On the other side of the door, his world unfolded—a vast library carved deep into the earth, descending impossibly far. Zerin stood on a narrow, carpeted walkway suspended along the highest floor. The worn fabric muffled his first steps.
To his left, a rail traced the edge. Beyond it, a sheer drop opened into the lower tiers—each floor smaller than the last, shrinking in rings until the lowest level faded into a bluish haze.
The air itself felt archived.
Old paper. Leather. And something else—something that seeped up from the stone.
There was no dust. No draft. It was as though the entire space had been holding its breath for a very long time.
Zerin turned, glancing over his shoulder.
The [Red Door] still hung in the air behind him—a wound in reality, its edges rippling. Through the tear, the upper half of the Veinborne was suspended within the vermillion bleed. Its face hidden in the shadows of its blood-blackened robe, only its crimson eyes visible.
"Head back," Zerin said.
The Wraith obeyed without hesitation. Without question.
In a ghastly, soundless motion, it slipped backward into the red fracture. The moment it fully vanished, the light collapsed inward, folding into itself. Where the fracture had been, only the library's cool ambient light remained, as if nothing had been there at all.
Zerin lingered, letting the absence settle.
One simple command was enough.
If everything yielded like the Veinborne, there would be no problems.
He lowered his gaze and shifted inward to inspect his runes.
Name: [Zerin]
True Name: [Twin God]
Rank: [Dormant]
Blood Shards: 0/7
Soul Fragments: 713/1000
Zerin fixed his gaze on the number, searing it into memory.
Seven hundred thirteen.
Enough to leave the Dream Realm—if he chose.
But he wouldn't.
To leave now would be retreat. An abandonment of the words he had already spoken, the path already in motion.
Aspect: [Lord Of Veins]
Aspect Rank: [Divine]
Divine.
The rune stood there, as if the concept itself could be measured. No explanation—only a designation demanding to be accepted without question.
And yet.
If his aspect was truly something great, something worthy of that word—why had he struggled as he had?
From the first moment he opened his eyes—naked, shivering, sprawled across an icy mountainside—to the depths of this labyrinth. Why had every single step felt earned only through strain, through risk, through near failure?
A Divine thing should not stumble. A Divine thing should not bleed. A Divine thing should not claw its way forward in desperation.
For all he knew—and he knew so little—there were no others like him.
No other Divine Aspect holders.
No other gods walking in the realm of the living.
A scoff slipped from him.
God.
A title that fit him as well as a crown fit a corpse.
He didn't feel like one. He could hardly measure up to his own Veinborne—let alone see himself becoming something like the already-slain Beast God, whose ghost still seemed to stalk him beyond the grave.
Its ghost alone had threatened to be his undoing. And he was supposed to share a category with it?
That thought led him further, unwinding into something more uncertain.
Wisteria.
What was she, in relation to that Beast God—if she was that very deity?
He remembered his First Nightmare. Wisteria was the harvest itself. The Goddess reborn, the Beast God returned. And yet, when he had stood before her, when she had looked at him—
She was just a normal girl. And unmistakably other. Not simply the same entity in different form.
So what did that make him, since he had stolen her divinity?
"I didn't mean to…"
The words mirrored his thoughts—but the voice was not his own.
Zerin dismissed his runes, head turning to track the sound. [Sanguine Surge] helped him pinpoint it: not on his floor, but below, among the descending levels.
Another voice followed—one that confused him.
"It's okay—just look at me. Stay with me, Sister."
Sixth floor.
He was already moving. Sword in hand, he passed the shelves in a quickened stride, then took the spiraling stairs downward at a pace just short of a run.
The voices continued, but his focus narrowed.
Closer.
Clearer.
At the landing of the sixth floor, Zerin slowed. He stepped off the final stair.
A carpeted aisle stretched ahead—shelves lining both sides, dividing into narrower passages. At its end, he saw movement.
A figure.
No—
Two.
His gaze locked onto the familiar one.
Ecludia.
Alive. Unharmed. Close enough he could hear her breathing.
For a moment, everything else drifted away.
Then he saw the hand.
Her hand.
Held.
His focus dragged forward—slowly, unwillingly—toward the one leading her.
A presence that should not exist.
"...No."
Because he had killed him.
Ivan.
The name surfaced like a splinter forced from the skin.
Ivan.
Zerin's sword arm didn't rise. The weight of his blade remained at his side, his knuckles pale around the grip—but the weapon unmoving. He just stood there, fixed on the carpeted aisle of the sixth floor.
A dull ambience pressed in around him as he watched a dead man hold Ecludia's hand with the casual ease of someone who hadn't just been cut down.
Executed. For confessing to heinous acts.
It was the ease that began to unmake him. Ivan's thumb rested across the back of her knuckles as though it had always belonged there.
And Ecludia—she allowed it. Her posture held no tension, no reluctance. Her shoulders relaxed. An air of trust. Her fingers curled loosely around Ivan's, her breathing calm. Whatever history they had didn't include him.
No matter how illogical it all was.
That was when his sword hand trembled.
The tremor started in his fingers and rolled up through his wrist. The anger that had been simmering beneath now boiled to the surface.
It wasn't just that Ivan had lived—that he stood there whole, unmarked, as though Zerin never split him open and watched him die. It was that his sacrifice was for this. He was risking his life for this.
He would strike him down again.
This time, no chance of return. He would carve Ivan's head clean from his shoulders, sever the spinal column with a single stroke, and stand over what remained of the body himself—until The Spell was forced to acknowledge what Zerin had done.
That was when the rage crested, sharpening into intent. His weight shifted forward onto the balls of his feet. The blade began to rise.
But anger was blood in the water—and Ivan sensed it.
The dead man slowed mid-step. His shoulders stilled. Then, with an almost curious motion, he turned. He peered over his shoulder first, one eye swallowed by absolute darkness, finding the crimson glow of Zerin's gaze through the dim library air.