The history of the Mediators was intriguing.

Brimming with divinity, salvation, and destiny—yet layered with quiet tragedy and lingering regret.

But Noah wasn’t convinced it was all as noble as it seemed.

He settled back at his desk, relaxed against the chair, and glanced at the thick *Climber’s Handbook* before him.

Clearly, a link bound the gods, the Mediators, and The Spire.

The Collapse of Divine Authority had silenced the gods for thirty years.

Then Berial, the first Mediator, emerged. He ended the Collapse, ushered in the Age of Mediation, and used a scale to balance races, sects, and nations—preserving peace.

Noah withheld judgment on the method.

What mattered more: he refused to believe the gods vanished silently for thirty years *just* to punish mortals.

Sure, mythic gods were often capricious—flooding realms on whims, tormenting humans for sport. But vanish without warning? Without reason? Noah doubted it.

Then there was Berial’s appearance.

Berial was Noah’s own son. If he could, Noah *wanted* to trust him.

Problem was, the timing was *too* perfect.

Thirty years of Collapse: faith shattered, churches crumbled, hope extinguished.

At that precise breaking point—when the last thread of belief was about to snap—anyone lighting hope’s lamp would be hailed as a savior.

And Berial appeared.

Not that he shouldn’t have. But *exactly* thirty years?

Not during the Collapse. Not after near-total ruin.

He arrived *just* as faith flickered its final breath—stepping forth as “the Chosen One of the Gods.”

Lastly, The Spire.

Confirmed: it carried the Mediators’ memories and manifested from nothing.

Its origin, purpose, creation—all unknown.

Yet tied to Mediators, it *had* to connect to the gods.

“The gods presented a Mediator… and the Mediator’s memories became The Spire…”

Noah murmured, fingers lightly tapping the desk.

What if the Mediator wasn’t the goal? What if the gods truly wanted *The Spire*?

But why?

…

Hmm.

No answer.

The puzzle was deeper than expected, clues nonexistent.

Maybe the truth waited only at The Spire’s peak.

“So we circle back again.”

Back to square one.

Noah sighed and reopened the *Climber’s Handbook*.

Aelia had joined the guild. Monica would deliver her certification tomorrow.

Another member for the Azure Round Table.

Paired with the “Anna Dies Again” plan, climbing The Spire suddenly felt far less daunting.

Reaching Floor 10 soon? Entirely feasible.

His anxiety eased.

Having a reliable teammate was incredibly reassuring.

—but before relief could settle, a faint, hazy whisper brushed his ear.

At first, illusion. Then, listening closely, he traced it to an object in the guild master’s office.

Noah glanced sideways. A jet-black staff leaned quietly against the wall.

A staff couldn’t speak. Couldn’t walk. Couldn’t flip into a back handspring.

But Noah knew: the Ayn Continent defied common sense.

As Anna put it—“If Shirley, a *bird*, gets acrophobic… what *wouldn’t* happen?”

Especially this staff. It had been eerie from the start.

Now, Noah sensed it—not sound, not vibration, but something closer to will or thought—rippling into his mind like waves.

Alert, he rose slowly from his chair, stepping closer with caution.

The mental waves sharpened with each step… until two words echoed deep within his consciousness:

“Come.”

Noah: “…”

Why did those words feel so familiar?

In an instant—

His mind tore free again.

Soul parted from body. Awareness floated outward as he watched his stiffened form below. Perspective soared upward, bursting through the office ceiling into the sky.

*That’s* why “Come” sounded familiar.

He was ascending *again*!

…

…

Having done this once, Noah stayed calm. He observed.

Colors blurred. The world shattered, then reassembled.

Familiar.

*Exactly* like transitioning between floors of The Spire.

Last time, climbing with three unlucky girls—after each floor, the world would fracture and rebuild into something new.

“So… I might not be *actually* ascending,” Noah murmured, reasoning calmly. “My spirit drifted out—but that doesn’t mean I’m flying into clouds. Teleportation?”

The rising sensation felt intensely real.

Most would panic. Some might wet themselves.

Noah remained composed—a habit, or perhaps his mind simply slipped into pure, detached thought.

Half a minute later, the world solidified.

A new scene unfolded.

“Hm?”

Utterly different from before.

Last time: a dawn-lit sky, soft clouds underfoot, pale but serene hues.

Now: an emerald pond beneath a star-dusted sky.

Jade-green water stretched under his feet. An eerie, biting wind swept around—but the lake stayed clear as glass.

Farther off, a waterfall of the same ghostly green poured from a shadowy void above.

A faint white mist drifted over lake and falls—scattering, reforming, cycling pointlessly.

Noah looked down. He stood firmly on the surface. No sinking.

As a spirit form, it felt normal.

What felt *wrong*: no flickering door. No Starry River Giant.

Everything changed. Even the faintly stirring wind carried a scent unlike the cloud-sea world.

This wasn’t Kale’s realm.

“Pascal found the gem in the cloud-sea world…” Noah recalled. “He called it a relic of Kale, the God of Holy Light.”

So that place was likely Kale’s “heaven.”

Then… whose “heaven” was *this*?

He didn’t know.

But he’d find out soon.

Ten meters ahead, through the thin mist, a figure stood—waving to him.