In this world, the currency followed a tri-metallic hierarchy. Solaris reigned at the peak—gold coins stamped with a radiant sun.
Below them sat the silver Argentum, engraved with a spear and shield, and finally the bronze Lumen, marked by a simple stalk of wheat.
The exchange was precise: one Solaris equaled twenty Argentum, while a single Argentum commanded twelve Lumen.
The weight of Aren's fortune became clear when measured against that of the common man.
An unskilled laborer might scrape together eight to twelve Argentum a month; a seasoned clerk, perhaps thirty. Even a newly anointed Nyx could only expect a monthly purse of two to five Solaris.
Aren had enough to buy a thousand lives.
He slipped away from the bank's shadow, walking several blocks before entering a modest tailor's shop. Fabrics of sturdy, unassuming quality lined the windows. When he stepped inside, the bell chimed softly.
The old man behind the counter squinted at Aren's tattered, grime-streaked appearance, a frown deepening in his silver beard. The judgment in his eyes vanished the moment Aren clicked a single Argentum onto the wood.
Minutes later, Aren emerged with a bundle of fresh garments tucked under his arm. He made for the upper-district bathhouses—the kind where the steam smelled of cedar rather than sweat.
For a handful of lumens, he secured a private chamber.
The moment the hot water hit his shoulders, the tension of the past weeks slowly dissolved. The damp, moldy rot of the dungeon; Serena's venomous gaze in the courtroom; Beryl's ice-cold letter—it all scoured away, swirling into the drain at his feet.
He wiped the condensation from the mirror and studied his reflection. He was hollow-cheeked, his skin pale from exhaustion. Yet his eyes—crimson and sharp as bloodstones—burned with a steady, predatory resolve.
***
After a night of restorative sleep, Aren emerged fully refreshed. He made his way to the Nyx Registration Center—a monolith rising at the edge of the capital, yet imposing its authority over every corner of the city.
The architecture abandoned the Kingdom's penchant for Gothic ornamentation. Instead, the octagonal fortress rose in a clinical display of brushed black metal and tinted glass.
At each of its eight vertices, massive energy crystals pierced the sky, their rhythmic glow feeding power into the facility's unseen defenses.
Inside, the lobby's sheer scale commanded silence. Runic floor panels hummed with a faint light, tracking every step Aren took across the hall. At the center stood a sprawling counter where clerks navigated floating holographic displays with practiced ease.
Aren followed a neon-blue sign marked REGISTRATION and approached the main desk. Behind the counter, a woman with a metallic tattoo coiling around her throat worked with blurring speed. She didn't look up.
"Name."
Aren hesitated. He had no intention of letting the Donovan ghost haunt these halls. The only tether remaining was the digital shackle on his wrist. A faint smile touched his lips as he spoke the name of his true identity—the one from his old world.
"Aren Rayne."
The woman's fingers danced across the holographic interface. "Rayne... No noble house or clan on record. Independent?"
"Completely," Aren replied, a hint of amusement coloring his voice.
She finally looked up, her gaze scanning his well-tailored clothes. He didn't look like a common mercenary looking for a quick paycheck. When Aren placed his hand on the scanner, his Aureus bracelet synchronized with the terminal.
The woman froze. A notification flashed across her screen in stark, crimson letters:
CLEARED BY DIVINE JUDGMENT. VERDICT: INNOCENT. RELEASED.
Her eyes snapped to his.
"So, you're the famous 'Innocent'," she muttered, her tone sharpening with caution. "Aren Rayne... dropped the Donovan name, did you? Smart move. You wouldn't have lasted a day in this building with that one."
"Well..." Aren let a cryptic smile play on his lips as the woman keyed a verification code into the touch panel. A soft chime echoed from his wrist, a notification flickering across his Aureus bracelet.
"Registration is complete, Mr. Rayne. Follow the blue track on the floor to the testing wing. You'll be required to undergo a rank evaluation there," she said, handing him a numbered slip.
Aren followed the luminous blue line through a series of sterile corridors until he reached a sprawling waiting area. Rows of applicants sat clutching their slips, their faces a gallery of nerves and raw ambition.
Ten testing chambers flanked the hall, each designed to quantify the soul's potential. Aren found an empty seat, his numbered slip crinkling in his hand. The air was thick with the low hum of desperate prayers and hollow boasts.
"My rank is easily A—if not higher," a man nearby barked, his voice dripping with forced arrogance. "No way a talent like mine was born into the third-rate."
A few seats away, a younger boy sat with his hands white-knuckled in his lap, whispering to the floor. "Please... just a D. Let it be a D. I can't even apply to the guilds with anything less."
"You hit E? Congratulations, man!"
"Thanks. It's not much, but at least I can find work."
Aren watched two friends embrace, their relief palpable. It was only his second day of freedom in this world, yet he examined those around him with clinical curiosity.
He felt the weight of several gazes. Whispers followed him—ripples of recognition in a sea of strangers. Some looked on with narrow-eyed disgust; others with a shimmering, morbid admiration. Aren found it all perfectly natural.
Just as in the incident sixty-six years ago, the Holy Sword cleared him of blame—even though the blood of the crime was undeniably real.
I wonder what would happen if these people knew that the event sixty-six years ago took place with a fake sword, while mine took place with the real holy sword?
The thought was deliciously chaotic.
His number flashed on the overhead monitor. Aren stood, his expression unreadable, and walked into Chamber Three.
At the center of the vast room sat a sleek, capsule-like device. A woman in a clinical white coat stood before a bank of monitors, her eyes fixed on the cascading data.
"Number 557," she droned without looking up. "Step into the capsule."