A moment later, inside the rushing train.
At the far end of the train aisle near the vestibule, a young man dressed in a sharp black coat sat cross-legged. He suddenly froze.
His trained senses picked up a faint, rhythmic disturbance in the space of the classic carriage unit—a subtle, unnatural undulation that ordinary passengers would easily dismiss as the train shifting on an unbalanced track.
Adjusting his golden-framed monocle, his gaze swept across the classic carriage.
"Huh? Everything looks perfectly normal. Could it be that the person they are hunting is hiding in the regular cars, or perhaps the business unit?"
Unconvinced by his visual findings, he decided to stealthily deploy his spiritual sense to map the entire train.
Pretending to massage his temples, he pressed the index and middle fingers of both hands against his forehead, executing a slow, circular motion.
Instantly, the entire unit lay completely bare within his mind. At first, nothing felt out of place. Frowning, he expanded the range of his perception, pushing deeper down the aisle.
The moment his spiritual sense surged past the middle section and brushed seat number 71, it was violently, ruthlessly repelled.
An invisible spiritual force—vast and crushing like an oceanic tidal wave—slammed back into his mind, throwing him heavily against his seat. Trails of dark blood instantly leaked from the corners of his eyes. A sudden surge of metallic fluid welled up in his throat, splashing onto the white handkerchief he frantically pressed to his lips.
"You dare!"
A voice thundered directly inside his brain—cold, dismissive, and absolute.
With trembling hands, the young man wiped the blood from his eyes and mouth. Panic gripped his soul; he knew he had just provoked an entity he never should have touched.
Damn it! A powerful Pathbearer... what is an existence like that doing in a remote, backwater city like Magoria? No, that's not what I should be worrying about right now. I just hope he doesn't decide to hunt me down. His heart convulsed violently in his chest as the remnants of that suffocating pressure still rippled through his gut.
Though, if he wanted me dead, he would have erased me on the spot without waiting. An entity with that level of suppressive force doesn't hesitate.
The soft plush seat beneath him suddenly felt like a scorching frying pan. Fear held him frozen. Never in his wildest dreams did he think a moment of idle curiosity would almost cost him his life.
Wait... wasn't that the exact seat of the little guy who fell unconscious earlier? How can a mere kid possess such terrifying spiritual force? Was he wearing a disguise?
He swallowed hard, staring blankly down the aisle. He must be a hidden scion from an impossibly powerful lineage.
What the young man failed to realize, however, was that the boy currently resting in that seat was no longer the same person who had boarded the train.
***
In a quiet alleyway bathed in the soft, amber glow of vintage street lamps, long, rhythmic shadows stretched across the floor. The yellow light cast shimmering, distorted reflections across the wet cobblestone pavement, emphasizing its deep, uneven grid. Rain puddles turned into polished mirrors of golden light, while a web of heavy electric cables crisscrossed overhead, connecting the looming buildings.
Walking past a massive trash bin was a youth clad in a simple white short-sleeved shirt and gray trousers. His crimson eyes briefly reflected the long, narrow alleyway, a strange, fleeting spark of light flashing within his pupils.
"What an honor to disguise myself as the son of the lineage head," the figure murmured. "If only I could maintain this aesthetic for an extended period, but..."
The disguised Maia paused, her cautious whisper fading into the damp air. But I can't risk it. If I stay in this form too long, I won't even know how I died.
Without waiting another second, she willed her Lineage Order to recede, reverting instantly to her true form.
The illusion dissolved to reveal a slender, striking beauty with tumbling blonde curls, a pair of sharp emerald eyes, and delicate, pink lips. The vintage yellow light washed over her fair complexion. She was tightly covered in practical, form-fitting black attire from her neck to her toes.
Earlier, the moment Sir Emmett Lee had successfully abducted Morca, someone had to remain behind to mask the scene—to play the part of a decoy on the train. Maia had been the perfect candidate. Her unique Lineage Order allowed her to replicate forms seamlessly, backed by her formidable Nebula Birth strength, which gave her complete mastery over physical shapeshifting.
With a fluid flick of her wrist, a thick red envelope materialized out of thin air, securely sealed by a miniature, blackened vine of thorny roses.
"I need to drop this off and get out of here quickly," she whispered.
With that, she strode purposefully through the cobblestone alley, heading directly toward Morca's home.
***
"Now I finally understand the true burden of being an author."
The words echoed softly through the quiet room, sounding like the deep, gentle chime of a morning bell, heavy with an ironic realization. The voice was stern, yet carried an undercurrent of quiet, weary understanding.
The home office was meticulously arranged, doubling as a sprawling personal library. Classic wooden shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, packed with books organized in flawless, military precision.
A massive, finely furnished desk occupied the center of the room. Its surface was completely pristine, save for a neat stack of documents, an open manuscript, a traditional quill, an ink grinder, and a sleek, modern pen. A soft, golden light from a nearby desk lamp illuminated the workspace, warming the dark wood and casting gentle, restful shadows across the room. The air was entirely still, free from the chaotic noise of the outside world. It was a sanctuary designed for pure, uninterrupted focus.
Behind the desk sat a handsome man, his composure unshakeable. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, though his heavy aura carried a profound maturity that far outstripped his physical age.
Short, jet-black hair framed sharp, calculated brows. Intensely deep crimson eyes gleamed beneath a focused gaze, and a straight, pointed nose led down to a firm, commanding chin.
He wore a simple, unadorned white shirt, yet he exuded an undeniable, terrifying sense of absolute authority.
In the entirety of Evoslon, only one man possessed such legendary, defining features.
Claudius Sherman.
His crimson gaze—bearing a striking, undeniable resemblance to Morca's—slowly swept across the endless rows of books. In a quiet, chilling whisper, he spoke to the empty room:
"Be it traditional historians or modern webnovel writers, they are all classified into four distinct tiers.
The first is the Amateur: authors packed with fleeting inspiration who begin writing impulsively, only to burn out and abandon their projects midway. They possess raw potential, but they die wandering in the dark, forever searching for their true authorial voice.
The second are the Seasonal Authors: those who impulsively quit their livelihoods to write full-time, mistakenly believing that a story is nothing more than a collection of pretty imaginations. They copy the frameworks of existing tales, milk their temporary inspiration dry, and patch together a first draft. To them, that fleeting cycle is what makes them a writer.
The third tier belongs to the Acquainted Authors: those who observe, study, and learn how to construct the very fabric of world existence. They write to accumulate wealth, secure status, or carve out a lasting legacy. To them, writing is a calculated, occupational profession—a tool to communicate with an audience and a directing device engineered to evoke raw human emotion.
Yet, a rare few have managed to touch the premium, hidden essence of the craft. These are the fourth tier: Legendary Authors. They do not write for entertainment or profit; they write to solve the grand, cosmic equations of life. They document historical truths, decode hypothetical dimensions, and map the universe we live in. They are the architects who build the foundational writing grounds of Evoslon. They are the legends whose words outlive empires."
Claudius paused, his gaze drifting to a separate shelf that held his own numerous, prestigious authorial writing honors.
"But all of these tiers are just flashes of what is already known," he murmured, his eyes narrowing. "The true, ultimate essence of an author... is writing about the unknown. Writing to unveil the cosmic mysteries.
What use is there to write what already exists? What value is an author who isn't prepared to dive headfirst into the abyss of the unknown? Just as rewriting another man's book is considered plagiarism, so too is writing about the established reality of Evoslon. I have drafted the core of this world. I have engineered specific characters to unveil its true nature. Yet, somehow, the puzzle remains shattered in pieces. But looking at it now, I finally see the fatal flaw... I am plagiarizing reality itself. I am not supposed to—"
Knock. Knock.
The sudden, sharp rap on the heavy wooden door sliced through the silence, instantly shattering Claudius's train of thought. His sharp brows creased into a cold, dangerous line.
"Who!"
A single, booming word vibrated through the room, completely silencing the party standing on the other side of the door. The heavy silence stretched for several agonizing seconds before a soft, trembling, and deeply apologetic voice filtered through the wood.
"A letter, my Lord. It arrives with a miniature black rose..."
Claudius didn't need to hear the rest of the description. He cut the servant off, his voice maintaining its grand, crushing composure.
"What is the content?"
It took only a few moments before the reporter outside the door replied, their voice visibly shaking.
"Young Master Morca has been... abducted on his way back home, my Lord. It was carried out under the direct order of Grand Dorkard Sherman."
An oppressive, heavy silence instantly consumed the warm library room.
"You may resume your duties," Claudius said smoothly, his tone remaining perfectly level, entirely unbothered by the gravity of the news.
The faint, hurried sound of retreating footsteps echoed outside, fading back into the hallway. In the renewed quiet, Claudius reached for an ink pen resting on the desk, casually flipping it between his thumb, index, and middle fingers with flawless coordination. With his free hand, he gently pushed himself away from the dark wood. The soft, rhythmic click-clack of precision-engineered wheels rolling across the hardwood floor broke the silence.
Only then, as he rolled out from behind the shadow of the massive desk, did the hidden truth lay bare.
The handsome man whose mere presence commanded undeniable, crushing authority was completely paralyzed from the waist down. He relied entirely on a mechanical wheelchair to move.
"They actually dare to drag him into their wretched mess, and they still have the audacity to send a thorned letter back?" Claudius muttered, a cold, mocking smile stretching across his lips. A faint, dangerous crimson light ignited within his deep gaze. "They have already forgotten the parents who birthed that child. Morca must not be allowed to awaken! If he does, they won't be able to calculate or survive the apocalyptic consequences that will betide Evoslon."
He paused, staring out into the empty space of the room, his smile dipping into something deeply unsettling.
"They still don't understand... When in the bloody history of Evoslon has a mere shadow and a reflection ever awakened a conscious awareness? Even among the highest-ranking Awakened Pathbearers, such a horrific phenomenon has never existed."
He inhaled a slow, measured breath, the crimson embers in his eyes glowing brighter.
"Only those whose lineage flaws are deeply tied to the order of fate and causality possess the rare potential to communicate with specter spirits—whether their own or those of the dead. And even then, strict, protocols must be followed. Yet my boy's specter spirit woke itself not long after his birth..."
As his father, Claudius understood the terrifying truth of Morca's biology better than anyone alive. Coupled with his hidden identity as a Premium Author—an entity whose forbidden knowledge far surpassed even those tyrants standing at the absolute pinnacle of the world—there were cosmic algorithms that only he could calculate.
"The news of the abduction must have reached Allina's ears by now," Claudius whispered, his knuckles whitening against the armrest of his chair. "But I highly doubt she would dare interfere with her own son's awakening ceremony. Even so... I must step in. I have to break the ritual myself, even if she never forgives me for the rest of my days."
A sudden, decisive spark erupted within his crimson gaze, completely erasing any trace of his former calm and gentle expression.
"The Continental Congress Conference is just around the corner, now that I have fully comprehended the Absolute Authorial Flaw... perhaps it is finally time I step onto the bloody stage myself."
His smile deepened, twisting with an unrestrained, maniacal freedom.
"It's time to cast aside the pathetic pen name of Claudius Daryl. It's time to claim my rightful seat upon the throne as the Apostle of the Absolute Mad Cripple. Since I no longer need to author Evoslon's world..." He gripped the wheels of his chair, a devastating aura of spiritual force causing the bookshelves to groan. "...I might as well dance the wildest, final dance."
"Hahahaha—!"
His legendary laughter thundered through the library, rattling the glass panes. A dormant god had finally awakened from his self-imposed slumber.
A name that would echo through the annals of eternity had officially stepped onto the stage.