Zarek didn't just want Tris dead.
He wanted to be the one to kill him.
Only by ending Tris with his own hands could he prove—once and for all—that he was the true victor, the one who would reclaim everything he had lost.
"Father, I want to go with Veylor."
"Very well." Zyron agreed without hesitation. He had expected this.
"Follow his lead. Do not act on your own."
"Yes, Father."
As the two figures disappeared into the distance, Zyron stood in silence, deep in thought.
His son had become obsessed with that past defeat.
Failure, when used as a whetstone, could temper a person—make them sharper, stronger. But for someone like Zarek, who had always known victory, that single loss had become a crack that refused to mend.
Though he trained relentlessly, striving to grow stronger, the real obstacle he had yet to overcome was within his own mind.
Whenever Tris was involved, his composure was shattered. His emotions slipped beyond his control.
Zyron knew the truth: in a fair fight, Zarek still stood no chance against Tris.
But with Veylor watching over him, this would be an opportunity—safe, controlled—for Zarek to temper himself.
Only by confronting failure and enduring it could he one day stand at the top.
Once they were gone, Zyron returned to the hidden cellar and made his way to its deepest chamber.
At its center stood a massive stone table.
Beneath it, books and scattered pages lay strewn across the floor—years of his research and records.
On the table itself, placed at the very back, was a stone statue.
It depicted a figure cloaked entirely in white. A hood concealed the head, its face hidden completely beneath folds of fabric—an existence veiled in impenetrable mystery.
Behind the statue, etched into the wall, was a strange symbol.
It resembled a vertical black eye, flanked by jagged, thorn-like protrusions. The shapes were ambiguous—part eyelashes, part the legs of some grotesque insect.
At its center, four large crimson circles were arranged tightly together, like pupils glowing within a bottomless abyss.
That symbol truly sent shivers down the viewers' spines the moment they looked at it.
Yes. This was an altar—dedicated to the evil god who had descended upon the village eight years ago.
Zyron stood at the peak of his power.
A body honed through years of training.
An abundance of Spiritual energy.
Mastery over countless forms of magic and refined combat techniques.
Magical puppets of which he was immensely proud.
And more.
Yet every peak had its limits.
He could feel it—the creeping approach of age.
Old age. Decline. And finally… death.
No human could escape that fate.
But Zyron was no ordinary Mage. He was ambitious—ruthlessly so.
He refused to accept such inevitabilities.
He would not stop where others did. He would go further—beyond limits no one else could cross.
Eight years ago, he had glimpsed a path toward the impossible:
The power of the evil god.
Of course, he was not foolish enough to beg such a being directly. That would be wagering his life on a whim.
Direct contact was a last resort—only to be used when all else had failed.
For eight years, he had studied—gods, sacrifices, the transfer of life itself.
From what he had witnessed back then, the child in the womb had survived because the evil god had transferred the mother's life force into it.
And so, a question took root:
Could one seize the life of another… and extend one's own?
Originally, Zyron had planned to kidnap a child from a noble family for his research.
The boy was well known among Mages and nobles alike—a prodigy who had displayed exceptional magical talent from a young age, with Spiritual energy far beyond his peers.
Of course, he was nothing compared to Tris—but Zyron understood why the two could not be measured the same way.
More importantly, the child possessed an Ice Attribute.
That alone made him valuable. But beyond that…
Zyron suspected it was the same Attribute once wielded by the evil god.
He remembered it vividly. The moment Arven invoked the god's name, the entire room was swallowed by an unbearable cold.
In magical research, even the smallest detail could change everything.
If his subject shared the same Attribute as the evil god… perhaps the results would surpass all expectations.
Unfortunately, the plan fell apart before he could act.
Bandits had attacked the convoy transporting the child. In the end, only the child and his mother survived.
After that incident, their security was tightened to an extreme degree.
Zyron was confident—but not arrogant enough to believe he could act under the watch of countless eyes without leaving a trace.
Thus, his first plan was abandoned.
He turned instead to his alternative: Tris.
A being saved by the evil god, one who carried power beyond reason.
Studying a living subject would yield far more information. But Zyron was cautious.
Tris was… abnormal.
Abnormal to the point that even he felt wary.
That, too, was why Zyron chose to act now.
If he didn't, there would never be another chance.
In less than a decade, when that child fully matured, and he himself had grown old and frail… no one in the village would be able to stand against it.
Standing before the stone altar, Zyron let his thoughts drift.
What were gods, truly?
How were they born?
Why did they possess power beyond all reason?
These questions had haunted him for years.
No book, no tale had ever provided answers.
So he would find them himself.
Even if it meant walking the greatest taboo—one that any church would burn him alive for—he would not turn back.
Better to die in pursuit of knowledge and power… than to wither away in mediocrity.
To achieve that, he would use any means necessary.
Even if it meant, once again, calling forth that terrifying evil god—and facing it directly.
But that… was a last resort.
For now, Zyron sat down, burying himself once more in his research—waiting for Veylor to return with a most valuable specimen.