Chapter Text
"Starlight Shard?"
"Check."
"Sunlight Shard?"
"Check."
"Moonlight Shard?"
"Check."
"Zenith Shard?"
"Check."
"Stone Saint?"
"Check, and upgraded to Marble Saint."
"Black Knight?"
"Check."
"Weaver's Mask?"
"Check."
"Mantle of the Underworld?"
"Check."
"Promotion to Lieutenant?"
"Check… though for you, it’s closer to becoming a pet."
"Fuck you. Kai, Effie, and Seishan?"
"Two of them check, last one is still a work in progress."
"Alright then," I let out a long, exaggerated sigh and stretched my arms above my head, leaning back against the cold stone of the church pews. The quiet of the Corpse Cathedral wrapped around us, almost sacred in its stillness. Beside me, Sasrir stood perfectly still, eyes casually tracing the massive statue of the man with the blurred face, cross looming behind him.
We were in my Soul Sea, going over everything we’d managed to tick off, and what remained. Nine months had passed since our first arrival, and honestly, most of the stuff on our little list had already been crossed off. The few remaining tasks were either nearly done, or… impossible for now—like killing the Soul Devourer or getting Blood Weave.
Honestly, I didn’t really care about Weaver’s Lineage. I could already see the Runes on all my stuff without it, and once I leveled up my Sequence, I’d be able to use my own form of Discernment to pry into Fate anyway. The only real downside of skipping Blood Weave was that it made learning Sorcery harder—the Visionary Pathway just wasn’t ideal for it, even as an Angel. But… I could live with that.
Over the past three months, I could see Sasrir’s work with the Guards slowly taking shape, even if the process was brutal and methodical. From day one, he didn’t care about being liked; he only cared about results. Every morning, the sound of boots echoing through the training grounds became a sort of ritual. Sasrir drilled the younger recruits relentlessly, making them repeat formations until their muscles burned and their minds ached.
The first month was chaos. The Guards, still loyal to Tessai in spirit, or perhaps just naturally belligerent, resisted authority at every turn—mocking his commands, testing his patience, and sometimes outright refusing to comply. Sasrir didn’t hesitate. Punishments were swift, precise, and public. Nothing malicious—he wasn’t cruel for the sake of cruelty—but every lesson left a mark. By the end of the month, murmurs of fear had replaced whispers of defiance.
The second month was the real transformation. Sasrir focused on removing the worst excesses of the Guards’ debauchery—gambling, smuggling, and drinking binges in the castle. He created new schedules, enforced curfews, and assigned responsibilities that forced even the laziest of them to contribute. The Guards slowly realized that failure wasn’t just dangerous—it was visible, humiliating, and entirely avoidable if they obeyed. By now, discipline was taking root, and Sasrir’s stoic presence was enough to keep most in line.
Quite a couple complaints were raised at Gunlaug, claiming Sasrir was overstepping his boundsand planning something unsavory, but Sasrir was quick to put those people down-after the fourth corpse was thrown into the burial pit, most learnt to keep their mouths shut. The Bright Lord didn't really care either, since Sasrir was careful never to push those he actually valued too hard.
By the third month, the Guards had become a semblance of a real fighting force. They still grumbled, still flexed power in subtle ways, but Sasrir had them performing maneuvers, patrols, and sparring drills that were far beyond what they’d attempted under Tessai. He rewarded initiative selectively, punishing mistakes without mercy, and in that delicate balance, fear and respect merged into obedience. Watching him, I realized that the Primarch was more than a soldier—he was an architect of loyalty, turning raw chaos into a tool sharp enough to cut steel.
Let me tell you, I was quite proud my little shadow had grown up so much.
Meanwhile, my own life was a study in patience, subtlety, and survival. For three months, I was a sort of living ornament to Gunlaug and Harus—essentially their squire. I fetched documents, delivered messages, carried supplies, and attended meetings I had no say in. Any misstep, any hesitation, could have been noted and punished.
At first, it felt like being trapped under a microscope. Every glance, every motion had to be precise. I learned the order of the Castle, the quietest paths, when to bow, when to speak, and when to stay silent. Serving under Harus was particularly educational; the hunchback’s presence alone reminded me that any lapse could mean physical reprisal, and Gunlaug’s scrutiny kept my mind sharp even while performing menial tasks.
But I wasn’t completely idle. Every few days, I snuck out with Effie and Kai. These excursions were honestly some of my best moments in the Forgotten Shore. We hunted in the edges of theCoral Labyrinth, never staying in the City where we might be chanced upon by other Hunters, honing our combat instincts and building our repertoire of Memories. Tracking, trapping, learning the nuances of prey behavior, refining our offensive and defensive techniques—it was all preparation, all part of the quiet accumulation of power that the Bright Castle demanded I postpone for formal recognition.
During these trips, we also gathered Soul Shards, reinforcing our capabilities bit by bit. Every shard was a resource, a tool, a reminder that while the Castle may have claimed our freedom, our potential remained ours to cultivate. The outside world—still dangerous, still unpredictable—became our secret training ground, a place where we could move freely, and where our strength quietly grew, unnoticed by the tyrants within the Castle.
Sasrir and I were slowly inching towards our next Class, though progress was miniscule: as a Devil, the Soul Shards of primarily Awakened and Dormant monsters were too light for my appetite, so the majority of the Shards just went to Sasrir, helping him inch towards becoming a Demon. With the way things were going now, I wouldn't become a Tyrant before leaving the Forgotten Shore.
Now, sitting here in the Corpse Cathedral, I could tell Sasrir was reflecting on his own three-month crucible. He didn’t speak at first, letting the silence hang heavy like the weight of memories. When he finally spoke, his words were careful, precise:
“The Guards are… functional now. Not perfect, but no longer a threat to themselves or us. Their obedience is secured, their chaos contained. What remains is their loyalty, and even that is a matter of time.”
I nodded, understanding fully. “You molded them into soldiers, while I… just danced around the two tyrants, keeping my head down, sneaking out to hunt and collect Shards.”
He glanced at me sideways, expression neutral. “You acquired resources, built experience, and avoided unnecessary exposure. That is… acceptable.”
I smirked, stretching again. “Acceptable? I was practically a lapdog for those two and risked my neck sneaking out to galivant through the Labyrinth.”
Sasrir’s lips twitched in the faintest shadow of a smile. “The lapdog lives to fight another day. And I know youenjoyed hanging out with Athena and Kai."
I leaned back, letting the truth sink in. For three months, we had both endured trials of very different kinds. One of us commanded, disciplined, and punished. The other obeyed, survived, and accumulated strength in secret. And yet, both paths converged here—preparing us for the next stage, for the long game that was only beginning.
I leaned against the pew, letting the cold stone press into my back, while Sasrir remained upright, arms crossed, observing the blurred statue and flickering torches. “So,” I started, “three months from now, the next batch hits the Forgotten Shore. Any guesses on the numbers?”
Sasrir’s eyes, cold and calculating, didn’t move from the statue. “Depends on the source. If Gunlaug’s calculations are correct, about forty to fifty newcomers will be tossed here by the Spell. Of those, roughly half will reach the City alive.”
I raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Half? That seems generous. The Labyrinth alone would kill most of them if the Pathfinders don't do their job properly.”
“Precisely,” Sasrir replied evenly. “Gemma and the Hunters are already moving. They’ll sweep the City and clear the Labyrinth in advance—nothing to slow down the newcomers. Those who make it alive with either be the smartest or the strongest."
I hummed, tapping a finger against the pew. “So basically, just like any other place in the Dream Realm?"
“Exactly,” Sasrir said, voice calm but firm. “The Forgotten Shore may be a deadzone, but that's only for Sleepers like us. If every Dormant here was replaced by an Awakened, the Forgotten Shore would have been cracked open ages ago."
I leaned back further, letting the plan swirl in my head. “Three months to prep, and then we have the perfect stage. I’m curious, though—how many of them do you think will actually make it to the Castle gates?”
Sasrir’s lips curved slightly, almost imperceptibly. “A handful, if they’re lucky. Ten, maybe fifteen. The rest will be casualties—either the Labyrinth will claim them, or the Dark Sea will. Maybe an unlucky few will be snapped up by the Soul Devourer. And of those that survive, half will be too weak to matter.”
I let out a low whistle. “Harsh, but realistic. You think they’ll adapt quickly to the City, or will the strain of survival break them?”
“They’ll adapt,” Sasrir said matter-of-factly. “The environment is brutal, but only those who can endure will survive long enough to challenge anyone. This is not a game for the naïve or the slow. And any mistake—any hesitation—will be fatal. I trust the Shore and Spell will do their work.”
I laughed softly, shaking my head. “You’re worse than Gemma. At least the Hunters leave a few crumbs for the newbies to fight over. You’re talking about winnowing them down like livestock before they even arrive.”
Sasrir’s head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing. “I deal in efficiency, Adam. Survivors must be strong, or they are irrelevant. We have no need for the weak, and Gunlaug certainly won’t tolerate inefficiency.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, grinning. “Fair enough. So, when the newbies show up, the City will be cleaned, the Labyrinth cleared, and Gemma’s already itching to sweep in. You, me, and maybe the others will just watch… or pick the most favourable looking survivors to recruit?”
Sasrir’s gaze finally flicked toward me. “Observe first. Evaluate second. Intervene only when necessary. Let them make mistakes—they will, inevitably. And when they do, we take advantage. Make them own us something, make them more open to listen to us."
I nodded slowly, letting the implications sink in. “Three months. Plenty of time to sharpen the blade, then. And by the time they arrive, we’ll know exactly what—or who—we’re dealing with.”
Sasrir said nothing, only turned back to the flickering torches and blurred figure of the man with the cross. His silence was agreement enough, and I could feel the weight of the coming months pressing against the Soul Sea walls. Chaos was on the horizon, and we would be ready.
I stretched my arms behind my head again, letting the springs of the pew groan under my weight. “But after the next batch...only one year from now, the big characters shows up. Sunny and the rest of the Cohort finally arrive. Then, at last, the main story starts.” I said it with a lightness that didn’t match the weight of the words, like I was discussing the weather instead of the entire Fate of the Forgotten Shore.
Sasrir’s eyes, dark and steady as always, lifted from the statue. “And what of Caster?” he asked, voice low and measured. “Changing Star? They are likely to stir rebellion in the Settlement just as they did in the novel. Do you intend to ignore them?”
I let out a soft laugh, tilting my head back. “Ignore? Not exactly. I just… don’t see the point in stressing over it right now. Fate has a funny way of sorting itself out.” I waved a hand, as though dismissing some invisible nuisance. “Let the Settlement churn. Let the Lords squabble. As long as Nephis goes on her little scavenger hunt across the Forgotten Shore and collects the remaining Lord Shards for us, we can step in later and—bam—bring her to the table.”
Sasrir didn’t shift, didn’t blink. His expression was calm, but I could feel the subtle edge in his tone when he replied. “You trust Fate too easily. Caster and Changing Star are not fools, and they might not play into your hands so smoothly. Besides, how do you plan to take the Shard Memories from her once she acquires them? The Shield and Sword are fine, but the Dawn Shard is way too powerful for her to hand over willingly."
“Maybe,” I admitted, shrugging. “But consider this: Nephis is a man-child with an attitude problem. Unless Sunny randomly decides to give her lessons on how to be a proper scumbag, she won't notice anything wrong even if I strip her down to her underwear. I might not be Amon, but I can still swindle a fool like her."
"That arrogance will get you killed."
"Nonsense, I have you here!"
Sasrir’s gaze flicked to me, sharp, as if trying to pin my flippant attitude to some hidden scheme. “You speak as if you will not act until the pieces are aligned,” he said slowly. “And yet, you have always acted. Why should this be any different?”
I grinned, leaning back further, letting the pew squeak beneath me. “Because this time,” I said, letting the words linger, “the pieces will align themselves. I’ve nudged the smaller ones, set up the dominoes, and Fate will handle the rest. When Nephis does her little quest, we’ll have the remaining Lord Shards, the Cohort will be here, and suddenly… we’re the ones controlling the board. All the stuff before that? Just background noise.”
Sasrir’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Background noise,” he repeated, like tasting the words for the first time. “You gamble on inertia, Adam. You trust that the world will move as you wish it to without interference.”
“Call it what you like,” I said with a shrug. “I’ve been gambling on worse things for months. And I have a feeling this one will pay off, too.”
He let the silence stretch for a beat, then finally inclined his head, as if conceding the point—though the faintest shadow of disapproval lingered in his expression. “Very well,” he said finally. “Then we wait. But be aware, the longer we leave these threats unchecked, the higher the stakes will climb. When the Cohort arrives, everything will either be ready—or irreversibly fractured.”
I waved a hand lazily. “Then I guess we just make sure the fractures don’t hit the wrong places, huh? The rest? Someone else will handle it.”
Sasrir’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing more. He always did this—let me spout my nonsense and then observe quietly, waiting to see if the world bent to my will as easily as I claimed it would.
I leaned back against the pew, letting the shadows of my Soul Sea dance across the cathedral walls. Fate, Shards, rebellions, and Lords—the next year promised to be interesting. But for now, I could afford to relax, because in three months, we’d see who survived the newcomers, and in a year, the Cohort would arrive. Then the real game would begin.
Sasrir finally shifted the mood, leaning slightly back as he let his dark gaze rest on me. “So,” he said, voice almost casual, “are you excited to finally advance to Psychiatrist once we return to the Waking World?”
I grinned, letting the tension from our previous discussions fall away. “Excited? That’s an understatement.” I leaned forward, gesturing with both hands as if painting a picture in the air. “I get to dig into people’s minds in ways I never could before. Hypnosis, influence, driving others mad—it’s going to be… exhilarating. I’ve been waiting for this for months, and now it’s finally within reach.”
Sasrir’s lips twitched—just the faintest trace of a smirk. “And what exactly do you plan to get up to once you become a Hypnotist?”
I laughed, a little too eagerly. “The fun kind of stuff, of course. Experiments, practice, pushing limits… and, of course, gathering a few useful allies along the way. I’ll finally have the tools to manipulate without relying on guesswork or luck. Subtlety, precision, and absolute control—it’ll be amazing.”
Sasrir didn’t respond immediately, letting my words hang in the cathedral air. Then, after a moment, he asked, his tone carefully measured: “And what of me? Are you excited for me to become a Rose Bishop?”
I blinked, slightly thrown by the shift, then chuckled. “Oh, I see, feeling proud huh? Wanting to show off?"
His expression remained unreadable. “Yes. If only because then my regeneration will make sure my Flaw doesn’t kill me,” he said simply. No boast, no flourish—just the stark practicality he always carried.
I nodded, understanding exactly what he meant. “Fair enough,” I said, smirking. “You may not care about the title or the prestige, but being a Rose Bishop does give you options—and more importantly, keeps you alive. Can’t argue with that logic.”
He tilted his head slightly, dark eyes assessing me. “I follow reason, Adam. Survival first, everything else second. Titles and power are useful only if you can live to use them.”
I grinned wider, feeling the familiar thrill of planning and possibility coursing through me. “Then we’re on the same page, as always. Psychiatrist, Rose Bishop… our future will be glorious, and I can imagine it now."
Sasrir’s voice, calm as ever, broke the lighter tone that had settled over our Soul Sea. “What of the Visionary Uniqueness?”
I paused, letting my hand hover over the small pedestal I’d conjured. With a thought, the object shimmered into existence: a delicate feather quill, the shaft tipped with a small green gem that caught the faint Soul Sea light and fractured it into shards of emerald brilliance. I lifted it carefully, letting the glow dance across the contours of the feather as I admired it. Even now, after months of study, it never failed to capture my attention.
“It’s as beautiful as ever,” I murmured, turning it so the gem caught the light just right. It seemed impossibly fragile, yet I could feel the pulsing power contained within it. My Essence hummed along the quill’s surface like a river tracing its channel, eager to flow but not yet strong enough to shape anything substantial.
Sasrir’s shadowed gaze followed my hands. “Progress on controlling it?”
I shook my head, lowering the quill carefully onto the pew. “Not yet. I can feel my Essence being channeled into it,” I admitted, “but it’s not enough. Not yet. To truly use the Uniqueness, I need to ascend to Saint—or at least reach the level of an Ascended Terror. Until then, it’s like holding a river in my palm: I can feel its current, hear its rush, but no matter how hard I squeeze, it won’t bend to my will.”
Sasrir regarded me silently, as he always did when I explained these things, measuring the truth behind my words rather than reacting emotionally. “Then it waits,” he said finally, tone neutral but firm. “Like all tools, it will yield when the hand is ready.”
I nodded, a mixture of frustration and anticipation curling in my chest. “Exactly. Right now, it’s more a reminder than a weapon. A reminder of what I can achieve… and of how much farther I need to go.” I traced a finger along the quill’s shaft, feeling the subtle vibration of raw power contained within. “I’ve already sensed glimpses of what it could do. But glimpses aren’t enough. I need mastery… patience. And when the time comes, I’ll have it.”
Sasrir’s eyes didn’t leave me, yet I felt no judgment there—only that quiet, calculated acknowledgment that he understood exactly what I meant. The quill gleamed faintly, green fire trapped in its feather, a symbol of potential yet unrealized.
I lifted it once more against the dim light, letting the Soul Sea’s ambient glow dance across the gem. “Someday,” I murmured softly, more to myself than anyone else, “this little thing is going to change everything.”
Sasrir inclined his head slightly. “Then we wait, and prepare. Everything else is secondary until that day arrives.”
I lowered the quill back onto the pew, letting its green glow fade into a soft hum. For the first time in a while, the conversation shifted away from my failures and frustrations. “What about you?” I asked, leaning back slightly and crossing my arms. “The Hanged Man Uniqueness… any progress?”
Sasrir’s shadow rippled beside him, subtle at first, then suddenly fracturing like dark glass. Five serpentine heads erupted from it, each twisting independently, eyes glowing faintly as they hissed and swayed. The sheer unnaturalness of it made my stomach tighten—I had never liked staring too long at the manifestation of his power.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even acknowledge the ripple. When the shadows retracted and coalesced back into their normal, silent form, he spoke calmly, as if describing the weather. “Nothing substantial,” he said. “It can scare some people, yes. Occasionally enough to make them hesitate, falter. That’s about the extent of it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And trying to detach it? Or… pull in the shadows of others? Bend it further?”
Sasrir’s lips quirked, faint and almost humorless. “I’ve tried. Everything short of physically tearing the Shadow from my own body. Nothing happens. It is… inert outside of its intended state. I cannot manipulate it the way you can with your Visionary Uniqueness, nor can I force it to accept additional Essence or material.”
I frowned, tapping a finger against the pew. “So it’s… just a living presence? Something you can call, but nothing else?”
He tilted his head slightly. “Exactly. It responds to intent, to my presence, but it does not yield itself to effort. The moment I attempt to exert direct control, it becomes nothing more than a shadow again. A weapon only in the indirect sense.”
I exhaled, partly frustrated, partly impressed. “So… you’re telling me the Hanged Man Uniqueness is more like… an extension of yourself rather than a tool to be commanded?”
Sasrir’s expression was unreadable, yet his shadow rippled again faintly, like a slow heartbeat. “It's probably the difference in Symbolism between our two Pathways. Visionary represents Humanity, which can be good or bad, but the Degeneration of the Hanged Man is constant, no matter who is in charge."
I leaned back fully now, rubbing my temples. “Of course,” I muttered, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “Some things are simple to talk about in theory, impossible to execute in practice. You and I both know that all too well.”
If Sasrir could become a Shepherd, then he would absolutely become the greatest fighter in the world. If he does it as an Awakened, he can kill Masters with ease. If it's as a Master, then taking down a Saint would be quite managable-provided he had a full seven Cores. The only problem was the moral one-who's Souls would he Graze? According to the novel, the process inflicts extreme pain upon the target, so I didn't want to chose some random schmuk. Monsters were also possible, but their powers tended be to weaker than a Human's.
I glanced at him, letting the thought pass. “Well,” I said finally, “at least we’re both stuck practicing patience. Nothing new there, I suppose.”
He inclined his head slightly, the barest hint of acknowledgment. No amusement, no mockery, just that quiet understanding that had been there since the beginning: he would endure, he would train, and one day, the Hanged Man and my Uniqueness would both answer our intent fully.