Chapter One: The City of Lost

Amy opened his eyes to a blanket of absolute darkness.

Where is this?

He wanted to move his body, but the waves of pain radiating from it made him momentarily daze.

What on earth happened?

He tried to retrace his final memories, but found nothing; all he could see was a thick, impenetrable dark.

He should have arrived in Canaan by now.

He shook his head, his memories entirely fragmented.

Quite a terrible starting hand.

Leaning against the wall behind him, he pushed himself up from the ground. The profound darkness rendered vision useless, leaving him to rely solely on his senses and experience to roughly deduce his current environment.

It ought to be the Deepest Night.

After the Flame of Hermetica was extinguished, he had a brief encounter with the Deepest Night that had enveloped the entire realm of order, leaving him with an exceptionally deep and harrowing impression of that suffocating darkness.

Yet, to jump to conclusions based purely on feeling felt somewhat reckless. Besides, judging by sensation alone, there seemed to be an extremely subtle difference.

The young Scion of Glory calmed himself. Instead of dwelling on that subtle sensory discrepancy, he took action.

First, there must be light.

He groped around until his hand brushed against his suitcase. Twirling the combination lock by feel and aligning the three-digit code, the internal mechanism clicked as the suitcase sprang open with a snap. A fire crystal bloomed with a brilliant, flowing radiance within the gloom.

"Good."

A rare curve touched the corners of the boy's mouth. He gently picked up the fire crystal pendant, hung it around his neck, and, aided by the dim glow, began to organize the items inside the suitcase.

The three-piece set for a Sword-bearer.

Weapons, attire, and a lantern.

They were laid out before him simply and neatly. A candidate Sword-bearer who had yet to have a stigmata implanted held no physical advantage over ordinary mortals—perhaps stronger by three to five parts at most. Naturally, the standard-issue greatsword prepared by the Training Academy was not of legacy quality, but rather an ordinary broad-bladed, thick-spined two-handed sword. The blade was barely a meter long, placed diagonally so it just fit across the corner of the suitcase. It looked decent enough in terms of craftsmanship, though its practical performance remained to be seen.

As for the attire, little needed to be said. Like the set he was already wearing, it was colored in red and black, striking a balance between mobility, defense, and aesthetics. The hem was short, and padded cushions were added at various joint articulation points. The entire outfit was made of a specialized material offering impressive resilience and impact resistance. The design also heavily catered to his personal taste; while far from flamboyant, wearing it imparted a distinct sense of solemn majesty.

The final piece of the set was the lantern. A Sword-bearer's lantern was, of course, no ordinary light source. Its full designation was a phlogistic lamp, featuring a completely sealed casing enclosing a flame guaranteed to burn continuously for at least three days and nights—though rather than a literal flame, it was more like the materialization of the concept of combustion itself. Judging by the intricate inscriptions etched onto the lamp, it was unmistakably the handiwork of an alchemist, a genuine piece of alchemical equipment.

It was quite useful, though clearly inferior to the fire crystal.

Yet, finding himself stranded within the Deepest Night or an environment akin to it, having an extra lighting apparatus was a prudent precaution.

After inspecting his equipment, the young Scion of Glory carefully closed the suitcase. Although the Sword-bearer three-piece set was of limited immediate use to him, should he fail to escape this harsh environment within a short timeframe, they would become vital lifelines ensuring his endurance.

He stood up, then lifted the suitcase.

Strange?

He weighed the case in his hand, his brow furrowing slightly. It certainly hadn't felt this heavy before.

The Sword-bearer set combined with various sundries tucked in the suitcase partitions should have weighed a few dozen pounds at most. Such a weight was negligible to a scion of glory possessing several times the strength of an ordinary person. Yet now... he unmistakably felt a sense of strain, an abnormal strain.

Had something else mixed into the suitcase?

He raised an eyebrow, re-verified the combination, opened the luggage, and meticulously examined its contents.

Nothing.

Amy Ulysses could not help but fall silent. He rested his chin on his hand, pondering whether there could be any other reason for this phenomenon, and then... he reached out and lifted the two-handed sword jammed into the suitcase slot.

Just as he thought.

Narrowing his eyes, the boy realized the crux of the problem.

It wasn't that foreign objects had been mixed in; the very weight of the items inside the suitcase had altered.

A high-gravity zone?

An unfamiliar concept drifted into his mind, but it did not prevent him from adopting this term to designate the region.

Having identified the issue, he stood back up, his gaze remaining fixed on the suitcase. If his hypothesis held true, many things would need to be re-planned. At the very least, the grand heavy sword provided by the Order was less of a backup weapon to him now and closer to an optional, cumbersome burden.

Still... there was no need to discard it just yet.

The young Scion of Glory pondered for a moment before closing the suitcase once more and strapping the two-handed sword across his back. The weight of a weapon had always been a double-edged sword; using it for hacking might yield unexpected wonders.

Straightening his thoughts, aided by the dim illumination of the fire crystal, he scrutinized the small cabin he inhabited.

It had been abandoned for quite some time.

Layers of dust and discarded debris scattered across the floor made it evident that the owner had left some time ago—left in great haste, and with a high probability that they would not be returning anytime soon.

Then... the implication was glaringly obvious. What could have forced their departure?

Most likely, a threat.

The answer was so simple that no deduction was required.

In an environment akin to the Deepest Night, there was only one reason that could compel a homeowner to flee: the threat of restless entities lurking within the dark.

Amy Ulysses exhaled deeply. The intelligence provided by the room had reached its limit. To gain a deeper understanding of his current environment, he had to step out of this relatively safe cabin and search for potential clues in the even deeper and more perilous darkness beyond the door.

With that thought, he pushed the door open.

His vision slightly contracted.

As expected, beyond the door lay a writhing darkness, resembling some sort of malice made manifest.

The dim glow of the fire crystal was suppressed to within three meters. Even with the enhanced twilight vision of a Scion of Glory, he could only discern objects within roughly five meters around him; anything further yielded only vague silhouettes.

Thus, Amy stepped forward, the light of the fire crystal illuminating the bluestone-paved path beneath his feet.

This was a city.

His gaze lingered slightly on the dilapidated residential dwellings faintly visible on either side of the road, through which the boy confirmed this fact.

A city implied human habitation, and even more so, civilization.

And now... not a trace remained.

This city was dead, its very name lost in the long river of history.

He could not help but think of Hermetica.

The people here must have also fought against the darkness for survival, and must have panicked when their flame was extinguished. But unlike the ancient city that had nurtured him, the resistance here—the Scions of Glory here, the Sword-bearers here, the struggles of everyone here—had ultimately lost all meaning.

The darkness had finally swallowed everything.

The boy's azure eyes rippled slightly, but that was all.

Everything here had nothing to do with him.

He was merely a survivor accidentally cast adrift into this place.

The young Scion of Glory carefully proceeded down the bluestone avenue, which had remained untrodden for years, searching meticulously for any possible clue.

What on earth had happened earlier?

He had clearly been aboard the airship heading to Canaan, the Order's mortal domain. Why had he appeared here so abruptly?

No, he ought to have reached Canaan.

Pressing his lips into a tight line, the boy realized the core discrepancy.

Was this a trial?

Or had the airship carrying him to Canaan accidentally crashed here?

Memories concerning the Order's headquarters felt as though they had been churned by a blender—thoroughly chaotic and disordered, scattered like a fading dream upon waking, to the point where he could not even confirm whether those hazy memories had truly existed. If they had, why had he forgotten them so easily? And if they had not, why would he conjure up such vivid delusions?

He found no answers.

Gathering intelligence was imperative. The young Scion of Glory had no intention of buzzing about like a headless fly. In truth, he had already formulated a corresponding plan for his subsequent actions—a simple yet pragmatic plan.

First, search for the wreckage of the airship.

Second, find his separated "companions."

The former would help him determine why he had plunged into the Deepest Night, while the latter was an indispensable component for clearing this trial.

He was no god. Even after recent consolidation, pushing his combat prowess further, he still recognized a considerable gap between himself and Ignaty. Venturing across the Deepest Night under-prepared would be nothing short of wishful thinking.

Therefore, he needed partners.

Whether for the sake of combat calculations or the psychological needs of human emotion.

With this thought, the boy abruptly halted. A breeze drifting from the darkness stirred his chestnut bangs, and his azure eyes shone brilliantly amidst the gloom.

"Here it comes—"

He spoke, his pupils contracting slightly as his short sword, Darkblood, slipped smoothly from its scabbard.

The next instant, the writhing darkness surged, condensing into a physical shape before charging forward with a roar, its ferocious and tyrannical visage continuously expanding within his field of vision.

A Fiend.

Amy Ulysses's gaze turned glacial. Having endured the eternal holy war between Order and Chaos, and having spent the past month digesting, absorbing, and integrating his accumulated combat experience, mere fiends could no longer shake him—even a high-ranking fiend was worth a desperate gamble!

Thus, he swung his sword.

Yet the composure on his face lasted for no more than a negligible fraction of a second before shattering completely.