Most people would have shown at least a sliver of interest in the prophet's riddle.

But the original Nikellus was not someone who indulged in the riddles of others. His temperament simply didn't allow for such courtesy.

He had, in fact, been on the verge of dismissing the prophet’s words and forcing himself awake from the dream.

And he likely would have done so—had the prophet not added something extraordinary.

"This dream belongs to a sage who lived for hundreds of years. As a sage, he knew the answers to all problems, including the one you, Your Eminence, so desperately seek to solve."

Nikellus, with his unrelenting curiosity, finally stopped to listen.

The prophet’s lips curved into a mysterious smile, as if they had expected this reaction all along.

"The answer lies here, in my hand. But if you want it... you must come find me."

The prophet continued, offering a bargain:

Free them from the grasp of a certain count, and in return, they would allow Nikellus to gaze into the sage's dream, where he could uncover the solution, he craved.

The problem? Nikellus’s memories, fragmented and unreliable as they were, only let me recall up to that point.

What was this "problem" he was so desperate to solve? It was infuriatingly unclear.

I tried probing the memories again, hoping to unearth a clue.

"I swear on the honor of my lineage. If you rescue me, I’ll ensure you gain access to the dream. Then, the Nameless Solution shall be yours."

But no matter how hard I tried, the most critical part—the prophet's exact words—remained elusive. It was as if someone had edited the memory, muffling the voice into an incoherent jumble.

One thing was clear, though: Nikellus had taken great pains to keep this “problem” a secret.

That’s why, when he set out for Philma Province to rescue the prophet, he went alone.

Even when Lucia grilled him afterward— “Why did you stir up trouble in Philma Province of all places?”—

he had shrugged and lied, “The count annoyed me.”

He’d kept the true goal, the prophet’s rescue, hidden from everyone.

What could it have been? What secret was so critical that even someone as reckless as Nikellus would risk everything to save a prophet from captivity?

As the thoughts swirled in my mind, I solidified my resolve.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Whatever it was, it was undeniably significant. I would find that prophet, rescue them, and finally uncover the truth.

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“Hey, isn’t that the villa where the prophet’s being held?” Rubin’s voice startled me.

I looked up.

There, atop a cliff overlooking the frothing white waves of the sea, stood a solitary white villa, bathed in moonlight.

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Outside the Temple Grounds

As Bliss and Lucia stepped out into the cool night air, Lucia broke the silence.

“It feels odd to ask after insisting we go look for him, but… why? Why are you helping? Honestly, I didn’t expect you to agree so readily.”

From her perspective, Bliss’s assistance was a godsend.

The church couldn’t risk a public search for Nikellus, not with the growing scrutiny of the Order upon him. A fiasco—like finding him passed out drunk in a tavern after leading a nighttime search party—would undo the goodwill his recent archaeological successes had built.

Bliss’s willingness to help, quietly and efficiently, was a relief.

But it was also puzzling. He wasn’t the type to bother with matters that didn’t concern him.

Bliss offered a faint smirk. “You remind me of someone.”

Lucia’s brow furrowed as she caught his next words.

“My little brother. Left him behind at the palace. You’re close in age, too.”

Her steps faltered. His brother?

He could only mean Ernen von Frisk, the half-brother who had usurped Bliss’s throne.

Bliss had every reason to hate him, yet here he was, drawing parallels between Nikellus and the very person who betrayed him.

Did that mean he wanted to kill Nikellus? Or… protect him?

Bliss’s intentions were impossible to decipher, leaving Lucia standing in her tracks until his voice snapped her out of it.

“Hurry up, Lucia. It’s getting colder. Wouldn’t want someone as delicate as Your Eminence catching a cold.”

Was he mocking her, or genuinely concerned? She couldn’t tell. Shaking her head, she followed him to the cathedral stables.

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Inside, amidst the soft nickering of horses, a guttural sound rumbled.

Lucia approached a scaled beast with a dragon-like form, far smaller than true dragons, making it ideal for riders.

These tamed beasts, known as draconic steeds, were bred for speed and endurance, making them perfect for long-distance travel.

The pair chose the swiftest steeds available and prepared to set out.

Bliss activated a skill, and ghostly figures shimmered into view—spirits of the departed. His S-rank skill, Aid of the Lost, allowed him to summon these entities to gather intelligence.

To Lucia, their whispers were unintelligible, a haunting cacophony. But Bliss listened carefully, nodding occasionally.

“They say he’s at the southwestern coast of Philma Province. After attacking the count’s manor, he headed there.”

Lucia blinked. “Wait… attacked? Are you sure?”

“Yes. Slaughtered the guards. No apologies, no mercy.”

Her shock turned to anger. “Why? After all the trouble we went through to negotiate reparations with Philma Province, why ruin it like this?”

Bliss shrugged. “Spirits aren’t omniscient. They can only report what they’ve witnessed.”

Before she could press further, one spirit’s form contorted, letting out a piercing scream.

Lucia’s blood ran cold.

“What was that?” she asked.

Bliss dismissed the spirits, his expression unusually grim.

“They’re warning us. Our dear Nikellus is about to face something… truly horrifying.”

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The Villa’s Perimeter

I crouched in the shadows of the forest, scanning the villa through a high-powered telescope Rubin had lent me.

The lack of security was unsettling. It didn’t match the count’s earlier desperation to keep the prophet confined.

Something was off. It’s almost like they want me to walk in…

A dreadful thought crossed my mind.

“Rubin,” I called softly. “Stay here. I’ll go in alone.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s a trap,” I said, my voice firm.

The pieces were falling into place. The prophet’s earlier behavior, the strange security—or lack thereof—it all pointed to one thing.

“This isn’t a rescue. It’s a setup. And the prophet orchestrated all of it.”