[Your nightmare is over.]
[Prepare for appraisal…]
The spell's voice echoed in Klaus's ravaged mind—a whisper forged from cold resentment and disdain. And yet, for all its bitterness, it was the sweetest sound that had ever graced his ears.
Once more, he found himself suspended between dream and reality. A boundless void of black stretched infinitely, adorned by a scattered sea of stars. Between them, threads of silver light wove an impossibly intricate web—forming nexuses, constellations, and sacred geometries too profound for mortal comprehension. It was beautiful. Terrifyingly beautiful.
And it was the only proof that he had escaped the radiant, sterile prison of the Ivory Tower. The nightmare was over. He was free.
He had no idea if he stood, floated, or lay drifting somewhere in the cosmic dark—and truth be told, he didn't care.
He had lost consciousness... or rather, regained it. Either way, it would've been a tragedy to simply awaken as though nothing had happened.
Here, within the star-strewn void, the spell no longer sounded like a whisper in his ear. No—it spoke with the voice of the cosmos itself, vast and ineffable.
[Awakened! Your trial is over.]
Klaus grimaced, eyes narrowing in weary disdain as he stared into the Weaver's tapestry—its threads quivering with truths too vast to name. He watched the spell's words unfurl like scripture, his expression twisted with raw, unfiltered hatred.
"Stop with the damned dramatic pauses and get on with it, for fuck's sake... Bloody hell…"
He was beyond exhausted—his mind barely clinging to wakefulness. Yes, he had awakened by sheer instinct as his spirit transferred from the collapsing nightmare into the hidden inner workings of the Spell. But that didn't mean he was whole. Far from it.
It worked.
A dry, bitter chuckle escaped his lips.
Of course it had. He had sacrificed months of meticulous preparation for this moment. And yet… even with all that effort, success had never been certain. It was the corruption of Hope itself that had amplified his greed and emboldened him to conceive such lunacy.
But now… now, he would ascend.
After all these years, after endless pain and sacrifice, he would finally become a Master. His foundation was unshakable. His knowledge vast. His experience—terrifying.
Nothing else mattered. Not anymore.
The spell's voice returned, no longer confined to any direction. It echoed from everywhere and nowhere, not so much a sound as a truth pressed into the marrow of his mind:
[From the depths of the Abyss, a malicious sinner clawed his way free—reshaping flesh and spirit to defy oblivion.
Escaping that formless dark, he battled agony and madness in the Temple of Suffering, devouring the pitiful War Maiden and laying waste to all who stood in his path.
Freed, he waged war upon the Holy City, joined by a Mad Sorcerer, a Treacherous Shadow, a Feral Child, a Fallen Centurion, and a Blind Prophet.
Unleashing a creature of unspeakable loathing and tearing a fragment of god from the moon, the sinner drowned the skies in chaos. His spirits swept the battlefield like a storm, and the floating isles were cast into the Abyss from which he came.
Amid the city's smoldering ashes, he ascended the Tower of the Demoness. There, with deception and sin, he earned her unholy blessing.
Then, harvesting the fallen spirits, he poured them into the Box of Good and Evil.
The hateful sinner broke the chains of Hope and set Desire free.]
Klaus arched a brow, half-amused.
Really? That was the summary?
He couldn't help but scoff, mildly entertained by the dramatic recounting of his tale. Honestly, that wasn't even half of it.
He had done far more.
And yet the Spell seemed to relish painting him in the foulest light possible. Malicious. Sinner. Hateful. Really?
Sure, he'd done some questionable things… maybe more than a few. But still—was this poetic slander truly warranted?
Klaus suspected the Spell played favorites.
When he'd once asked Tatiana how the Spell narrated her trial, she laughed and listed titles like "breathtaking," "alluring," and "lovely." Naturally.
And what did he get?
"Sinner." "Malicious." "Hateful." clearly, the Spell was not a fan.
[You have slain a Fallen Terror: Wraith of Sorrow.]
[You have slain an Ascended Human: Serka of the Red Sect.]
[You have slain a Transcendent Human: Sun Prince.]
[You have slain a Transcendent Human: Sevirax.]
[You have slain...
The litany of names continued, a grim testament to his rampage through the Nightmare. One after another, the Spell enumerated the dead—creatures and champions alike.
There were too many.
How many had he killed?
In the Red Sect alone—perhaps a hundred.
Lich had slaughtered hundreds more to ensure the northern exodus succeeded. Hemera had razed entire squads in Ivory City, and massacred legions on the battlefield. Hassan had cleaved through hundreds himself.
And Klaus… he had shattered the chains and drowned the floating isles, dragging them into the Abyss.
Thousands died by his hand. Perhaps over four thousand directly. And those who fell due to his deception, manipulation, and ambition?
Tens of thousands.
He had burned Ivory City to ash. Deceived and tortured the Ivory Dragon before ordering Hassan to end him. He had slain the Sun Prince, and crushed the Ascended elites of both city and coliseum.
He had harvested the spirit essence of entire legions and unraveled the very chains of Hope itself.
And for all that… not a single word of praise?
Not even a whisper of acknowledgment?
He almost laughed.
Typical.
At long last, the Spell stirred and cast its silent judgment.
[...You have unshackled a demoness, once bound by a god.]
[Your accomplishments defy expectation.]
[Final appraisal: Truly Excellent, Sinner...]
And then, silence. Cold, impersonal, complete.
Klaus paid it no mind.
There were no ornate praises, no dramatic proclamations. No exaltation of his cunning or lament for what he had wrought. That suited him just fine.
He had not rewritten fate, true—but what did that matter? Why tamper with fate if there was no profit to be found in the outcome?
He had freed Hope, that much was undeniable. He had broken her chains, defied the will of god itself. Yet what had he gained from the act?
That remained to be seen.
He was not like the Sunless, that bitter soul who bore an almost religious hatred for fate, as if it were a personal enemy. Klaus… Klaus felt nothing so dramatic. He disliked being manipulated, sure—no one enjoyed the feeling of strings on their limbs—but it rarely occurred. Life, to him, was less a script and more a tale with fixed beats and infinite improvisation. The main plot could not be altered... but the details? The flavor? Entirely his to rewrite.
Or so he had once believed.
Lately, he had begun to suspect otherwise.
It felt less like writing his own story and more like being written by two authors at war. One—the skeletal hand of fate, obsessed with order and consequence. The other—his own bizarre, anomalous essence, wild and untethered, dragging him into chaos. These forces did not coexist; they clashed, each pulling at him like petulant children fighting over a toy.
And it was exhausting.
Klaus didn't understand how or why. He only knew it was there—this constant, invisible pressure in his soul, like tectonic plates grinding beneath his spirit. The sensation was maddening. Not painful. Just… exhausting. Like a song with too many melodies playing at once.
But now was not the time to dwell on such mysteries.
Soon, the reactions would come—his so-called cohort, their shock, their disappointment, their misplaced accusations. Betrayal, they'd call it.
"Whether they like it or not... I don't care," he murmured, voice rich with scorn. "Losers have no right to question the victor."
He laughed then—threw his head back and let the sound rip through the void. It was wild, sharp-edged, and mocking. His laughter echoed through the emptiness like a funeral bell for their pride.
To be called traitor, monster, wicked and vile—all because he had won. Because he had dared to accomplish what others couldn't even imagine.
Oh, the irony.
Now, the same wretches who had failed would gather like rats and bark judgment at him?
By those pitiful mongrels?
Please.
His eyes narrowed, burning like twin amethysts suspended in the dark.
He lingered in the silence, then grimaced and shrugged.
"Meh. Who gives a damn?" he sighed, already disinterested. "Just find me a bottle, a foil, and some weed. Yeah Baby! I'm getting wasted!"