The Grand Sanctum of Cypris was an architectural behemoth of black marble and towering, jagged spires. For generations, it had stood as the spiritual heart of the empire, a place where the populace was taught that the Creator favored the strong and despised the weak.
King Kross had not torn the Sanctum down. He had simply changed the sermons.
Devin walked slowly down the central aisle of the massive cathedral. The air was thick with the heavy, sweet scent of burning myrrh and frankincense. High above, the narrow slits of runic glass cast long, fractured beams of pale light across the polished stone floor.
Waiting for him at the base of the massive obsidian altar was High Bishop Oris. The aging priest wore the sweeping, silver-threaded robes of his office, his head bowed in profound reverence as the nineteen-cycle-old King approached.
"My King," Bishop Oris greeted, his voice echoing softly through the empty, cavernous hall. "The Sanctum is honored by your presence. The morning prayers were dedicated entirely to the continued prosperity of your reign."
"Thank you, Bishop," Devin replied, his voice calm, resonant, and effortlessly commanding. He stopped at the edge of the altar, looking up at the massive, abstract silver sculpture that hung above it—a representation of the divine Creator watching over the mortal realm. "The people need faith, especially in times of rapid transition. Your guidance has kept the lower rings from fracturing during the trade integrations."
Oris smiled warmly, his wrinkled face softening. "It is not my guidance they follow, Kross. It is your grace. In all my cycles serving the church, I have never seen the Creator pour such abundant, miraculous favor upon a single ruler. You conquered the sickness in your own lungs, and then you cured the sickness in our nation's soul. The divine light is truly with you."
Devin looked at the silver sculpture. A cold, bitter knot tightened in his chest.
The divine light.
The sheer, monumental irony of the Bishop's words was almost suffocating. The church believed God was a benevolent, distant architect rewarding Kross Sapien for his righteous leadership. They had absolutely no idea that the boy standing before them was a parasitic ghost, forcefully shoved into this vessel by a twisted, sadistic deity who treated mortal suffering as a theatrical spectacle.
"The Creator works in ways we cannot fully comprehend, Bishop," Devin said smoothly, the political mask perfectly in place.
"Indeed," Oris agreed, bowing his head again. "We only hear His whispers in the wind, and see His will in the harvest. It requires immense faith to trust a silent sky."
Devin's jaw tightened imperceptibly.
A silent sky.
As the Bishop continued to speak of agricultural yields and upcoming holy festivals, Devin's mind drifted entirely away from the Sanctum. He stared at the silver sculpture, the cold realization washing over him with sudden, startling clarity.
Fourteen cycles. Five thousand, six hundred pars.
God hadn't spoken to him.
In his past vessels, the divine interference had been a constant, looming threat. When Prince Devin died on the courtyard stones, God had been right there, waiting in the blinding white void. When Zain Ricky's heart was pierced by Dunkan's blade in Marinakas cafe, the transition back to the celestial realm had been instantaneous. God had mocked him, judged him, and brutally cast him back down to the board.
But as Kross Sapien, Devin had defied the biological expiration date. He had fought the chronic, venom-laced illness in his lungs, and he had survived. He hadn't died, and therefore, he hadn't been pulled back into the void.
Devin narrowed his eyes, staring into the metaphorical face of his creator.
Are you still watching? Devin asked silently, his thoughts cold and sharp. You wanted a show. You put me in the body of my mother's murderer's son. You expected me to fail. You expected the sickness to claim me, or Count Sapien's assassins to finish the job. But I didn't die. I conquered the board.
The absolute silence from the heavens was unsettling. It wasn't the silence of peace; it was the tense, heavy silence of a predator holding its breath in the tall grass. Devin knew God hadn't simply abandoned the game. The Almighty was merely waiting for the next act to begin. The revenge against the Cyprian flesh was largely complete; the ultimate revenge against the divine architect was still gestating in the dark.
"I must take my leave, Bishop," Devin interrupted gently, offering the priest a respectful nod. "The administrative burdens of the crown await."
"Of course, My King. May the Creator watch over your steps," Oris murmured, stepping back.
Devin turned and walked back down the long aisle of the Grand Sanctum. He didn't look back at the altar. He was entirely done looking for answers in the sky.
When Devin pushed open the heavy, iron-wrought doors of the cathedral, the freezing, crisp air of the Cyprian afternoon hit his face.
Standing exactly five paces from the Sanctum steps, waiting with the absolute stillness of a carved statue, was Dawson. The Commander of the Royal Knights was fully armored, his dark gray cloak billowing slightly in the wind.
"You did not interrupt the sermon," Devin noted, walking down the stone steps.
"The Bishop's heart rate was elevated. He was expressing genuine religious fervor. Tactical interruption seemed detrimental to his fragile nervous system," Dawson reported flatly. But as Devin reached the bottom of the steps, the super-human's oxidized steel eyes hardened. "However, the delay was not optimal. A courier arrived from the border checkpoints a fraction of a par ago."
Dawson reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a heavy, thick roll of premium parchment. It wasn't sealed with standard wax. It was sealed with a complex, interlocking metallic clasp bearing multiple crests.
Devin recognized them instantly. The central crest was the massive, sprawling oak tree of the United Educational Institute. Flanking it were the crowned hawk of Mortipia and the twin leviathans of Colstar.
"A joint royal seal," Devin murmured, taking the heavy parchment from Dawson's gloved hand. He popped the metallic clasp, unrolling the thick paper.
He read the elegant, flowing script quickly. The tactical mind of the Trangdar prince immediately recognized the immense political weight of the words.
"What is the variable?" Dawson asked, watching Devin's dark eyes scan the page.
"It's a summons," Devin replied, his voice dropping an octave. "An absolute, mandatory summit. The Chancellor of the UEI, along with the sovereign heads of the Northern Kingdoms, are convening an emergency council at the Institute."
Dawson frowned slightly. "Cypris has just reintegrated. A mandatory summons implies a global crisis, or a direct threat to the newly established trade routes."
"It's more than that," Devin said, staring at the signatures scrawled at the bottom of the parchment.
He traced his thumb over the aggressive, sharp signature of the Mortipian ruler. It didn't belong to the Emperor he remembered from his youth. It belonged to the heir.
Emperor Ferran Mortipia.
And beside it, the sprawling, arrogant signature of the ocean kingdom's ruler.
King Aiden Colstar.
The boys he had fought, bled with, and manipulated as a slum barista fourteen cycles ago were no longer students arguing over mechanics bays. They were men. They were absolute monarchs commanding the most powerful armies on the continent. The timeline had caught up with them all.
"When is the summit?" Dawson asked, his hand resting instinctively on the pommel of his broadsword.
"Three pars from now," Devin answered, rolling the parchment back up. "At the UEI's central grand hall. They are demanding the presence of King Kross Sapien."
Devin looked up at the freezing, overcast sky. The silence of the Creator suddenly made perfect, terrifying sense. God wasn't ignoring him. God had simply finished setting the stage for the next violent act of the play. The past was returning, armed to the teeth and wearing crowns.
"Prepare the royal transport, Dawson," Devin commanded, his voice turning to cold iron. "And summon Rebecca from the mechanical bays".