Heath had never lost before. Victory was all he knew.

Ever since he had awakened, Emperor Nimbus himself had personally mentored him. He taught him about philosophy, politics, warfare, strategy, power dynamics, and how to read people. He was always by his side, analysing and thinking about every little decision Emperor Nimbus made. From the smallest microexpression in his face to the empire-wide campaigns. He was always there just…watching.

In the process, he had also picked up his many bad habits.

One of them included becoming frustrated and shouting loudly whenever things didn't go the way he wanted—despite what his strategy textbooks may say about remaining calm in every situation.

So when Heath saw the message from the system, his entire demeanour made a complete one-eighty. The previously calm and serene man turned into a raging demon from hell.

"LYANITE, GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING WINGS!" Heath shouted at the top of his lungs as he scrambled onto the table, causing everyone to stare at him wide-eyed.

All the decades of intelligent learning were immediately tossed out of the window.

Heath Ada Levine had one hour to travel across half the continent, reach Milo, Son of George, and then kill him in combat. He didn't have time to negotiate calm-headedly. He needed to get there as soon as possible. Fortunately, the connections in his mind were already forming and within a few seconds, he already had a plan as to how to get there.

After haggling with a snickering Lyanite for twenty, achingly long seconds, Heath coughed up his most valuable treasure, and in return, the blonde youth—who was in actuality 233 years old—snapped his fingers, causing a pair of grey wings to appear from the darkness that had gathered unto the room's high ceiling.

"I wonder what has you in such a rush—"

Before Lyanite could finish his sentence, Heath had adorned the wings onto his back and smashed through the wall of the tower in his path of flight, sending bricks flying through the air and long stretches of its walls to tumble through the air. His silhouette quickly turned into a dot in the distant sky, a small gap in the white clouds having formed in his wake.

For some reason, an eerie silence hung in the room after Heath's abrupt departure.

Everyone looked unfazed by the turn of events that had just occurred.

The greatest reaction anyone elicited was a shrug from Lyanite himself.

After a few moments, someone asked.

"Do we chase?"

It was briefly silent before Allien, leader of the "Hedgekirks", answered this question.

"No. I knew this would happen. The oracle's predictions are true. If we make chase, we risk dabbling in the affairs of Gods. I assume that everyone here wishes to keep their peace and power indefinitely. Do you concur, circle?"

"Concur!" Everyone else shouted in unison.

***

In the world above…

The God of Fate cackled maniacally as a black shadow sucked away at him like a parasite. He writhed around on the ground like he was being electrocuted. Legs kicking and hands flapping against his chest, the giant of a God that could blot out skies and stomp cities underneath his feet was at the mercy of a single, tiny, and unassuming black shadow.

Whispers from the black shadow appeared in the mind of the God of Fate.

"Issue a quest…"

"Kill him…or else…scions will be eradicated."

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"Destruction…of your entire world."

"Do as I…say."

"Do not…question me."

The God of Fate had predicted this day coming over a million years ago. He just didn't know what it could be. What caused him great distress was that he knew if he told anyone about this prediction, all of them would be doomed.

This was something he had to face alone.

He had prepared in every way he could, but he could have never expected them to come over to this tiny, insignificant world.

He and his fifteen other brothers and sisters—fourteen now—had taken every precaution to separate themselves from their affairs. Therefore, somehow, and somewhere along the way, one of them had messed up. Or they were just extremely unfortunate.

He had already read through the threads of fate too many times for a mortal to count. Not a single thread of fate had been left unaccounted for. With all the time spent running his fingers along them, even a God would need to sleep sometimes.

The only possibility was that someone from outside had meddled in their world.

Novik continued to flail around helplessly as the black shadow quietly whispered its commands into his mind.

He could only comply, hoping that fate was on his side.

***

Eyes bloodshot and veins bulging out of his forehead, Heath Ada Levine's thoughts raced out of control.

He had a strange kind of disassociation at this moment. The combination of limitless rage, desperation, and heart-wrenching fear made for a strong cocktail. It was to the point of almost blacking out every other moment.

The wings that Heath wore on his back were forged a thousand years ago in the time of Igris. When angels still descended down from the heavens to work miracles and save the world from its own destruction.

The wings were actually plucked from the back of an angel.

In exchange for the Ring of Dorian, he received the wings of a fallen angel for an hour. But that was all he needed to travel across the continent and reach Kirkstead. After only five minutes, he was already halfway there.

The landscapes had blurred under him endlessly. River after river, tree after tree, mountain after mountain, Heath had flown.

But it was as he was at the halfway point that he felt a malfunction in the wings.

The next moment, he realised that his control over the wings had been wrenched from him.

He immediately plummeted to the ground head-first quicker than he could blink. But Heath was faster than lightning. In the instant, before he made an impact with the ground, he conjured up a full-body, skin-tight shield.

Like a ragdoll, he tumbled forward for over a hundred meters and through several trees before he finally came to a stop in a shallow, mud-filled trench before a small hill.

As soon as he stopped, Lyanite's voice travelled into his right ear.

"I'm sorry, Heath. This is as far as I'm willing to take you. Any further, and I would risk my own and the Hedgekirk's safety. I hope you can understand, and I wish you good luck."

Heath's fists clenched and he screamed to the top of his lungs.

"You traitor!!"

***

When Milo was asked by Ostin as to how he had learned to use the pedestal to control the array of Kirkstead, Milo smiled and pointed behind him. Ostin, bespeckled as he was, scrunched his eyebrows in confusion, turned around and saw a person he thought he would never see.

Scuttling over with a wooden cane in one hand was a hunchbacked old lady. She looked like a starved vampire that had awoken from her casket after a one-hundred-year-long nap. Dark eyebags lay beneath tired, sagging eyes. A hand trembled as it held onto the cane. Small feet wobbled as they stepped forward.

Ostin recognised her immediately.

It was [Royal Inquisitor] Freya.

What was she doing here in Kirkstead? Wasn't she dead and executed for treachery?

As soon as Ostin saw her, he froze. The air in his lungs stilled. His own vision widened and trembled, her figure stretching from one end to the other in his distorted eye.

The chilling voice of a haggard old woman appeared in his mind.

"Try anything—you're dead. Tell anyone about me—you're dead. Make any sudden movements—you're dead."

Ostin clenched his teeth as he heard her words via [Telepathy]. His eyes turned dark. He was furious that he was so powerless before the ex-[Royal Inquisitor]. He knew that a fight between him and her would only end in his death. And if they did, Milo would get caught in the crossfire, and die too.

When Freya continued, her voice was calm, slow, and soft like honey.

"Only because you are Milo's brother, have I stayed my hand. Act normally and I won't have any problems. Have I made myself clear, [Blue Saint] Ostin?"

As soon as Ostin realised she wasn't an active threat, and that she could have already killed him, he calmed down. He took in a deep breath, exhaled, and put on the fakest smile he could muster.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, what's your name?"

***

"Motherfucker. Motherfucker. Motherfucker. Motherfucker…"

Heath Ada Levine cursed endlessly inside his mind as he calculated his time spent.

Thirty seconds to negotiate for and receive the [(Stolen) Wings of Igris].

Five minutes to get halfway there.

Two minutes to think through his options once he was betrayed by Lyanite. Another two minutes to cast [Insight], [Future Impression], [Foresee].

Four minutes to travel to the nearest village.

One minute to slaughter and collect the blood of a deer herd.

Another whole minute to mentally calculate and improvise the schematic for a magic circle.

Eleven and a half minutes to draw the damn thing.

Finally, one minute and forty seconds of frantic speaking later, the circle hummed to life.

The village was soaked in a red hue. A dome appeared over the village.

No one could escape.

Heath didn't watch. Even for him, it was a bit much.

Thirty seconds later, everyone was dead.

A minute later, he utilized the collective life force of 144 people to teleport himself over to Grecia's capital.

If Heath attempted to teleport directly over to Greenlodge, then even a Level 100 [Empyrean] wasn't safe from getting ripped apart by space itself. Ever since Arr'ya's death, space had grown unstable. Long-distance teleportation was no longer viable. This was the best he could do.

Thirty minutes down. Thirty left to go.