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The apartment was modest yet undeniably comfortable. Wooden floors, worn but well-kept, creaked softly underfoot. The hearth cast a steady glow, flickering against sturdy furniture with faded but rich fabric. Faint traces of wax, parchment, and spice lingered in the air, adding to its quiet warmth.
Despite its modesty, the apartment had all the amenities of a proper home—a well-kept sitting area, a bedroom tucked beyond a heavy wooden door, and a kitchen that, at present, was in utter disarray.
Past a cluttered wooden table strewn with empty bottles, crumpled paper wrappers, and remnants of strange ingredients—something that shimmered even in the dim light.
On the cooking stove, a pot sat, its contents swirling in a mesmerizing iridescent hue.
Lyle stood over it, sleeves haphazardly rolled up, stirring with a wooden spoon. He watched as the liquid shifted through impossible colors—violet to gold, then to a deep, oil-slick black—before settling into a dull, eerie silver.
He stopped stirring, eyed the result for a long moment, then shrugged.
"Well, I guess that's that," he muttered.
With practiced ease, he reached for a pair of pot holders, lifting the pot and tilting it over a waiting mug. The potion streamed down in a slow, viscous ribbon, catching the light in unnatural ways.
The moment it met the air, an indescribable scent filled the room.
It smelled cold. Hard. Like polished steel left out in winter, like frozen stone. Qualities that should not have a scent—and yet, it did.
Lyle's brow furrowed, but he said nothing. He set the pot aside, slipping off the pot holders before pulling the mug closer. His fingers curled around the ceramic, expecting warmth, only to find—
"It's not even hot?" he mused, surprise flickering across his face. "It was just on the fire…"
Another shrug.
At this point, he had stopped questioning most things and simply kept an open mind.
"Bottoms up," he muttered and threw it back in one motion.
Immediately, he regretted it.
As expected from a potion brewed with magical and questionable ingredients, it was awful. The taste twisted between sharp bitterness, something chalky, and an aftertaste that burned like rusted iron. He grimaced, barely swallowing before setting the mug down with a thud.
Father Utrazsky had warned him that drinking the subsequent potions would always trigger a reaction.
“…”
“…”
“…”
Seconds ticked by in silence. Lyle frowned.
“How come nothing’s happening?”
No pain seared through him. No nausea twisted his gut. Not even a whisper of dizziness brushed his senses. Just… nothing.
Then, the potion he just drank sank in—a sensation as subtle as ink bleeding into water. It was quiet, pervasive, seeping into his marrow, threading through his essence. The potion didn’t force itself upon him.
It merged with him.
Ever so willingly.
A moment later, power surged.
It wasn’t like before—not like when he had taken the throne. This was different.
It was smoother as if the potion had slotted seamlessly into what was already there.
And that wasn’t all.
Lyle flexed his fingers, feeling something new settle into his body. He was stronger—every muscle under his absolute control. Not only that, he had gained an uncanny precision and accuracy, like a warrior who had spent years in rigorous training.
And his mind evolved as well.
He gained the ability to calculate at a terrifying rate. Even in the heat of battle, Lyle knew he could keep up with his opponents while simultaneously recalling Loen’s constitutional bylaws with perfect clarity.
With those two abilities, he’d be a dangerous fighter.
"Well, that’s only if I’m fighting humans."
Lyle lampooned, leaning back into his chair.
"But why would I fight at all?"
He had no need for it. Fighting was for people who lacked options.
Lyle had options.
He could now use divination and counter-divination, keeping him a step ahead of those who might seek to fight.
Shaking his head, he dismissed the thought. There were far more important things to focus on than preparing for a fight.
"Haa… I should probably thank her when we meet again," Lyle muttered absently, making space for what was essentially a spell book Bernadette left as a parting gift.
-
The night was still. The streets were empty.
A red moon hung in the sky, its reflection distorted on the sluggish, murky water flowing beneath the bridge. A gentle breeze whispered through the quiet, carrying with it the scent of damp stone and river filth.
Lyle stood there, leaning against the railing, humming a tune even he didn’t recognize. His eyes were closed, his fingers drumming absently on the cold stone.
His instincts had led him here. Go there. Wait. That was all they had said.
And so he did.
By now, he had long accepted that his intuition was never wrong. The moment he sat on that throne, he had gained a deeper understanding—there was always a reason, always a purpose, even if he wasn’t yet capable of grasping it.
And if there was one thing he had learned, it was that everything his instincts urged him to do was ultimately in his favor.
His thoughts drifted back to the throne.
Now that he had claimed it, he could return there whenever he pleased, he could slip into that endless, spinning construct.
It was a welcome relief—after months of dreaming of nothing but that place, he could finally dream of other things.
His musings were abruptly cut short.
A sharp spike of spirituality surged through the air, rippling outward from his location.
Lyle’s eyes snapped open.
Before him, pea vines erupted from the cracks in the bridge, growing at an unnatural speed. They slithered and twisted, spiraling up the worn stone like living serpents.
Leaves unfurled, glossy and vibrant, stretching toward the red moon above. The vines thickened, weaving together until they formed a dome, enclosing the bridge in an eerie, verdant cage.
Lyle exhaled in quiet wonder, watching the casual display of power with mild amusement.
Then, his attention shifted.
Suspended in the air, cradled by the vines as though resting upon an unseen daybed, was a woman.
She was beautiful.
Her long hair cascaded like a river, framing a face that was sharp yet delicate. Her posture was effortless, draped across the vines as though lounging in leisure. But her eyes—piercing, calculating—were locked onto his.
Lyle blinked. Then, as realization settled in, he straightened and inclined his head in a bow.
"Good evening," he said smoothly. "I am Lyle Prett. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
-
Bernadette Gustav studied the young man before her.
He was tall but not imposing, his frame lean yet sturdy. His dark hair was slightly tousled. His clothing was neat but not extravagant, well-fitted yet without the usual affectations of nobility.
It was a rare whim that had led her here tonight.
Before leaving Backlund and returning to the sea, she had felt the urge to take one last stroll beneath the crimson moon. And it was on this quiet bridge that she crossed paths with him.
At first, she had intended to ignore him, to pass him by like any other stranger. But the song he hummed… the way he carried the tune, unhurried and absentminded, yet eerily familiar—it stirred something within her.
A memory long buried, bittersweet in its return.
Like a cat drawn to mice, she had approached him without fully understanding why.
But he did not react to her presence as most would.
Instead, he straightened, giving her a polite bow before introducing himself with a name that meant nothing to her. Then, when she did not immediately respond, he fidgeted slightly, shifting his weight as though unsure of what to do next. That, too, was unusual.
Then he tilted his head to the side.
It was subtle—just a slight lean to the left, as if he were listening to a voice only he could hear.
Her eyes narrowed.
His expression slackened, his gaze turning distant, glazed over with an eerie clarity. And just like that, she knew.
Monster Pathway Beyonder.
He blinked, the trance breaking.
Lyle coughed, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his face as he stammered,
“Um… would you mind letting me see that card?”
Bernadette’s mind sharpened, her pulse steadying as realization flared. That card. He didn’t name it, didn’t need to.
Her fingers twitched at her side, though her expression remained calm. She was composed, as always, but internally, her mind raced.
Very few people knew she possessed that card. The ones who did were either trusted allies or individuals with no reason to ever betray her. The likelihood of some unknown Beyonder stumbling upon that information was impossibly low.
The odds of a random Beyonder possessing that knowledge were vanishingly slim.
Unless…
She scrutinized him, suspicion coiling tighter.
Lyle, sensing her wariness, raised his hands in a hasty gesture of peace.
"Um… I don’t really know how to explain it myself, but in exchange for letting me see the card, I can, um…" He faltered as if his own words surprised him. “…give you something in exchange?”
His voice carried an edge of disbelief—like he, too, was unsure why he had said such a thing.
Then, his eyes glazed a little.
“Answers to the questions you’ve sought so long,” he murmured, lost in haze.
Bernadette’s breath caught.
Her first instinct was suspicion. A trap. A ploy from an enemy. But the longer she looked at him, the more that logic wavered.
Because the truth was—she had been searching.
For answers that eluded her. For questions that led only to dead ends.
Could it be?
She took a slow breath, steadying herself. Then, with practiced ease, her hand sank into the fabric of space itself. The air rippled around her wrist as though she had plunged it into water, and when she withdrew it, a single card rested between her fingers—the Card of Blasphemy: Wheel of Fortune.
She met Lyle’s gaze, watching his reaction carefully. Then, with deliberate ease, she extended the card toward him, gesturing for him to take it.
Lyle hesitated for a moment, glancing between the card and her before stepping forward.
Just as his fingers brushed against it, she tightened her hold.
His eyes snapped up, meeting her cold stare.
"I don’t take kindly to deception," she said, her voice calm but edged with steel. There lay an unspoken promise—swift and unforgiving retribution.
Lyle swallowed. "Noted."
They held eye contact for a few heartbeats before she finally released the card.
He stepped back, turning it over and over in his hands, his brow furrowed. The confusion on his face made it painfully clear.
Bernadette watched him for a moment, her gaze unreadable, before exhaling in exasperation. "Inject your spirituality into it," she said, her tone curt but patient.
He looked startled by the suggestion but quickly nodded. "Uh, thanks."
Then, he followed her instructions.
A pulse of power erupted from the card.
Bernadette tensed.
The sudden surge of spirituality startled her; the card had never reacted this way before. It seemed to resonate directly with him. Instinctively, she stepped back, her eyes narrowing in wary anticipation.
Bernadette reached into the fabric of space, and a moment later, she withdrew a brass lamp.
Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the energy faded.
Lyle exhaled, his eyes opening with a faint, unearthly glow.
He met her gaze, unflinching, his voice rolling forth—layered, resonant, a decree carved from time itself. A prophecy unfurled from his lips:
“Underneath the crimson moon’s shadow, the seeker shall meet the key to the quest they chase.”
Bernadette’s breath snagged, the words draping over her like a heavy veil, their weight sinking into her deep into her bones.