They had tried to knock Ryn out as they did with the other two, but their technique was all wrong. So he had to pretend to be unconscious, while they went and confiscated his things, occasionally suppressing the urge to just beat the thugs up right now.

Eventually, the rummaging stopped. The thugs grabbed him under the arms and hauled him across the dusty floorboards. Ryn let his head loll just enough to sell the act.

They dumped him into a corner beside Ellis and the cardinal, then tied their wrists and ankles with rope that was thick but poorly knotted.

His fingers flexed experimentally.

He could break out of this in three seconds, maybe five if he wanted to be subtle.

The footsteps retreated. The bandits continued whispering among themselves, their voices echoing faintly through the warehouse.

"…Can't believe it's him. A cardinal. A real one."

"Boss is gonna be thrilled."

"Think we'll get a cut this time?"

"Only if we don't mess up. So shut up and watch the door."

Ryn kept his breathing slow, steady. Ellis lay beside him, still out cold. Her hair partly covered her face, and whoever tied her up hadn't bothered to be gentle.

For now, the ropes scratched against his wrists as he subtly tested the tension. The knot was a joke. A single twist of his wrist would break the entire thing.

But he stayed still.

Because the room wasn't empty.

A new set of footsteps had entered.

Ryn could tell without opening his eyes. They were heavier, and calculated, like each step had authority in them.

"Report," a cold voice said.

He risked a peek, only to realize what was going on. The person who entered the room, was dressed from head to toe in white...accompanied by a signature black marble mask.

It was the Cult again.

The bandits scrambled.

"We—we got them, sir. Just like planned. The cardinal and his escorts."

The handler paced once, robes brushing the dusty floorboards, steps measured and unhurried. He wasn't here for entertainment.

"We do nothing until the cardinal wakes," the handler said, voice calm but firm.

"I want him fully aware when I speak to him. Conscious. Focused. He needs to understand exactly what is happening."

It was his lucky day as both the Cardinal and Ellis started to stir, both of them probably forgetting that they had been captured.

"What do you want from me?" the cardinal spoke first, breath ragged.

The handler circled the cardinal slowly, hands clasped behind his back, expression almost gentle.

"You raised him, didn't you?"

Leon's eyes didn't waver.

"…Raised who?"

"Oh, please." The handler smiled thinly. "You know exactly who."

The cardinal went silent. He struggled to hold onto his calm demeanor.

"The Hero Candidate," the handler said softly. "Fritz. You were the one who taught him."

"Yes," the cardinal said quietly. "He was an orphan from the Rokhan orphanage."

Ryn kept his body limp, breath steady, eyes almost closed.

He already knew Fritz came from Rokhan. Everyone knew the Hero was an orphan trained in one of the war temples. The church even took pride in it, labeling him as a legend everywhere he went.

But the next words made something cold slide down Ryn's spine.

"No," the handler replied. "He was far more. He learned everything from you. The way you walked, the way you talked…Even called you—"

Leon closed his eyes.

The handler smiled.

"Father."

Ryn's pulse stopped for half a beat.

What?!

He felt as if the room had tilted.

The Hero Ceremony.

It was not merely a ritual. It was a promise.

A once-in-a-lifetime convergence where the greatest clerics of every nation gathered beneath one roof, weaving their divine power together to grant a single chosen soul something beyond mortal reach.

A Blessing Enhance.

A miracle unseen to the world. Not a new blessing, but the elevation of an existing one.

And that miracle had been reserved for one boy:

Fritz Calder. Or at least it… was supposed to be.

But on the appointed day, all the accumulated divine power dispersed into empty air, wasted, because Fritz never appeared at the Ceremony.

And no one knew why.

Even Ryn, in his past life, heard only fragments. It wasn't until much later, long after the Ceremony had been declared a failure, that the truth reached him in quiet, sorrowful whispers:

Fritz hadn't refused the gods.

He had simply been crushed beneath a grief so heavy it pulled him out of the world entirely. Fritz still became a legend, the Hero, but Ryn always wondered what could've been.

…And now, he knew the truth.

Something shifted in Ryn's mind. Puzzle pieces which had never fit finally came together as a new one revealed itself.

It was Cardinal Leon. The man at the heart of the Hero's sorrow.

Which meant…only one thing:

Fritz Calder wasn't a mystery or misfortune. He was a successful attempt—a talent the cult managed to break once already.

And they were going to do it again.

A cold hush settled over the warehouse as the bandits finished clearing the center of the floor. Crates were pushed aside, revealing a chalk drawing on the floor.

Cardinal Leon was pulled toward it and shoved to his knees. Rope cut into his wrists, but he held himself upright, calm even in the face of blasphemy. It was clear where this was going…a ritual.

But for what?

A bandit kicked at the carved sigil nearest him.

"Boss… what is this thing, anyway?"

The handler paused mid-step.

He had been in a good mood, humming under his breath, actually. The question seemed to peel away a layer of that pleasant veneer. He turned slowly, regarding the thug with mild disappointment, like a teacher forced to repeat a lesson to an especially dense student.

"What is it?" the handler echoed. "It is the reason we brought him alive."

The bandit frowned. "Yeah, but… what does it do?"

The handler blinked once.

Then he smiled.

"To replace someone perfectly, you do not copy their movements or forged documents. You remove what makes them themselves, and leave behind the shell."

He traced a fingertip along the carved groove, and the wood seemed to shiver beneath his touch.

"The soul "

"…In which, another, can take its place."

He gestured, and a lacquered black box was brought forward. The lid opened with a soft hiss, and an icy, unnatural pressure rolled out like a breath of winter. Inside, a glass sphere glimmered faintly, hollow and waiting.

The thugs stood frozen, their earlier bravado drained into a pale, trembling stillness.

"S-So…" one stammered, licking dry lips, "you're… you're gonna take his soul and then… use his body?"

"Well…not me. But someone more…deserving."

The handler shook his head, almost indulgently.

"And after that… what happens to us?" another asked, voice cracking.

A long silence answered him.

The handler's pleasant expression didn't change.

But something in the room did.

He sighed softly, almost regretful.

"What usually happens," he said, "when a tool has served its purpose?"

The thugs went rigid.

Realization dawned in their eyes in a horrifying, silent ripple.

They weren't accomplices.

They were witnesses, and witnesses are liabilities.

The handler raised his free hand, a gesture as natural as breathing. Black and green accumulated on his palm, as almost a sickly energy radiated from it.

Ryn's fingers curled once into the loosened rope. Snapping it free like it was a toy.

[Aquila - Burst]

Wind detonated beneath him, and Ryn vanished from the spot like a falcon taking off.

The handler barely had time to blink.

One moment, Ryn was tied in a corner. The next—

WHAM.

His fist collided with the handler's jaw with a force that folded the man inward, sending him crashing across the ritual circle and skidding through the dust in a choking spray.

The black-green spell flickered out instantly, snuffed like a candle.

His lips parted slightly.

Ptooe.

A small metallic ring clicked against the wooden floor as he spat it out— the same storage ring he'd palmed into his mouth the moment he felt the ambush coming.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the metallic taste still lingered like spoiled blood.

"Disgusting. Never doing that again."

He lowered himself, two fingers brushing the ring as he slipped it back on.

Ryn reached into the air and pulled.

A longsword slid out of the storage space like it had been waiting for this moment, steel gleaming in the cracked light filtering through the warehouse roof. He had to thank Duke Grandal again for letting him borrow this, as much as the old man might 'not approve' of him.

The handler was half-crumpled against the wall, breath so ragged that his whole body moved in unison with it.

For the first time, panic flickered in the handler's eyes.

His fingers twitched toward the ritual lines, toward the soul jar, toward anything.

Ryn silenced the attempt with the barest shift of his heel, crushing the crystal entirely.

He raised his sword.

There was no dramatic speech.

Just the simple, decisive finality of a man who had ended far more dangerous threats in his past life, and who would not allow this one to live another heartbeat.

Shhhk.

The handler's body slumped sideways, lifeless before it hit the floor.

Silence followed.

Dust drifted in the thin sunlight. Ellis stared, breath caught in her throat.

Cardinal Leon bowed his head, whispering a quiet prayer.

Ryn exhaled slowly, lowering his blade.

A quiet thought settled over him, firm and absolute:

Once again… he had changed the course of the future.

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