Dawn broke. The air here lacked the lingering, coppery stench of blood that saturated the Crucible, replaced instead by a suffocating, absolute silence.
Soren was brought to a small, windowless room he had never stepped foot in before. There were no lavish tapestries, no incense, nothing that indicated it belonged to a Tier-4 Overseer. The narrow stone cell contained only two unadorned wooden chairs and a barren desk.
The Overseer was already seated. He maintained that same slouched, lethargic posture, his spine slightly curved as if merely sitting upright required too much effort.
He gestured to the empty chair opposite him.
As the wood scraped softly against the stone, Soren sat down. He placed his hands flat on his knees and waited quietly. He had anticipated countless opening lines—a grilling about his intrusion in the Archive last night, a test of his illusions, perhaps even an interrogation regarding Elara.
But the Overseer's first sentence completely shattered his calculations.
"Tell me what you think of this place."
His voice was lazy, lacking a specific subject, devoid of any boundaries.
Soren's breathing remained flawlessly even, but behind the white silk blindfold, his Death-Star Sight had already locked entirely onto the Overseer's soul. That massive, silver astrolabe continued its steady, methodical rotation, refusing to leak even a single drop of emotion.
What does he mean by 'this place'? This room? The entire Sanctum? Or... the Archive last night?
Soren did not answer immediately. A prolonged, dead silence stretched across the room. The Overseer didn't rush him, nor did he elaborate; he simply watched the blind boy. A wooden desk separated them, yet it felt as wide and fathomless as a frozen, black lake.
When the silence had settled to the perfect depth, Soren finally spoke.
He chose the safest possible angle. Using the tone of an inexperienced yet highly perceptive youth, he discussed his observations of the Sanctum's operational mechanics, the hidden power dynamics between the illusionists and the assassins, and the flow of information between the lower and upper tiers.
Resting his chin in one hand, the Overseer listened, occasionally throwing out a minor question. His questions followed Soren's exact train of thought without any sudden leaps. It sounded like a monumentally boring morning chat.
But beneath this tepid exchange, Soren's psychic tendrils acted like hyper-sensitive probes, constantly measuring the microscopic feedback of the silver astrolabe.
While casually discussing the Sanctum's internal management, Soren lowered his voice a fraction and effortlessly dropped a piece of bait: "However, information management here seems flawed. The lower archives are overflowing, yet the records in certain places are... glaringly incomplete."
In the exact millisecond the word "incomplete" fell from his lips.
The Overseer's astrolabe went absolutely, terrifyingly still.
It wasn't anger. It wasn't paranoia. It wasn't an emotional fluctuation at all. It was a horrifying state of "suspension." It was like a leviathan drifting in the abyssal depths that suddenly heard the faint snap of a twig from its prey—instantly masking its presence, focusing its entire, crushing existence onto a single point.
He is waiting for me to elaborate.
Soren's heart beat with steady rhythm in his chest, but he did not take the bait. With silky precision, he pivoted the conversation, steering it seamlessly back toward his observations of the lower-tier apprentices.
The Overseer did not press the issue. That spine-chilling sensation of absolute focus dissipated without a trace, and the silver astrolabe resumed its lazy, bored rotation.
The chat was over.
The Overseer yawned and did something Soren hadn't anticipated. He pulled a thick stack of parchment files from beneath the empty desk and casually pushed them toward Soren.
"These are the apprentice evaluation records from the Crucible over the last three months," the Overseer said, his tone dead as still water. "Take a look. Tell me who has a problem."
Soren tilted his head slightly.
Asking a blind, defective illusionist to evaluate the dossiers of assassin apprentices? The command was inherently absurd.
But Soren asked no questions. He reached out with his pale, slender fingers and pressed them gently against the rough parchment.
He didn't need to read the ink. Through his Death-Star Sight, he perceived the emotional residue left on the paper by the evaluators who wrote the names. Furthermore, his brain already housed a perfect, photographic memory of the astrolabe structures of every single apprentice in the Crucible. He rapidly cross-referenced the tactile feedback with the spiritual blueprints in his mind at a terrifying speed.
The only sound in the room was the soft rustle of turning pages. Fifteen minutes later, Soren pushed the stack back, having pulled out three specific sheets.
"These three," Soren said, his voice flat.
"The first has flawless physical stats and a perfect kill record. But there is a deep, jagged fissure of jealousy in his soul. The moment he encounters a peer superior to him, he will betray the collective for his own selfish desires at the most critical juncture."
"The second has incredibly mediocre stats, entirely unnoticeable. But the structure of his astrolabe is profoundly stable and introverted. He is deliberately suppressing his performance. His true lethality far exceeds this evaluation."
Soren's finger tapped the final piece of parchment.
"The third has obvious flaws in his data and lacks physical prowess. But in his soul... there is an absolute, profound peace regarding death itself. Not numbness, but true clarity. This is a blade that requires no scabbard."
Soren delivered his precise judgments, but he restrained himself, offering absolutely zero explanation as to how he knew.
The Overseer looked at the three selected files, falling into a long silence. His finger tapped against the desk twice.
Then, he spoke a single sentence:
"You chose the exact same ones I did."
No praise. No doubt. No follow-up questions. He stated it as if commenting on the weather, then stood up, abruptly concluding this morning exam that felt more like staring into the abyss.
The words landed in the room like a stone dropped into an endless well.
Soren kept his expression perfectly neutral, but the import of that sentence reverberated through his mind. A Tier-4 Overseer—a man who surgically dissected everything—had independently reached the exact same conclusion through an entirely different method. It meant Soren's perception was operating at a level that justified Tier-4 attention.
It also meant the Overseer now had definitive proof that the blind boy could read souls through paper.
〘 Milestone Achieved 〙
〘 Event: Overseer's evaluation test — PASSED 〙
〘 Result: Soren's analysis matched Tier-4 judgment 〙
〘 Consequence: Overseer's interest in host upgraded from "curiosity" to "strategic asset" 〙
〘 WARNING: Higher value = higher scrutiny = reduced margin for error 〙
That afternoon, Vesper's scent reached Soren through a concealed note.
A low-tier apprentice brushed past him in the corridor, slipping a folded piece of paper into his palm. Soren retreated to a secluded corner. A tiny, weak flame ignited at his fingertip. By its meager light, he traced the slightly raised ink on the paper.
The message was terrifyingly brief: "There has been progress on that matter. You need to know."
The flame devoured the paper, turning it into a wisp of blue smoke that vanished into the air.
Soren's eyes darkened behind his blindfold.
That matter—the seed of hatred toward the Overseer he had personally planted in Vesper's mind. For Vesper to claim there was "progress" meant she hadn't just suppressed her paranoia; she had actively taken a step forward.
The poisoned seed was growing at a velocity that exceeded his initial calculations.
Confined to the Overseer's direct jurisdiction, Soren's movements were restricted. He couldn't immediately go to her, and Vesper was clearly losing her patience.
Beneath the calm surface, the two parallel lines were accelerating toward an unstoppable collision. He needed to find the perfect fulcrum before the explosion tore everything apart.
Nightfall. The Archive.
Soren pushed open the heavy oak doors once again.
Tonight, he didn't walk toward the corner hiding the "18-Year-Old Purge" records. He had already chewed that information down to the bone; there was no more value to extract from it.
He was looking for a different answer. An answer about himself, and the word branded onto his very soul.
He moved silently between the dust-covered, ancient shelves. His target was the theoretical literature—books so old and neglected their spines were practically disintegrating.
In the deepest corner of the Archive, Soren found an incredibly thin, fragile pamphlet. It was a fragmented history of the Sanctum's oldest astrolabe theories.
He opened the brittle parchment, using his psychic perception to carefully trace the faded, nearly illegible text.
On the final few pages, he found the word. A minimalist annotation, barely three lines long:
"Heretic Meridian: Denotes an existence that contacts and rewrites the laws of the astral trajectories without relying on a natal astrolabe. Theoretically impossible. Historically, there has been only one recorded instance. Purged."
A deathly silence hung in the Archive.
Soren's fingers stopped over those three lines. They did not move for a very long time.
Without relying on a natal astrolabe. Rewrites the laws of the astral trajectories. Theoretically impossible. Only one recorded instance.
〘 INTEL ACQUIRED — CRITICAL 〙
〘 Source: Ancient theoretical text (Archive, deepest section) 〙
〘 Term: "Heretic Meridian" 〙
〘 Definition: An existence that contacts and rewrites astral law WITHOUT a natal star chart 〙
〘 Historical Record: Only ONE instance. Status: PURGED. 〙
〘 Assessment: This describes Selene. This describes what the bone in Soren's chest IS. 〙
Soren slowly lowered his head, pressing his right hand against his chest. Through the white robes, he felt the absolute, freezing temperature radiating from the abyssal bone.
The spine dug out from the rotting mud of a mass grave. His mother's spine.
If this was what a "Heretic" truly was...
Then his mother was not the lowly, gossiping illusionist Mandragora had claimed her to be. She was a terrifying entity who had touched the foundational laws of the universe, an anomaly capable of "rewriting the astral trajectories." And that single, solitary record of her existence had been purged by rulers paralyzed by absolute terror.
Something stirred in Soren's chest. Not the bone's cold hunger. Something older. Something that had nothing to do with power or calculation.
The bone pulsed once—a faint, warm throb that lasted less than a heartbeat.
And in that pulse, behind the white silk, Soren heard it again.
That same broken, distant voice:
"...find..."
One word. Then silence.
It was the second fragment. The first had been "My—" on the night of his awakening. Now, "...find..."
Two syllables. Two pieces of a sentence that might stretch across all twenty-two cards.
〘 SELENE'S LEGACY — FRAGMENT DETECTED 〙
〘 Not a full message. Requires Major Arcana at 100% fusion to fully unlock. 〙
〘 Fragment 1: "My—" [Received at Hermit awakening] 〙
〘 Fragment 2: "...find..." [Received upon discovering Heretic Meridian truth] 〙
〘 Full Message: LOCKED (Hermit fusion: 18% | Required: 100%) 〙
〘 Selene's Legacy: 0/22 Messages [Fragments do not count toward total] 〙
Soren stood in the dark for a long time. He felt no anger. He felt no sorrow. He thought of nothing, and yet he thought of everything. He simply allowed this crushing, cosmic truth to swallow him whole like a freezing tide.
After a long while, he released his hand and perfectly realigned the thin pamphlet on the shelf.
He turned around, pushed open the doors of the Archive, and stepped into the deep night.
The blank history of eighteen years ago. A Heretic mother who rewrote the laws of reality. Vesper's spiraling, uncontrollable ambition. And a fathomless, "foolish" mentor.
All the strings were pulling taut.
He needed to see Vesper. He needed to see exactly what kind of poisonous flower his seed had bloomed into.
〘 The Hermit IX — Fusion: 18% 〙
〘 Selene's Legacy: 0/22 Messages | Fragments: 2 collected 〙
〘 Origin Truth: "Heretic Meridian" — CONFIRMED as Selene's nature 〙
〘 Next Priority: Visit Vesper — assess poisoned seed's growth 〙