Michael sprinted through the winding streets, his lungs burning as the acrid scent of smoke filled the air. His mind raced faster than his feet, the image of the billowing fire in the distance seared into his thoughts.

His house. His father.

The dread tightened around his chest with every step.

'Dad... Please be okay. Please...'

The cobblestones blurred beneath him as he tore through the city, ignoring the distant shouts of townsfolk. The flames in the distance grew larger, painting the sky with a sinister red glow. His breath came in ragged gasps, his legs screaming for respite, but he didn't slow down.

He couldn't.

Not now.

When he reached the street leading to his house, he stumbled to a halt. The scene before him drained the color from his face; his lips parting as the ash and flames glistened in the reflection of his eyes.

The house he had grown up in, the one he shared with his father, was engulfed in a raging inferno. The roof had already caved in, and the walls crumbled under the relentless assault of the flames, devouring everything in their path.

A crowd had gathered, their faces pale with shock and horror. Some shouted frantically for water, others cried out in desperation, their voices barely rising above the roar of the fire.

"WHERE ARE THE WATER MAGES!? WE NEED PRIEST HEALERS TOO!" someone yelled, their voice straining with urgency.

"DID ANYONE SEE MICHAEL OR MR. EVENBROWN?!" another voice called out, echoing the mounting panic of the neighbors.

"Was it an attack?!" someone else speculated, fear lacing their words.

The cacophony of the crowd blurred into a distant hum as Michael stumbled forward, his gaze locked on the wreckage that had once been his home.

"MICHAEL! YOU'RE ALIVE!" a neighbor cried out, pointing him out to the others. The nervous mob collectively exhaled in relief.

"Thank the Goddess you weren’t inside!"

But Michael didn’t acknowledge them.

His legs moved on their own, carrying him through the heat and smoke, closer and closer—until his gaze landed on the collapsed figure near the edge of the rubble.

His father.

"I... Is that... Mr. Evenbrown?!" someone whispered in disbelief, their voice trembling as they pointed toward the prone figure in the wreckage.

The crowd fell into a stunned silence, their eyes widening as the realization sank in. But Michael barely registered their murmurs. His focus remained on the motionless form lying amidst the ashes.

Michael's heart dropped to his stomach.

"Dad!!!" he cried out; his voice cracking as he rushed to the man's side.

The older man was barely recognizable. His clothes were singed and torn, his face blackened with soot. Half of his body was covered in burns, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and distant.

"You..." his father rasped, his voice barely audible over the crackling flames.

Michael dropped to his knees, his hands trembling as he lifted his father gently, his fingers brushing against the soot-streaked fabric of the man’s tunic.

"I—I'm here," he whispered, his voice breaking as tears welled in his eyes. "You're going to be okay. The healers will come. We'll fix this. Just... stay with me. Please... just stay with me."

But his father's gaze drifted past him, unfocused. A faint, bittersweet smile touched his lips as he reached out—grasping for something, or someone.

"Haylee... honey... I'm coming..." His voice was soft, distant, already fading.

Michael froze. His chest tightened as he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

"HEY!!!" he screamed, his voice raw, cracking. He leaned in closer, his face inches from his father's, his words desperate, fierce—like he could breathe life into the dying man with sheer force of will.

"MOTHER ISN'T DEAD, REMEMBER!!!!? SHE LEFT!!!"

His father didn't flinch. His gaze remained locked on that imagined visage beyond Michael’s shoulder, his fingers twitching as if reaching for her—his final goodbye.

Michael's breath came in ragged gasps as he shook his head violently.

"I'M HERE!" He pounded his fist against his chest. "I'M RIGHT HERE!"

His voice broke on the next scream. "LOOK AT ME! I'VE ALWAYS BEEN HERE WITH YOU, WASN'T I!!?"

The fire crackled. The silence stretched unbearably thin.

Then, slowly—painfully—Michael's voice dropped to a whisper. His fists unclenched. His strength gave way to a trembling, childlike plea.

"Please... please... Dad... just stay. Please."

His head sank against his father's chest. He pressed his forehead to the familiar, comforting scent of sweat and smoke, clinging to it, refusing to let go.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of his own sobs.

Then—a touch.

His father's hand, trembling and weak, fell gently on the back of his head.

Michael gasped, his heart leaping with fragile hope. "Dad...?"

Slowly, he raised his head, only to see his father's hand slip away, lifeless. It fell limp by his side, and his gaze remained fixed—past Michael, staring into the nothingness beyond.

Michael shook his head in disbelief. "No... no, no, no!" He shook his father gently, then more desperately, his hands gripping the fabric of his tunic.

"Dad! Please! Don't go! Please!"

No response.

The quiet murmur of morning birds filled the air, the distant hum of life continuing as if nothing had changed. The world moved on—but his world was crumbling to ash.

"DAD!!!"

His voice cracked. "DAD!!!"

But the only answer was silence.

And in that silence, Michael’s scream tore through the day.

Footsteps approached, hurried and unsure. A priest knelt beside them, placing a glowing scepter on the older man's chest. The soft light flickered, wavering for a brief moment before fading completely.

The priest bowed his head. "It's no use," he murmured solemnly. "He's... gone. I'm sorry, Michael. I came as fast as I could from the local church."

Michael sat frozen, clutching his father's lifeless body. His gaze traced that familiar, bittersweet smile—fixed on something beyond him, on someone who wasn't there.

The priest rested a hand on Michael's shoulder, his voice soft with pity. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by hushed whispers:

"No way... Mr. Evenbrown..."

"He's dead? But... he was everything Michael had..."

"The poor boy... who could’ve done something like this?"

Their neighbors murmured, their faces drawn with pity and unease as they watched the scene unfold. Some frowned deeply, others averted their gaze, unwilling to meet Michael’s broken stare.

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Michael’s lips trembled, his voice hollow as he spoke to the priest.

"Can I... have a moment with him?"

The mage nodded and rose, stepping back to give him space.

Michael waited. He waited until the footsteps faded and the street fell silent again, save for the gentle rustling of leaves in the morning breeze.

And then—

Something inside him snapped.

With a guttural scream, he drove his fists down on his father's chest.

"I'M ALSO WORTHY OF LOVE!!!" he roared, his voice splitting the peaceful air like a blade. "I'M YOUR SON! I'M HERE! BUT YOU DARE... CALL FOR THAT BITCH WHO LEFT?!"

His fists came down again and again, each blow harder than the last, punctuated by sobbing curses.

"YOU'RE ALREADY A FUCKING CORPSE, AREN'T YOU?! THEN I CAN BEAT YOU AS MUCH AS I WANT, RIGHT?!!!"

He slammed his fists into the man’s face, drawing blood from cracked lips. The smile still lingered—that smile that wasn't meant for him.

And Michael hated it.

His fists rained down, wild and unrelenting.

"CALLING OUT FOR THAT BITCH!"

"DRINKING YOURSELF INTO MISERY WHEN I NEEDED YOU!"

His voice broke. "I NEEDED YOU!"

A sob tore from his throat. "YOU PIECE OF SHIT! YOU FUCKER!"

He punched harder, his knuckles split and bloodied.

"FUCKER!"

Another punch.

"FUCKER!"

And another.

"FUCKER! FUCKER! FUCKER!"

The people around him stood frozen, staring in stunned silence.

Some turned away, unable to bear the rawness of his grief. Others whispered in hushed, horrified voices.

A woman’s voice broke through the silence. "Michael, STOP—!"

She took a hesitant step forward, but her husband caught her arm, shaking his head slowly, solemnly.

Their little boy peeked out from behind his father’s legs, wide-eyed, his voice small and confused.

"Why is Mikey hitting his daddy...?"

The mother knelt down, gently turning the boy’s face away. "Sweetie, you shouldn’t look…"

But Michael didn’t care. He didn’t hear them.

All he saw was his father's face.

And all he heard was the echo of a name that wasn’t his.

His fists came down again, harder, faster. His knuckles split open, blood mixing with blood, but he didn’t stop.

Not until he heard the sickening crack of bone.

His father’s jaw snapped, hanging limp at an unnatural angle. Blood dripped from his lips, painting Michael’s fists in crimson. But still, that damned smile lingered—a smile that wasn’t meant for him.

"You bastard…" Michael growled through gritted teeth, his voice low and rasping.

"You selfish bastard… I was here. I stayed. But you…" His chest heaved, his breaths ragged.

"You... Keep calling for that bitch..." His voice cracked as tears fell from his eyes.

His fists trembled, his body shaking with exhaustion, but he forced the words out through clenched teeth.

"You just… wanted THOSE FUCKING CHEATING WHORES BACK!"

Silence.

Finally, his fists stilled. He sat back on his knees, his body trembling with exhaustion. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, blood dripping from his knuckles onto the dirt.

His gaze drifted to the smoldering ruins of his home—just charred rubble now.

For a long moment, he just stared, breathing hard, before something clicked in his mind. His eyes slowly lifted to the sky.

"It happened…" he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "Just when I said those words, right?"

He struggled to his feet, swaying as his legs threatened to give out beneath him. His breathing was shallow, uneven, but he pushed forward, dragging himself through the wreckage, his boots crunching over broken wood and ashes.

One thought burned in his mind.

The crest.

He stumbled toward the remains of his room, hands shaking as he dug through the debris. He shoved aside splintered wood and broken stone, ignoring the sting of sharp edges cutting into his palms.

His fingers brushed against something cold.

Slowly, he pulled it free from the ashes, holding it up to the light.

The crest.

It was intact. Not a single crack or chip on its surface.

But there was more. He stared at it, his eyes narrowing.

Burn marks.

Radiating out from the crest itself.

Like the explosion had started there.

His lips parted.

"I see…" he whispered. His fingers curled tighter around the crest. His knuckles turned white as the sharp edges bit into his skin.

"Bernard."

His voice came out low, guttural. He could barely get the words out through clenched teeth.

"You wanted to kill me."

His fists trembled as he stared at the crest.

"Fine."

He took a step back from the wreckage, standing upright despite his shaking legs. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, steadying his breathing.

Then he opened them again.

"When Anne and Lizzy wake up… my life is over."

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. His voice shook, but he kept going.

"No one loves me. No one cares about me anymore."

He raised the crest, staring at it with hollow eyes.

"And once they wake up… they'll tell their moms."

His hand trembled as he gripped the crest tighter.

"I'll die." His voice cracked, but he kept speaking. "Either by Aunt—.... Either by Amoria…" He paused, correcting himself. "Or by Marcy."

He exhaled, a shaky breath escaping his lips.

He then let out a soft, bitter laugh.

"Yeah… I’ll die, won’t I?" His gaze remained fixed on the crest in his hand.

And then—something inside him shifted.

His lips curled into a thin, lifeless smile. His eyes darkened with resolve.

"I have nothing to live for."

He held the crest higher, letting the sunlight catch its surface. His fingers curled around it like a weapon.

"Bernard Von Brayle…" His voice was steady now. Deadpan. Emotionless.

"Prepare to die."

----------------------- ELSEWHERE ----------------------

"AHH, YOU STINKING, LOUSY DWARF! YOU KNOW YOUR SHIT, AHH!? THAT'S MY TYPE OF GUY; THOUGH YOU'RE STILL A FUCKING AMATEUR!" Belial shouted, his voice booming across the tavern as he slammed his mug on the table, spilling ale everywhere.

Across from him, Arnolt cackled with equal fervor, his beard dripping with foam. He leaned over to Van, grinning like a man possessed.

"AHAHAHA! BRAT, I DON'T KNOW WHERE YOU FOUND THIS SHIT-BUCKET OF A HUMAN, BUT HE'S MY FAVORITE HUMAN TODAY!"

Arnolt wrapped an arm around Belial’s neck, the two of them locking shoulders like long-lost brothers, mugs raised high in celebration.

"But those axes need some refinement, you lousy dwarf. You won't respect your weapon, ain't no weapon's gonna respect you," Belial scolded, pointing at Arnolt with his mug.

"Ahhhh, piss off! The weapons're fine. You're gonna lecture me now, you stinkin' brat!?" Arnolt shot back, his voice more gruff as he leaned in, scowling.

Belial snorted, shaking his head.

"The fuck they are, blind old fuck. Blindfolded, I could tell those axes are practically crumbling."

Without waiting for a response, Belial reached over and effortlessly pulled the axe from Arnolt’s back holster. The heavy weapon hit the table with a loud thud, drawing a few curious glances from nearby patrons.

"Look at the dent here, you prick," Belial continued, tapping the blade with his finger.

"See this? That dent. You've been leaving it in damp places, haven't you? I don’t care if you piss on it, but wipe it down at least once a day. Otherwise, this metal—hell, any metal—is gonna weaken and eventually rust."

The dwarf’s eyes narrowed, his gaze fixating on the spot Belial pointed to. His fingers traced the dent, brow furrowing in thought.

After a long pause, he grunted.

"Shit..."

Arnolt glanced back up at Belial, his expression somewhere between surprised and impressed.

"Brat… you don’t look older than your twenties. Where the hell’d you learn all this?"

Belial raised his mug, taking a long swig of ale before slamming it back down on the table.

"None of your business."

He leaned forward, jabbing a finger toward Arnolt.

"Just take care of your fucking weapon!"

Arnolt stared at him for a moment longer before letting out a low chuckle, nodding thoughtfully.

"Aye... Fair enough."

Van sighed, rubbing his temple as he watched the pair practically fuse into one loud, drunken entity.

'They’re… getting along really well, huh?' he thought, leaning back in his seat. 'Guess it was a given with their personalities. But who would’ve thought Alicia’s cousin is such a master craftsman that even a dwarf respects him?'

"Lord Belial," Mirias let out softly as she sat next to Van, her voice more subdued compared to the rowdy exchange.

"... Had given up on making bonds with other... Uhm, nobles where we came from." She started, reflecting on their past.

"He had no one to talk to, and no one to turn to. So he turned to blacksmithing as a hobby. According to him, if you treated a weapon like a heap of garbage, it will return the favor... I guess that's why he liked it so much," she said, her gaze softening as she looked at Belial somberly.

"It gave him something he wanted that we de... We and the other nobles could never give him," she continued, her words drawing Sylva’s and Vaelthir’s attention.

"To think there are nobles as rough as him..." Ami murmured to herself, almost in awe.

'Hm. They're so alike, him and Magus. But if there's one key difference, it's that Belial is much more honest to both himself and to others,' Van thought to himself.

Beside him, Sylva quietly spoke up, her voice cutting through the noise.

"Arnolt seems much better," she observed, her soft tone drawing Van’s attention.

He turned to her. "Hm?"

Sylva’s sharp eyes locked onto his.

"Van Hellix."

"You’re a summoned hero, aren’t you? The other one—summoned alongside Magus Veil. Then… we need to talk."

Before Van could respond, Savathon bellowed from across the table, slamming his mug down with a thunderous crash.

"AHHH, BE SILENT WITH ALL THESE TALKS! THIS IS A TAVERN! DRINK SOMETHING!"

He staggered toward Sylva, a jug of ale in hand, trying to shove it in her face.

Sylva didn’t flinch. But before the ale could spill, Vaelthir—expressionless and dignified as ever—pushed Savathon’s hand away with two fingers. The Dragonkin growled in irritation but didn’t press further.

Van sat back, watching the scene unfold. Laughter. Smiles. Casual banter.

For a moment, it all seemed normal.

But his mind drifted back.

Kota's words echoed in his head.

About how the Goddess had set everything up.

How she wanted everyone he cared about dead.

He gave Ami a passing glance. She was giggling, practically glued to his side, her purple hair falling in waves as she leaned toward him.

Van looked down, lost in thought.

"Van?" Ami’s voice softened, noticing his distant expression.

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor.

"I need a bathroom break. Be right back."

His voice was flat, deadpan. Without waiting for a response, he turned and headed for the tavern’s toilet.

Inside the dim, cramped space, Van leaned against the door, exhaling a long, shaky breath.

He wiped his face with his hands, his mind racing.

'Next time I might not get so lucky.'

He flicked his wrist, summoning his status window in front of him. The familiar screen hovered in the air, glowing faintly.

'I need to stop relying on luck.'

He scrolled through the interface, his fingers trembling slightly.

'Now it's confirmed. The Goddess wants me dead. I don’t know why. I don’t know her reasons. But I know one thing—she won’t stop until I’m gone.'

His thoughts darkened as Unicus's face flashed in his mind.

'Whatever took over him… It was stronger than Alicia. Stronger than me.'

'He was a hero, like me. Like Magus.'

Van’s gaze sharpened as he scrolled to the final section of his status window.

The part that spoke of Ascension.

His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the screen.

[... To begin your Ascension, you must agree to lose everything.]

"What..?"

[Reset to level 1. Sacrifice all your stats and skills.]

[In return, you will awaken as a God; and grow beyond all limits.]

Silence.

Van clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white as he stared at the screen, his thoughts spiraling.

[DO YOU ACCEPT?]

[YES] [NO]

His eyes wandered below; there was a warning:

[Be warned: Refuse, and you will never have the choice again.]

[Godhood will forever be out of your reach. Its strength will forever elude you.]