Constantine had just finished cleaning the cottage when the message appeared.
It did not appear in front of him.
Not as a floating panel like before.
Instead it flashed directly across his vision.
Bright.
Sharp.
Unavoidable.
[System Notice]
[Grace Period for Visual Assistance: Expired]
Constantine stopped mid-step.
For a brief moment nothing happened.
Then—
The world vanished.
Not faded.
Not dimmed.
Vanished.
Darkness swallowed everything instantly.
The cottage.
The walls.
The sunlight through the window.
All gone.
Total black.
Constantine stood completely still in the silent room.
His breathing remained steady.
No panic.
No confusion.
The system spoke again.
[External Visual Interface Disabled]
[Mirror Realm Visual Substitution Terminated]
For the past year, the system had been projecting sight for him.
Artificial vision.
A temporary replacement while his physical body completed stabilization.
That grace period had now ended.
And the reality returned.
Constantine was blind.
Just as he had been before.
The darkness remained absolute.
But Constantine did not move for several seconds.
He simply listened.
The wind outside brushing against the cottage walls.
The faint crackle of wood in the hearth.
The distant sound of the brook.
Every sound mapped quietly inside his mind.
Then he took a step.
Perfectly balanced.
Another step.
He moved through the cottage without hesitation.
Touching the table once to confirm distance.
Adjusting his path slightly.
Blindness did not slow him.
It never had.
And now, after a year of absorbing countless combat and sensory skills—
It mattered even less.
Constantine reached the door and stepped outside.
The warm sunlight touched his face.
Though he could not see it.
He stood there quietly for a moment.
Then spoke softly.
"…acceptable."
Sight had been convenient.
But unnecessary.
By evening, Constantine had already begun preparing for his first journey.
The world had changed during the ten years he was gone.
But his objective had not.
There was only one entity who might possess the answers he needed.
Veyrath.
Prince of the Netherworld.
The one who had mentioned the Ugly God.
The one who had recognized Constantine as the god's "toy".
If anyone understood that connection—
It would be him.
The problem was simple.
Communicating with a Nether Prince was not exactly easy.
Constantine had analyzed the possibilities many times during his year in the Mirror Realm.
Two options existed.
The first was the most direct.
Travel to the Netherworld itself.
But Constantine immediately dismissed that idea.
Even with the vast number of skills he had absorbed—
He had no information about the environment of the Netherworld.
Unknown terrain.
Unknown enemies.
Unknown rules of existence.
Walking blindly into such a place would be inefficient.
Which left the second option.
Summoning.
The scholars from Eldoria had used Rune Magic to summon Veyrath eleven years ago.
If Constantine could recreate that rune—
He could summon the demon prince again.
And this time…
He would ask his questions properly.
However, Rune Magic had one major problem.
It was forbidden.
Extremely forbidden.
Entire bloodlines were executed for practicing it.
But Constantine already knew that.
The real problem was simpler.
He did not know the rune.
Even with the knowledge he had copied from scholars while he was still a mirror—
The specific summoning pattern had never been recorded in his memory.
Which meant he needed information.
And there was only one place to begin searching.
The scholars who had performed the ritual.
Even if most of them were dead—
Someone had to remain.
Someone who knew something about the rune.
And Constantine would find them.
Eventually.
For now, he stayed in the village.
At least for a few days.
It was the logical thing to do.
He had just returned after ten years.
Leaving immediately would create suspicion.
So Constantine did something the old Con had often done.
He helped people.
It was a preserved behavioral memory.
Helping villagers.
Carrying firewood.
Repairing fences.
Fixing broken carts.
Guiding travelers through nearby forest paths.
His movements were efficient.
Quiet.
Precise.
The villagers noticed how much stronger he seemed.
How calm he was.
How easily he handled tasks that normally required several men.
But they simply assumed the years had hardened him.
No one questioned it.
And Constantine did not explain.
Three days passed quietly.
On the third afternoon—
Constantine was sitting outside the cottage.
Listening to the steady flow of the brook.
The wind carried faint footsteps from the road.
Several people were approaching.
Constantine tilted his head slightly.
His hearing sharpened automatically.
Footsteps told many things.
Weight.
Rhythm.
Balance.
One of them—
He recognized immediately.
Even after eleven years.
That stride.
Confident.
Measured.
A warrior's gait.
Jorin.
Constantine stood slowly.
But there were others with him.
Several smaller sets of footsteps.
Light.
Short.
Quick.
Children.
Constantine waited.
The group approached the cottage.
The footsteps stopped just a few steps away.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then a familiar voice spoke.
"…Con?"
Constantine nodded slightly.
"Yes."
There was no warning.
No hesitation.
Jorin moved forward immediately.
His arms wrapped around Constantine in a tight embrace.
Strong.
Almost crushing.
For several seconds Jorin didn't say anything.
His grip tightened slightly.
Then he exhaled a rough breath.
"…damn idiot."
His voice trembled faintly.
"You're actually alive."
Behind them—
Several small voices whispered in confusion.
"…Papa?"
"Who's that?"
"Why are you hugging him?"
Constantine turned his head slightly toward the tiny footsteps.
Jorin pulled back slowly.
Wiping his face roughly with one hand.
Then he sighed.
"You're going to need an explanation for this."
Constantine tilted his head.
"For what?"
Jorin gestured toward the small group behind him.
Three children stood near the road.
Watching the scene curiously.
Jorin scratched the back of his head.
"…well."
A faint smile appeared on his tired face.