Ryojin placed the bundle of clothes on top of the door and pulled off the cloth hiding his armor. A deep sigh escaped his lips.
"Finally, a bath," he muttered, unbuckling his armor piece by piece and placing his katana gently on the floor. He reached for the basin of water and poured it over himself, feeling the cool sensation against his skin.
"Man, that's good," he said as he rubbed the water over his body.
But something caught his eye.
His gaze shifted to the places where he had been wounded during the battle in Solara. The injuries were gone—completely healed—but in their place were dark, vein-like markings stretching over the affected areas.
"What the hell?" he hissed, running his fingers over the black marks. He scrubbed at them, poured more water, but they wouldn't fade.
His brows furrowed. " Do I have healing abilities?"
He flexed his fingers, trying to sense any energy from the markings, but felt nothing unusual.
"Maybe it's just a side effect of the healing," he muttered. Deciding not to dwell on it, he finished washing up and grabbed the bundle of clothes Kina had given him. He examined them under the dim light—four long-sleeved shirts in red, orange, pink, and white, along with three pairs of black trousers.
"Oh no… these colors are awful," he groaned, holding up the pink shirt. "I have no choice, do I?"
He picked the white shirt, pulling it over his torso. It fit snugly, emphasizing his athletic build. He then slipped into one of the loose black trousers, letting out a sigh as he adjusted them.
Gathering his armor and katana, he wrapped them beneath the cloth and quickly stepped out of the room. His footsteps were light, cautious, as he moved down the dimly lit corridor toward his sleeping quarters. He entered, shut the door behind him, and exhaled.
"Now, where do I hide this?" he murmured, scanning the room.
His eyes landed on a large wooden box in the corner, dust gathering at its edges. Perfect. He knelt, lifted the lid, and carefully placed his katana and armor inside. To ensure it stayed hidden, he stacked various tools and old blankets on top before stepping back to inspect his work.
"That should do it," he whispered.
With his armor hidden, he turned to the mattress on the floor and sat down. The exhaustion of the past days weighed on him. Lying back, he let out one final sigh and closed his eyes.
Meanwhile, in the Realm of the Gods…
Seraphiel walked through the golden corridors of Astrea, his steps slow and deliberate. His mind replayed the ominous warning from the Norns.
Astrea, the capital of the Celestial Realm, was one of six divine cities—Nova, Remonas, Typia, Clonola, and Fetila. It was home to the Celestial Supreme and his two sons, the royal family who ruled over gods and mortals alike. The Celestial Order, a powerful force of divine warriors, battle priests, and sentinels, humans granted with divine energy by the celestial Supreme,was responsible for protecting this realm.
And Seraphiel was their leader.
But at this moment, he was burdened.
The Norns had spoken of a god who posed an unimaginable threat—one that even fate could no longer weave into its design. But if a god was the danger… then who?
He reached his chamber and sat at his desk, unrolling a scroll. His eyes skimmed the words, but his mind was elsewhere.
"Should I leave Ryojin alone and focus on finding the god the Norns spoke of?"
His fingers brushed over the golden thread tied around his wrist—the one the Norns had given him to reveal the hidden threat.
A sharp knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Enter," he commanded, his voice deep and steady.
The door opened, revealing Commander Lysara, a high-ranking officer of the Celestial Order. She stepped forward, her expression firm.
"Sir, we've come up with a plan to take down Ryojin," she announced.
Seraphiel's gaze darkened. "And what is that plan?"
She hesitated before speaking. "We plan to trap him in a domain where time flows differently. By the time we open it—or if he somehow breaks free—his abyssal energy should be depleted."
Seraphiel considered her words carefully. It was a sound strategy. But if Ryojin had truly become something beyond the grasp of fate, could a mere time prison hold him?
"Sir?" Lysara pressed, noticing his silence. "Should we move forward with the plan?"
After a moment, Seraphiel gave a slow nod. "Proceed."
Lysara turned to leave, but he called her back.
"Wait, Commander. Step closer."
She hesitated but obeyed, approaching his desk.
Seraphiel watched her closely, then glanced at the golden thread on his wrist. It remained dull—no glow, no reaction. She is not the god in question.
He exhaled silently. "That will be all. You may go."
Lysara gave him a puzzled look but nodded before exiting the chamber.
Once alone, Seraphiel leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple.
The Norns' warning haunted him.
If Lysara wasn't the god they spoke of… then who was?
And more importantly—could he stop the god before it was too late?