteen or fourteen—freshly registered, faces alight with excitement.

They handed over a dozen Ayn Coins, received their cards, then stepped laughing onto the pristine white platform. A cascade of light, and they vanished.

Silence returned. Only the whisper of wind through leaves remained.

Seeing no one nearby, the man pushed back his hood. A youthful face, stern and cold, was revealed.

Had any member of the Equilibrium Guild witnessed this, they’d have been startled.

Guild decree required all members—outside private settings—to wear the scale-embroidered robe proclaiming their affiliation.

York, a Level Four Arbiter, wore none.

Too conspicuous. A sighting could expose everything prematurely.

He approached the apprentice.

The apprentice glanced up—a knowing glint in his hooded eyes.

From his robes, he produced a magic card identical to those sold moments ago.

York knew better. This one led elsewhere.

A nod. York stepped into the array.

White light descended.

Colors shattered, reformed. An irresistible displacement washed over him.

When vision cleared, he stood before an ancient, abandoned church.

An unnatural gloom choked the sky. Blackened, scorched earth stretched endlessly, as if ravaged by fire.

The church stood cracked and weathered. Vines crawled up its walls, coiled the spire like a victor claiming dominion.

The rust-streaked door stood ajar. Sparse light illuminated drifting dust, casting the interior in hazy gray—a faded oil painting.

York slipped through the gap, expression unreadable.

Inside, a figure waited.

Hunched, draped in an ochre robe like tattered rags. Wild snow-white hair framed a beggar’s visage. Yet he gripped a brilliantly gleaming golden staff, murmuring prayers before the dilapidated Statue of Kariel.

York watched silently.

The old man’s voice remained still as an ancient well, gaze lowered, never meeting the statue.

Plaster body cracked. Spear broken. Platform crumbling. Wings torn away. Head missing—nothing like the deity in sacred texts.

A devout Holy Order follower would rage at the desecration. No believer wishes their god’s image reduced to this.

“Great and supreme Kale, may Your radiance illuminate the world.”

He exhaled deeply.

York’s voice cut in, faintly mocking: “Praying to a headless statue—do you truly believe it helps?”

“The statue is but a symbol, my friend.” Unsurprised, the old man glanced slightly sideways at the young Arbiter. His voice was hoarse, low. “Sincerity matters. With true devotion, even soil or a tombstone carries prayer to Lord Kale.”

York snorted coldly.

“So why have you come?”

York cut straight to the point: “The Azure Round Table guild has a new guildmaster.”

“Unremarkable,” the old man replied, still turned away. “That malformed guild will disband. No successor changes fate.”

“I’m not so sure.” York’s stare sharpened. “My informants say their entire guild entered The Spire today.”

“And?”

“They haven’t emerged. Over three hours. Unusual.”

A pause. “Perhaps luck favored them.”

York’s lip curled. “If luck holds, they repay the debt. Then, by Equilibrium Guild mandate, I must rule the transaction invalid.”

It was an Arbiter’s duty.

Should Anna’s guild miraculously settle the debt, York—no matter his desire to punish Anna Carole—would be powerless.

An eerie wind slipped through broken windows. Dust swirled like frantic feathers around the old man.

He sighed, raised his staff, and tapped the ground with casual ease.

*Hum~*

A crisp resonance. Golden light radiated outward, holy aura cleansing impurities. Simultaneously, a contrasting force stirred. Chairs groaned, then shattered into splinters.

The old man turned. Beneath the tattered robe: a face seared by burns.

Skin blistered, features twisted. Sunken sockets held murky eyes darting erratically.

Even accustomed to it, York felt nausea rise.

“You speak with too much certainty,” the old man said, voice oddly amused. He addressed York by title, lips twisting into an eerie smile. “An ordinary Arbiter would never aid me. You are no devout believer.”

York’s expression darkened. “What are you implying?”

“As if I see through you,” the old man murmured calmly. “You hold no faith in the Mediator. Your devotion is feigned. Unlike other deities, the Mediator grants no judgment, no blessing.”

“…I will not intervene.” York’s gaze turned icy. “First: I am not Arvin Hamlet’s only Arbiter. Forcibly ruling against Azure Round Table would be stopped. Second: Unauthorized arbitration is a grave offense. The Guild will not spare me. Third: I gain nothing risking this for you.”

He turned to leave.

He had come only to warn. An observer with leanings—but not one to dive deep.

“Wait.”

York paused in the doorway, glancing back. “What else?”

A sinister laugh echoed—hellish, clashing with his Holy Order guise. “You rush. I never asked you to act directly… And you’ve long coveted the Undying One, haven’t you?”

York’s frown deepened. Heart hammered. A chilling exposure washed over him—sweat dampened his back, cold seeped into his spine.

“Have you investigated me?” fists clenched, voice tight.

“Not investigation. Understanding.” Calm. “You’ve envied Anna Carole for years—her excellence, her knowledge. Yet you resent her for wasting her gift.”

York said nothing. Jaw locked. Fists tightened.

The old man’s smile faded. “Keep watching Azure Round Table. If the new guildmaster is truly favored by Lady Luck… arrange a meeting.”

“A meeting?” York refused instantly. “Beyond our agreement.”

“I’ll have my apprentice swap their cards. You merely ensure no suspicion arises. Such a small act surely violates no Guild doctrine.”

Silence stretched.

York’s gaze drifted from the hunched back to the headless, desecrated Statue of Kariel. After long contemplation, his clenched fist slowly uncurled.

“I’ll consider it.”

He turned and left.

Footsteps faded. The old man’s lips curled upward.

At last, he lifted his head toward the ruined Statue of Kariel. A strange gleam flickered in his chaotic eyes.

“May Your radiance shine upon me… as always.”