Hours after Soren had left…

The cave had fallen silent.

The campfire was dead now. It had been reduced to a ring of dying embers that barely glowed against the stone walls.

Even smoke rose no more.

Of course, the warmth that had once filled the cavern was gone, leaving only cold and the heavy stench of blood.

The three bodies lay where they had died.

Vinegar sat against the wall, her knees drawn tightly to her chest. Blood clung to her clothes, stiff and cold. Her fingers were numb, her body trembling uncontrollably as she tried to keep what little warmth remained.

But her eyes—they were open. They were... empty.

Then she heard it.

A soft whistle echoing through the cave.

Light shifted.

It was bright, but wrong. It looked as if the darkness itself bent aside.

Footsteps followed after, unhurried and deliberate, approaching from the mouth of the cave.

A figure finally emerged from the shadows.

He was tall and slender, dressed in a fine black suit, a long coat falling neatly behind him.

The figure used a polished walking stick, and it tapped lightly against the stone with every step.

A wide-brimmed hat rested comfortably upon his head.

At first glance, he almost looked human.

Then the flickering ember light from dying campfire touched his face.

Green skin—etched with faint, glowing patterns that pulsed slowly beneath the surface.

And where there should have been a single head, there were three, fused subtly into one impossible form. Each face bore a different expression, each gaze fixed on something beyond sight.

This was an Eldritch Soul, wearing the shape of a man.

He stopped several meters from Vinegar and surveyed the cave in silence.

His eyes moved from body to body of the remains of the three men.

At last, one of his mouths curved into a thin smile.

"Tsk… tsk… tsk.Well now," he said softly, almost amused. "How inconvenient."

He walked among the corpses, tapping his cane lightly against the remains. "It seems someone has already done my work for me."

Turning, he noticed Vinegar.

Still breathing.

Still alive. But nearly frozen by the cold.

The prison was not far away. She coukd have made it back by herself. But she did not.

She stayed here. Mourning her fathers.

The man removed his hat and bowed with impeccable courtesy.

"I am known as the Caretaker," he said. "Young lady… did you perform the cleanup on my behalf?"

His words had a kind of venom at the end.

Vinegar shook her head weakly.

He nodded, as though that answered everything.

"Ah. A pity."

Replacing his hat, he turned toward the tunnel. "In that case, since the matter is resolved, I shall take my leave."

He had taken only a single step when fingers closed around his trouser leg.

The cave shook.

Not from movement — but from soul pressure.

The embers flared once, then died completely beneath the invisible weight.

Stones groaned and fell from the cave walls.

The air thickened until her breathing itself became difficult.

And still, Vinegar did not let go. Her fingers clamped even harder. Like a stubborn animal holding on for dear life.

The Caretaker stopped.

Slowly, he turned back.

All three faces now regarded her.

His voice, when he spoke, was no longer gentle.

"Tell me why you should still breathe."

Vinegar lifted her head.

Her face was pale, streaked with dried tears. Her lips trembled violently, but her eyes were sharp, burning with a hatred so pure it seemed to cut through the cold.

"Because," she whispered, her voice hoarse, "I know the one who keeps interrupting the Master's plans."

One of the Caretaker's brows rose slightly.

"And?"

Tears spilled freely down her cheeks, but she did not look away.

"He killed my fathers."

Silence settled over the cave.

Deep and absolute.

Then she spoke again, each word steady, deliberate.

"I'm going to kill him."

A breath passed.

The Caretaker leaned closer. Curious

"Whom?"

Her answer did not waver.

"Soren Waterfell."

For the first time since he had arrived, the Caretaker looked at her with interest.

Too much interest.

His tongues licked his lips.

"Your HATE... it looks... delicious." His six eyes glowed sharply.

"What's your name?" He asked.

"Vin... Vinegar." She whispered shivering.

He shook his head. "The one who remains no longer needs it." His fingers brushed her hair aside.

Vinegar's lips trembled. "Then… what... am I now?"

The green glowing patterns along his skin pulsed slowly.

"Ash does not keep the name of the tree," he said.

"Nor does a blade keep the name of the hand that once held it."

He leaned closer.

"From this moment…"

His voice deepened, echoing strangely through the cavern.

"You shall be called Mora. The daughter of pain and hate.

The meal I shall enjoy when... fulfilled."

.....

At the same time…

Deep within the heart of the empire, far beneath the greatness.

—beneath stone, earth and steel, there existed a secret chamber within the temple of the God of the neuralink.

Its walls were alive, and it was not flesh, but with threads.

Veins of pale light pulsed slowly through the stone, weaving across the surface like the sprawling webs of mycelium beneath a forest floor.

Each pulse throbbed with old rhythm, as though the room itself were breathing.

At the center stood a Veil wall.

It was thin. Translucent. Shimmering like heat over desert sand.

Beyond it, shadows moved.

And before it knelt Lema.

The chamber was obvious with ritual.

Incense that was heavy and sweet, clung to the air, almost suffocating.

Around her stood women similarly dressed in red robes, dozens of them.

They were silent.

Each bore the same mark as her

A slender blade of pale soul energy that passed through the neck.

The Soul Blade of Truth.

None of them moved or blinked.

One could say their kind were were already beyond fear.

Lema lowered her head.

"First Mothers," she said softly. "I bring news."

From beyond the Veil, three figures stirred.

They sat upon thrones grown directly from the living threads.

Their forms were thin, crooked, ancient. Even their skin folded like parchment, hair white as frost.

One of them leaned forward.

Her voice emerged like the whisper of a grave being opened.

"Speak, child."

Lema inhaled.

"A Waterfell, Mothers," she said. "I bring news of a Waterfell… we can finally conclude the Great Sacrifice."

Silence followed.

Then — slowly —

The three women smiled.

....

That night, Soren's mind was so distressed, he opened the Discipline of Sorrow to read... surely falling into slumber amidst its pages.

He had no idea of the monsters that were coming.

(Author's note: Okay: Thats it guys. The end of volume one. Next we are entering the academy arc. If you think the book deserves a Super Gift, please bless it. And please a review if you haven't already.)

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