The screams of the Capital didn't stop all at once.

They faded gradually, distance turning the roar of a revolution into a dull, rhythmic thrum, until finally, they were replaced by the chirping of crickets and the rustle of wind through the tall grass.

Damien stood on a lonely hill miles outside the city limits. He pulled the silver mask from his face, his fingers trembling slightly.

The metal felt cold and heavy, burdened by the weight of the thousands of lives he had just upended.

From this distance, the fires raging in the Lower Districts looked beautiful, like fireflies trapped in a glass jar, flickering against the obsidian night.

The coup was successful. The Empire was paralyzed. The economy was a corpse, and the armies were retreating to mourn it.

He had won.

But there was no triumphant shout. As the adrenaline of the performance faded, a bone-deep exhaustion crashed over him.

"It's done," Damien whispered, his voice hoarse. He turned his back on the destruction he had wrought.

He walked into the tree line, where the shadows deepened. A black, unmarked carriage waited there, blending perfectly into the darkness. Alfred stood by the open door, a silhouette of absolute composure amidst a world gone mad.

"A successful evening, Young Master," Alfred said softly. He held out a fresh, heavy wool coat to replace Damien's silk suit, which was damp with sweat.

"Isabelle and Barnaby have signaled. The transport routes are secured. We are clear to vanish."

"Good," Damien exhaled, leaning heavily against the wooden wheel of the carriage. The simple solidity of it felt grounding.

"Give me a moment, Alfred. Just a moment."

"Take all the time you need, sir."

Damien closed his eyes, tilting his head back to the moon. The cool night air soothed his burning skin. He had one final task. The reason he had started this fire in the first place.

He summoned the System.

[Property Panel]

[Previous Balance: 50,000 DP]

[Plot Deviation (Genre Shift): +100,000 DP]

[Economy Crash: +30,000 DP]

[Northern Army Recall: +30,000 DP]

[Current Destiny Points: 210,000]

Looking at this Value, Damien was shocked! If he invested all these points in himself, he could probably upgrade his celestial life physique a few times, or edit some more abilities for himself and the others

However, Damien didn't care about power right now. He didn't care about upgrades.

"System," Damien commanded mentally, his thought projecting with desperate intensity. "I have enough points now, locate them!"

[Query: Locate Individuals 'Theron Voss' and 'Elizabeth Voss'?]

"Yes."

Damien's heart hammered against his ribs, loud enough to drown out the crickets. Two years.

He had spent two years building the name zero, fighting an empire and wearing the face of a terrorist, all for this single answer.

[Processing...]

The seconds stretched into hours.

[...Error.]

Damien's eyes snapped open. The calm vanished. "Error? What do you mean, Error?"

[Target location is obscured by High-Tier Divine Interference. The trace cannot be completed instantly.]

"I paid the points!" Damien hissed, his mana flaring involuntarily, scorching the grass beneath his boots.

"Bypass it! I don't care about the cost!"

[Bypassing requires brute-force decryption of the Divine Barrier.]

[Calculating time remaining...]

A progress bar appeared in his vision. Unfortunately, it was moving with the agonizing slowness of a dying star.

[Estimated Time to Decryption: 14 Years, 3 Months, and 12 Days.]

Damien stared at the number. The silence around him became deafening, pressing in on his ears.

"Fourteen years," he muttered, a dry, incredulous laugh escaping his lips.

"You have to be joking."

He kicked the dirt, sending a spray of gravel into the dark. Frustration, hot and bitter, boiled over.

He had won the war, he had checkmated the Emperor, but the prize was locked behind a time gate he couldn't touch.

In anger and frustration, he paced the small clearing, his breath coming in short bursts.

But then, the gamer in him, the part of him that analysed mechanics and plot armor took over. He stopped pacing looking at the number again.

14 Years.

"Wait." Damien narrowed his eyes, his mind racing. "If I wait fourteen years... that brings the timeline exactly to that year!"

The year the original novel begins. The year the Protagonist, Alaric, enters the Academy.

Damien let out a long, ragged sigh, the fight draining out of him. He leaned his head back against the carriage, the wood cool against his skull.

"I see," he whispered.

"It seems The Plot doesn't want me to find them yet. It wants me to wait for the Main Event. It's forcing me back onto the rails."

"Either that or something else is going to happen in those 14 years that weakens the interference"

Thinking of this, he unclenched his fists. There was no point in raging against the machine.

If the System said fourteen years, it meant fourteen years. No amount of gold or mana would speed it up.

"Fine," Damien whispered to the stars. "If I have fourteen years, I won't waste them."

He looked at his hands. He was strong, yes. A 5th Order Mage. But to fight the gods or demigods that were hiding his parents?

To fight the threats waiting in the main story? He needed to be at least an 8th Order. Maybe even 9th. He needed to be a monster that the plot couldn't control.

"Alfred," Damien called out, his voice steady again.

"Sir?"

"It seems we have to prepare faster"

Damien climbed into the carriage, sinking into the plush velvet seat. The comfort was overwhelming after the hardness of the battle.

His mind, however, was already spinning new webs.

"I need a cover identity for the Central Continent," Damien said, tapping his finger rhythmically on his knee.

"When the time comes to enter the Academy, I can't go in as 'Zero' or 'Damien Voss.' The background checks for faculty are too thorough."

"What do you propose, sir?" Alfred asked, climbing into the driver's seat and taking the reins.

"Fame," Damien said, a small, tired smirk returning to his face.

"The Central Continent is vain. They value culture over war. If I enter as a mercenary, the plan is as good as failed. However, if I enter as a celebrity... ?"

He looked at his hands, flexing the fingers. He remembered the piano he had built for Isabelle months ago to test Hephaestus's crafting skills.

He remembered the peace he felt when he played.

"I'll need a new name," Damien mused, watching the trees pass by the window.

"Something artistic. Something... classical."

He looked at the moon, bright and round.

"Mozart," he decided.

"I'll spend the next decade turning that name into a legend!"

The carriage lurched forward, the wheels rolling softly over the mossy earth.

As they moved, Damien pulled out his communication crystal. The soft glow illuminated his face in the dark cabin. He checked the active lines.

Isabelle: Green (Active)

Barnaby: Green (Active)

Hephaestus: Green (Active)

Leona: Green (Active)

His finger hovered over the last name on the list.

The light next to it was gray.

Lyra.

He hadn't spoken to her since she left the group two years ago.

She had gone alone into the deep forests to investigate the Twilight Association's movements, to prepare the way for their next move.

"I wonder how she's doing," Damien whispered, looking out the window at the northern stars. The silence from her end felt heavier than usual.

"She's the only one I haven't checked on."

"Don't let me down, Lyra," Damien murmured, snapping the crystal shut.

"The intermission is just starting. I need my full cast for the second act."

He closed his eyes, letting the rhythmic swaying of the carriage lull him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Behind him, the Capital burned, marking the end of the beginning. Ahead of him, fourteen years of silence waited.

And somewhere in the dark, the wheels of destiny had begun to point towards the elves.

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