Nearly two years had passed—so quickly, it almost felt like a lie.
The Midnight Tavern, once quiet and dusty, now thrived. It bustled with laughter, clinking cups, and the smell of roasted herbs and fresh bread. Owen and Emily's cooking had earned them praise across the district, and their spotless, welcoming atmosphere made customers return again and again.
But not all of the success came from hard work.
Froy had quietly been using his miracles—small blessings woven into the walls, into the kitchens, into the foundation itself. He wasn't trying to be generous. He simply understood the balance of gain. If Owen prospered, Amie could attend school with ease. And Froy… Froy would gain security, reputation, and a quiet place to prepare.
Repaying kindness with profit. A fair deal.
Amie, now a student herself, helped out during her breaks. Froy, still too young to enroll, handled most of the tavern's daily work—serving dishes, greeting guests, carrying trays with careful hands and a soft smile.
He was nearly twelve now. Taller, sharper, unnervingly charming.
Customers adored him. Some saw a bright future in his eyes. Others simply enjoyed seeing a polite, hardworking boy. He always received tips—sometimes coins, sometimes sweets, sometimes whispered wishes of good luck. Froy accepted them all.
He had saved up quite a bit.Seven hundred and eighty-nine silver pieces.Enough to make a child smile. Enough to make a shadow plan.
The food sold well. The miracles worked. Luck clung to the Midnight Tavern like a second roof. And all of it, in some way, fed back to Froy.
He often listened in on conversations. Adventurers, nobles, scholars—they all passed through Zolon now. The biggest topic was the same each time:
The Grand Academy of Arcanthia.
It would open soon. The entrance exams would begin before the next moon-cycle. Rumors swirled that prodigies from every continent would gather—beastkin knights, elven spellcrafters, children with divine blessings.
Froy listened quietly as he cleared empty mugs.
He took note of names. Of methods. Of questions likely to appear on the tests.
The Academy welcomed all—nobles and orphans alike. If they passed.
Froy would turn twelve soon. Old enough to try.
He looked out one evening from the top of the tavern, lanterns glowing below like a sea of stars.
So much noise.So many pieces.And very soon… the new journey begins.
That night, Froy lay on his bed—soft, thick, luxurious.
It had cost him over ten silver pieces. A ridiculous amount for a child. Even more ridiculous when you considered that he'd once slept on chains and straw.
But now?
Now he was rich. The Midnight Tavern was thriving. Coins came easily. So he had allowed himself this one indulgence.
As he closed his eyes, thoughts drifted toward the Academy.The Grand Academy of Arcanthia.
What would it be like?
Zolon was already beautiful—vibrant, full of life, lights, people, music, comfort. If this city was the crown, then the Academy must be its shining jewel.
He imagined towering halls. Grand libraries. Students from every race gathered under banners of unity.It had to be magnificent.
Slowly, gently, sleep took him.
And as always…He dreamed.
The darkness wasn't frightening anymore.
Froy had seen it too many times. He walked through it like a familiar hallway—quiet, vast, echoing with something too old to name.
And waiting, as always, was Him.
Sethvyr.
Froy stood calmly, his voice no longer that of a naive boy.
"Sethvyr," he asked softly, "what is it that you truly want?"
There was no accusation in the words—just curiosity. A knowing child finally asking the question he'd carried for years.
The Outer God did not smile.
But He was pleased.
The air trembled as the voice came—not in sound, but in meaning.
"Do you know, little Froy… what we are?"
"We Outer Gods are beyond life. Beyond death. Even if the universe burns away, we remain. We have no race. No hierarchy. No gender. We can become anything—and we have."
"We've been gods. Demons. Beacons of light. We've uplifted civilizations, gifted miracles, watched entire species ascend to heights beyond mortal comprehension…"
"And every time—they were erased."
Froy's brows furrowed slightly.
"Erased?" he echoed.
"Yes," Sethvyr whispered. "By forces even beyond us. Creations too perfect are always purged. The universe resets. Begins again. Leaves us behind to mourn. To remember."
"And after mourning comes boredom."
"And from boredom… comes madness."
The dream darkened. A thousand burning worlds flared behind Sethvyr like distant stars—dying, screaming, ending.
"So now, I simply play."
"I planned everything, Froy—before your parents met. Before your bloodline was forged. You were made, shaped, cultivated for a single reason: to be interesting."
"You are the masterpiece I created… to keep myself from breaking."
Froy stood silent for a long time.
He did not cry. He did not rage.
But deep in his heart…A small flame of rebellion flickered.
He bowed his head slightly.
"I understand," he said. "Then I will continue to play."
"For now."
And Sethvyr laughed—not cruelly, but with genuine delight.
"Good. That's all I ask."
"Make this world… unforgettable."