This was a special prison aboard the Royal Guard airship, reserved for prisoners of noble status.

At the cell’s center sat an elderly general—snow-white hair, a face etched by time.

He sat on a cold black metal chair, shirtless. His muscles remained youthfully firm, yet crisscrossed with old scars.

Thumb-wide black enchanted leather straps bound him tightly, accentuating his powerful frame with a quiet, weathered dignity.

*Clang!*

The black iron door swung open with a heavy groan.

The old general lifted his gaze. Several royal guards carried in a young general, equally bound to a black metal chair.

"Master…"

It was Kroso. The moment he entered, he spotted General Gene—voluntarily restrained, en route to the Holy City. A pang of shame tightened his chest; he couldn’t even explain why he was here.

*Clatter!*

The chair thudded onto the floor. The guards said nothing. They snapped into a crisp Imperial salute toward General Gene, then left without a word.

"I’ve heard what happened. This… perhaps it truly isn’t your fault."

Noting Kroso’s silent shame, General Gene opened his eyes and spoke, voice layered with meaning.

"Master?"

Kroso froze. He’d braced for a scolding.

"Please don’t involve yourself. I’ll handle it. Your spirit is burdened enough—I won’t add to it."

"Heh… Age teaches you to release sorrow. And now… isn’t the time for grief."

General Gene smiled gently. Had his arms been free, he’d have patted his disciple’s shoulder.

"Master…"

Kroso sighed softly, words failing him.

"When the Crown Prince summoned you, he concealed something vital. He sealed all witnesses with a strict gag order. Only learning of your strange condition made me break that silence."

General Gene sighed, watching Kroso’s bowed head.

"What?"

Kroso jolted—this was news to him.

"I lack full details, but I saw it: the Crown Prince sacrificed two millennia-old Imperial artifacts to summon you. Yet your arrival failed to reignite their depleted magic. The high-stakes targeted summoning… failed."

"That ritual was the Empire’s most watched event in years. Success would’ve secured the Crown Prince’s throne. Failure—losing such treasures—left his position dangerously fragile."

"Yet when he saw you… genuine joy lit his face. Strange. Stranger still: after settling you in, he personally warned me never to mention those artifacts. That troubled me."

General Gene’s brow furrowed.

"What is it?"

Sensing hesitation, Kroso strained to recall his summoning.

Nothing felt wrong. The Crown Prince had been… intensely warm. So warm Kroso nearly questioned his motives—admiringly tracing Kroso’s body like an artifact.

"Though he was once my student, royalty shapes thought. Born heir—a target for envy—I cannot fathom his designs."

"You said you were an orphan in your world. Perhaps the Crown Prince knows your true origins better than you. In the Holy City, I’ll walk with you to seek answers."

"Kroso… you might… have always belonged to this world."

His eyes held quiet encouragement, voice softened to a whisper.

Kroso remained stunned.

Until this reunion, he believed his parents died in that chaotic other world—leaving him a scrawny beggar raised in slums.

*Could… my family still live? Somewhere in this world?*

A sudden warmth pricked his eyes.

———————————

Dusk bled across the sky, sunset igniting half the horizon.

Sylvia barely noticed. Leaning against the floor-to-ceiling window of her suite atop the Royal Ceremonial Airship, she stared absently at the nearby guard vessel.

Last night, the Hero refused her aid, insisting on bearing the burden alone—and was taken by royal guards.

Handmaidens carried her to rest. The shattered parlor hole was swiftly mended by rune artisans.

By the time she rose, every trace of last night’s deadly clash had vanished.

Yet memory pulled her back.

The Corrupted Hero lived up to legend—the OP protagonist even cheat-powered monsters couldn’t beat.

His volcanic heat alone would cripple most beings. Add crushing strength, blinding speed…

But worst was his ice-cold, surgical combat mind—a weapon honed for slaughter.

*Is this just a personality shift?*

*Is this power truly his… just uncontrolled?*

*Could High-tier Sacred Healing help him?*

Questions swirled. Unseen even to herself, concern for Kroso had woven itself into instinct.

A soft knock broke the silence.

"Enter."

Only her handmaidens would come now.

"Archangel! We approach the Holy City. Please proceed to the main deck to greet the Church elders."

To her surprise, all handmaidens filed in. With reverent grace, they presented a radiant white down cloak—and atop it, the pure-white Angel Staff.

Sylvia’s nerves snapped taut.

*So… I face those old monsters at last?*