Niko rose to his feet, mirroring Chalice's posture instinctively. He felt like he was waking up inside someone else's story—words like restore and Northern Banner hinting at a history long buried or violently erased. He didn't press on that. Not yet.
Instead, he narrowed his gaze and asked something that had been gnawing at him since the cultist he'd knocked out muttered it under his breath.
"There are… other prophets, right?" Niko asked. "The guard mentioned five."
Chalice gave a slow, resigned nod. "There are always five."
"Always?" Niko repeated.
"Yeah. Five prophets, chosen by fate to carry the will of the war god. It isn't about lineage. It isn't about belief. It's not even about strength." Chalice turned slightly, looking off into the shadowed rows of old books. "It's more like… being caught in a storm. One you never knew was coming."
Niko tilted his head. "What happened to them?"
"They died," Chalice said simply. "All five."
Niko frowned. "But you're—?"
"I'm not the first one," Chalice interrupted. "He died. Just like the others. I just… stepped in. Took his place before the cult noticed. They needed a prophet. They didn't need to know he'd fallen."
That silenced Niko for a few moments. Something cold slid down his spine.
Then something else clicked.
"When you talked about the Devil of Light… you said he will destroy all the prophets," Niko said slowly. "But if they're already dead, why—"
"Ah." Chalice smiled faintly, almost nervously. "You caught that."
He exhaled through his nose and stepped forward, boots tapping softly on the cracked stone floor.
"I said will because… it always happens. No matter who they are. No matter what they try. The Devil of Light always finds them. Always ends them."
"That doesn't explain the 'will,' though," Niko pressed. "If they're dead, they're dead."
Chalice paused, then let out a dry, almost humorless chuckle.
"It's because the prophets… aren't the same people every time. They're reborn. Not as themselves, but as whoever fate chooses next. Different faces. Different souls. Same burden."
Niko's breath caught. "They loop."
"Exactly," Chalice said. "Every era. Every reshaping of the world. Fate threads five more poor bastards into the war god's service. And then, like some sick ritual, the Devil of Light tears them apart. Every time. It's not prophecy. It's programming."
Niko didn't know what to say. His hands were cold. It was worse than death. It was inevitable.
"How many loops has this happened in?" he asked quietly.
Chalice looked at him. There was exhaustion in his eyes.
"Enough that I stopped keeping track," he said. "Enough to know that I'm not supposed to be doing this. Remembering. Interfering. Trying to change it."
He stepped closer.
"But this time," Chalice said, voice low and fierce, "I'm going to break the pattern. I'm going to destroy the Devil of Light. Restore what was lost. And cut the Pale Arc away from the House before it's swallowed whole."
Niko stared at him. He could still feel the weight of those words clinging to the air. This wasn't about rebellion. This was a war against time itself.
And somehow, fate had dragged him into it too.
Niko had thought this was going to be a simple in-and-out job.
Break through, crash the cult, move on.
But now? He could barely keep track of everything that was happening. Gods, dead gods, incarnations, ancient wars, the Devil of Light—he hadn't signed up for any of this. Fate, it seemed, had pulled him into a game he didn't even know was being played.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. There were a thousand questions burning in his mind, but if he asked them all, they'd still be talking when the sun hit noon.
Still, one thing had stuck with him—something from before, something Chalice had said almost offhandedly.
Niko glanced at him and asked, "Alright… one last thing, since we're here. What exactly is Essence?"
Chalice turned his head slowly, clearly not expecting that question.
"When I made that jian," Niko continued, "you called me 'the master of Essence.' I didn't think much of it at the time—I just thought you were being dramatic or messing with me. But I really don't know what that meant."
Chalice's face twisted slightly. "Wait. You're not joking?"
Niko blinked. "No? Should I be?"
There was a long pause. Then Chalice leaned in, eyes squinting like he was trying to see through Niko's skin.
"You… seriously don't know what Essence is?"
"No clue," Niko replied, slightly nervous now.
Chalice stared at him.
Then, he threw his head back and barked a sharp, humorless laugh. "Unbelievable."
Niko frowned. "What?"
"You're telling me," Chalice said, gesturing at him like he was a riddle wrapped in a headache, "that you accidentally used raw Essence. In a fight. With no training. No background. Just—'oh, let me survive real quick'—and bam, a real-ass jian."
Niko shrugged awkwardly. "I wasn't really thinking, honestly. I just… did it."
Chalice squinted again. "You weren't thinking. Of course you weren't. Because geniuses never are."
That made Niko blink. "Wait. I'm a genius now?"
"Don't get cocky," Chalice muttered, pacing now. "But yes. Apparently, you are. Because nobody just taps into Essence without understanding it. It's not like energy or an ability you borrow from something else. Essence is yours. It's the raw idea of who you are, given shape. Most people don't even know how to access it. And those who do? They need years. Training. Pressure. Purpose."
He stopped and pointed at Niko, annoyed and impressed all at once. "You? You just did it while getting your ass kicked. Like it was instinct."
Niko scratched his head. "So… that's bad?"
"No," Chalice said flatly. "It's terrifying."
There was a beat of silence before he added, almost muttering, "You really are a freak."
"Gee, thanks," Niko muttered.
Chalice shook his head. "Essence is the stuff beneath all ability. It's not cast. It's shaped. When someone uses Essence, they're pulling from who they are, what they believe—what they will to be real. It's the soul's handwriting. You don't learn to use it like a recipe. You develop it like a muscle. Or a philosophy. Or an obsession."
"And I… just did it," Niko said quietly.
Chalice threw up his hands. "Exactly!"
Niko let that settle. Then gave a weak laugh. "Well… cool, I guess?"
Chalice groaned. "Gods, I hate prodigies."
He paused, arms crossing. "I was one too, you know. Or… I thought I was."
Niko looked up.
"I didn't even understand Essence until after my fight with the Devil of Light," Chalice said, voice lower now. "Everything I thought I knew—everything I'd trained for—it wasn't enough. That thing… it tore through me like I was nothing. And when I survived, I survived broken. Empty. Only then did I begin to understand what Essence really was. What it meant to shape something from within yourself. To build, not borrow."
His eyes drifted, gaze lost somewhere behind the walls.
"It took me nearly dying to grasp what you just did on instinct."
Niko didn't know what to say. Chalice's voice had dipped, tinged with something heavier. Not bitterness—regret. Like someone who had glimpsed the truth far too late, and was still chasing after the pieces.
"The Pale Arc… used to run on Essence," Chalice went on. "It was our system. More versatile than anything the House ever gave. It let us carve the world to fit our souls. And I—I didn't master it until after it was already gone."
There was silence for a moment.
Then Chalice offered a crooked smile, tired but sincere.
"You're not chosen, kid. You're just… maddeningly good."
Niko blinked. "I think that's the nicest thing you've said to me."
Chalice smirked faintly. "Don't get used to it."
But his eyes didn't carry the smirk. They stayed distant, flickering with the weight of a war lost, a people scattered, and the bitter truth that sometimes, brilliance comes too late.