(Perspective: Mireya)
I am Mireya.
Seventeen. Maybe eighteen soon.Brown hair. Hazel eyes. Quiet hands.
I've stolen coins from nobles, decoded letters laced with poison, even slipped past an enchanted archbishop once without breaking a sweat.
But this?
This felt different.
Madame Lys hadn't told me much—just enough to unsettle me.
"You're going to the southern ruins," she had said, swirling her wine like it held answers.
"Why?" I'd asked, blinking.
She looked at me then, and for the first time in years… her eyes didn't shine with amusement.Just shadow.
"Because a disaster was born, Mireya," she said. "And it's growing teeth."
She took a slow sip.
"Soon… it won't just kneel gods."
Her voice dropped lower.
"It'll devour them.And everything else.Stop it—if you still can."
I almost laughed. A child? A disaster?She was overreacting. Probably.
...Wasn't she?
At first, I expected another back-alley cult.Maybe some madman calling himself Saint.
But then… I arrived.
And the Hollow wasn't what I thought it'd be.
It didn't stink.
There were no beggars clawing for bread.No children crying in the dirt.No knives glinting from the shadows.
The place looked the same on the surface—wooden shacks, cloth tents, rusted fences—but it felt wrong.
Too clean.Too calm.Too… watched.
It was early evening. The sky bruised purple. I slipped in with the dusk.
No one noticed me. Or so I thought.
The streets were quiet. People moved with purpose, not panic. They greeted each other with faint smiles and soft nods, but never too loud.
No fights. No swearing.No one even begging.
That was the strangest part.
This was supposed to be the poorest part of the city. But where were the starving? The desperate?
I followed a group by instinct—half a dozen figures in ragged cloaks.
At first, I thought they were just scavengers. But their eyes… they weren't hollow. They were focused.
Disciplined.
They spoke in low tones, exchanging signals and silver with practiced ease. One of them dropped food into a hidden hatch in the ground. Another checked the edge of a cloth banner—just once—before nodding.
This wasn't survival.
This was… structure.
They slipped through an alley, and I followed.
And what I saw next?
Made me stop breathing.
Beneath the Hollow—below the broken wood and patched stone—was something vast. Lit by soft blue lanterns and lined with clean stone. A chamber large enough to fit hundreds. Built like a temple, but without any symbols I recognized.
It was like stepping into another world.
And then they arrived.
Eighteen of them.
Children.
Each younger than me. Maybe nine, ten, twelve at most. But they didn't move like children.
They moved like guards.Like clergy.
Each one wore a dark robe marked with a symbol—a spiral broken by a single line.And when the others saw them, they dropped to one knee.
I hid behind one of the columns. My breath shallow.
One of the children spoke, but I didn't understand the words.
It wasn't a language I knew.
It wasn't a language anyone should know.
The air bent slightly. The others bowed lower.
I heard one phrase repeated over and over again:
"He who sees us. He who saves us. He who is greater than gods. We belong to Him."
The words echoed like a curse dressed in silk.
And that's when it hit me.
They weren't talking about a god they worshiped.
They were talking about someone who was already here.
Real.
Breathing.
Watching.
The disciples turned toward the center of the room… where a single empty seat waited at the top of the stone steps.
Not a throne.
Not a pulpit.
Just a chair.
And yet… the way they looked at it made my skin crawl.
That seat belonged to the one they called Prophet.
To the boy.
To Froy.
A child.
Just ten years old, they said.
But what kind of ten-year-old builds temples underground?
What kind of ten-year-old makes others kneel?
I should have left.
I should have turned and walked away.
But my legs didn't move.
Because something in that silence—something in the way the disciples chanted without smiling, without blinking—
Made me feel like I was the one trespassing in someone else's dream.
Or worse—
Someone else's trap.
I stayed hidden in the shadows, breath held, heart thudding louder than footsteps ever could. But then—
He turned.
He didn't need to search.He didn't scan the crowd.He just… looked directly at me.
And smiled.
"It Seems like someone wasn't invited here," he said.
His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.Every head turned to follow his gaze. Dozens of eyes locked onto me at once.
I didn't think. I moved.
From my sleeve, a silver needle shot forward, aimed straight at his throat. Dipped in a paralyzing solution only a high-tier alchemist could craft.
But it never reached him.
Because eighteen bodies moved faster than any child should.
They didn't hesitate. Didn't think.They threw themselves in front of him.
The needle sank into flesh. A cry rang out.
Not one—but many.
Screams tore through the silence as the disciples staggered, blood blooming from arms and shoulders.
And yet…
They didn't move aside.
They didn't fall.
They stood there—shaking, bleeding—between me and him.Unwavering.
My fingers trembled.
What the hell are they?
Then his voice cut through again. Soft. Cold.
"That's enough."
Froy stepped forward slowly, his small frame bathed in lantern light.
He raised his hand, and the air shifted—subtle, sharp, like a string pulled tight across the world.
"You're hurting for nothing," he said to his disciples. "Move aside."
They hesitated… but obeyed. Like clockwork.
As they parted, I saw something impossible.
The wounds—still red, still open—began to close.
Skin mended. Blood reversed.Pain vanished.
And he hadn't even touched them.
I froze.
That… that wasn't alchemy.It wasn't even healing magic.
It was something older.
Something simpler.
Something truer.
"Go," Froy said, turning to the others watching from the outer chamber. "Leave us. You'll only get hurt."
They didn't argue.
They didn't question.
They simply bowed… and vanished into the dark like smoke.
Only he and I remained now.
He took a step closer.
"You thought that would kill me?"
I said nothing. My hand still hovered near my second needle.
"You're not from the Hollow," he said. "And you're not from the Church either. Too quiet. Too precise."
Another step.
"You're from her."
Lys.
He knew.
I grit my teeth. "You shouldn't exist."
He tilted his head, amused.
"I don't," he said. "Not fully."
His fingers brushed against his chest—right where a normal heart would beat.
"But something old does. Something forgotten."
"And what? You think you're a god now?"
Froy didn't answer.
Because he didn't need to.
The air around him believed for him.
And I felt it—felt it in my chest, my spine, my breath.
This wasn't divine power.
It was faith.
Pure, focused, weaponized faith.
The kind that could reshape bone and break curses.The kind that didn't wait for permission.The kind that didn't need gods.
Because he had become the conduit.
Not through worship.But through fusion.
A fragment.
A shard of something ancient.
Sethvyr.
He didn't need its full presence anymore.He was learning to mimic it.To replicate the system.To bend the rules of reality not by being a god…
…but by becoming believed in.
Froy looked at me one last time.
"You're not the first Lys sent," he said calmly."And you won't be the last."
He paused.
"But you're the first who made me bleed."
I looked down.
A single line of red trickled across his cheek—barely more than a paper cut, but still… real.
"I'll remember that."
Then he smiled again.
The kind of smile that didn't forgive.Only promised you'd be used later.
I ran out of options.
I didn't hesitate. I couldn't.
He stood there, silent, unmoving—his robe barely shifting in the air. A boy. Just a boy.
But my instincts screamed.
Run. Now.
I flung a scroll wide open—etched with glyphs that pulsed red—and screamed the incantation.
Third-tier fire spell.
Compressed blaze.
Engineered for destruction.
A roaring sphere of flame erupted in my palm, bigger than my head, crackling with fury.
I slapped my hand over my artifact: a silver circlet hidden beneath my glove—one that doubled all output for five heartbeats.
The air burned.
The stone beneath my feet cracked.
And still…
He didn't move.
He just watched.
"You should've died already!" I hissed.
I fired.
The blast tore through the chamber. Screaming flame raced toward him, aimed at every vulnerable point: his chest, his head, his spine. Behind the fire, I hurled a dozen sharpened spikes laced with paralyzing enchantments—designed to pierce through magical barriers and shatter soul defenses.
If that didn't kill him…
Nothing would.
I didn't stay to see it land.
Because I had one more card to play.
I reached for my final artifact—a shard of black glass bound in a golden frame.
One use. One location. One exit.
I crushed it.
A hole tore open in the world like paper burned from within. Light bent inward. My bones screamed.
And I fell.
Through shadow. Through heat. Through silence.
When the world stopped spinning, I was on my knees.
Back on velvet carpet. Back in firelight.
Madame Lys's office.
Her perfume hit me before her voice.
"Well," she said calmly, not looking up from her book. "That was fast."
I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.
Smoke rose from my cloak. My hand bled from the shard.
And my mind—
My mind was still back there, staring into the eyes of a child who hadn't even flinched.
Not once.
When my lungs stopped burning, I finally stood.
Blood dripped from my sleeve. Smoke clung to my skin. My mana reserves were nearly gone.
But I looked at her.
And I forced myself to speak.
"It's done."
Madame Lys didn't look up right away. She poured herself another glass of wine—unshaken, unbothered.
Mireya continued, voice hoarse but steady.
"He saw me. Called me out in front of everyone. They protected him—eighteen kids. Like trained guards."
She paused.
"Not just guards. Fanatics."
Madame Lys's lips curled faintly.
"And?"
Mireya swallowed.
"I hit him. Full force. Fire spell, level three. Amplified with my artifact. Followed with enchanted needles—coated in blood-forged toxins. His body was too small to survive that. There's no way."
She took a breath.
"I'm sure he's dead."
Silence.
The wine touched Lys's lips.
She sipped. Thought.
Then spoke, quiet as a closing door.
"No."
Mireya blinked. "What?"
"It's never that easy."
Lys finally looked up. Her eyes—deep, dark, endless—locked onto Mireya's.
"You hit him with magic, yes. You used everything you had. And now you're standing here… alive."
She set the glass down gently.
"And yet... you still look like someone who ran from a thing, not a boy."
Mireya froze.
Her fingers clenched at her side.
Because deep down… Lys was right.
He hadn't screamed.
He hadn't dodged.
He hadn't defended.
He had just watched.
Like he was letting it happen.
Lys leaned forward, voice like a knife sliding into velvet.
"If he's truly dead… then we'll hear the Hollow collapse within the week."
"And if we don't?"
She smiled.
"Then it's time we start treating him… not as a child."
"But as a threat."
(Perspective: Froy)
The flames licked the stone.
The tapestries curled.
The old wood beams snapped one by one, shrieking like dying beasts.
And yet… he walked.
The fire parted around him.
Not pushed. Not blocked.
It simply refused to touch him.
Froy stepped through the heart of the inferno—his bare feet silent against scorched stone, his eyes steady as ash swirled around him like petals in the wind.
Behind him, the chair—the simple seat of faith—collapsed into glowing embers.
But he didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
He had already seen the future.
And it burned brighter than this.
The doors burst open.
Disciples—young and older—rushed in, eyes wide, cloaks billowing with smoke.
They stopped when they saw him.
Their voices broke the silence one by one.
"O' Lord… He walks unharmed!"
"The fire itself bends before Him!"
"Even the wrath of flame dares not challenge His presence!"
"He has returned! He has been reborn in fire!"
"He is proof… He is real…!"
Some wept.
Some dropped to their knees with trembling hands.
Some simply whispered, again and again, like a prayer made of awe:
"Miracle… miracle… miracle…"
Froy said nothing.
He let them believe.
Because belief was a tool sharper than steel.
He stopped near what was once the altar—now a crater of cracked stone and melted metal.
There, lying half-buried in dust, was something small.
A needle.
Twisted.
Useless.
Burnt, yet intact.
He picked it up and turned it gently in his fingers.
A flicker of curiosity passed through his gaze.
"So that's her limit," he whispered to no one.
A disciple behind him asked, hesitant, "My Lord… what happened? Who did this?"
Froy didn't answer directly.
Instead, he looked at the needle one last time, then let it drop.
It clinked softly against the stone.
"Fire," he murmured, "is loud."
"But true power…"
He raised his hand, and the remaining embers in the chamber extinguished with a single pulse of invisible force.
"...makes no sound at all."
Gasps rang out again. One disciple choked back tears.
"Another miracle…!"
Froy turned slowly, facing them now.
The light of flame glowed behind him like a false halo. His face was calm—still young—but something far more ancient stirred in his gaze.
A quiet fury.
A divine patience.
A will that did not ask—it commanded.
He smiled faintly.
Not with warmth.
But with understanding.
"If you can create a miracle," he thought, "faith comes easy."
And in the Hollow…
He no longer needed to borrow from Sethvyr to do it.
The shard embedded in his soul pulsed faintly.
Its presence still there—silent, watching.
But Froy no longer waited for its whispers.
Because now?
The people whispered his name instead.
And he had learned something important.
Miracles weren't rare.
They were repeatable.
If you knew the rules.
If you rewrote them.