Chapter 4: Fake Cathedral and Ghost Steps
Althea Magic Academy. Present (14 months after the expulsion)
Charlotte stood under the shadow of the Great Sacred Oak, an ancient specimen whose leaves, imbued with purifying mana, whispered at a frequency that calmed even the most frayed nerves. In this corner of the Academy, the air always seemed purer, free from the dust particles and mundane worries that plagued the rest of the Empire. It was the sanctuary where the highest-ranking nobles retreated to meditate—an environment so controlled and perfect it felt almost suffocating.
Before her lay two new scrolls that had arrived in the latest delivery. The first, corresponding to William’s third week abroad, showed small circular spots and textures, as if the author had been writing under light rain or in an environment of extreme humidity. The second, however, was unusually clean, featuring calligraphy that denoted an almost supernatural peace, with long, fluid strokes suggesting a hand that did not tremble.
What Charlotte could not imagine, in her world of manicured gardens and jasmine tea, was that the stains on the first paper were not rainwater. They were remnants of corrosive fluids—gastric secretions from monsters that William had been forced to frantically wipe from his makeshift table before sitting down to write another of his elaborate and painful lies as part of his ongoing novel project.
[Fragment of Letters 4 and 5]
Date: Three weeks to a month after arriving in Xitalia.
«Dear Charlotte, today I had the pleasure of visiting an ancient ruined temple that the local inhabitants guard with almost religious zeal. It stands imposing in the middle of a deep forest, surrounding a lake with waters so crystalline they resemble silver mirrors. It has been like attending a high-society masquerade ball; the "guardians" of the place wear white attire and move with a rhythmic, almost hypnotic elegance, as if they were floating above the ground. They invited me to participate in their dance and, while I admit my steps are still a bit clumsy compared to the fluidity of their culture, I had fun demonstrating my swordsmanship in a friendly exhibition that left everyone pleasantly impressed. Do not worry about me, sister; even in these distant lands, my charm opens doors that others would find closed.
Following that encounter, my daily life has become a routine of study and deep spiritual reflection. I spend my mornings in the woods practicing a walking style that the local sages call "The Path of the Breeze," which allows me to move through nature without breaking a single leaf beneath my feet, becoming one with the environment. It is fascinating how, without the political distractions of the clan and the pressures of the court, one can achieve such freedom of spirit. Soon I will undertake a journey to the center of this valley, toward a sacred lake, to collect water with unique purifying properties that, they say, can heal any fatigue. I feel renewed, Charlotte. As if the heavy shackles once imposed upon me no longer weigh a thing.»
The Reality: The Knights of the Plague and the Martyr’s Training
14 months ago. Xitalia Cathedral Ruins.
The air in the vicinity of the cathedral was not crystalline; it was a thick soup of spores and putrefaction. The stench of sweet, rotting flesh was so stifling it filtered through the fibers of my mask, leaving a taste of rust in the back of my throat. Before me stood not a temple tended by devotees, but a colossal and agonizing structure: great walls of gray stone, devoured by thick, white hyphae that throbbed with a dull light.
In truth, hiding was a futile task. This infestation possessed a collective consciousness, a biological neural network that spread across the ground, roots, and stones. I was already treading on its nervous system; every step I took sent vibrations through the mycelium that informed the core of my exact location.
As if the hive-mind fungus had detected my presence and deemed it a threat to be eradicated, it sent its guards. Their grayish armor, covered in mold and deformed by internal growth, was a cruel parody of those worn by the paladins of the Church of the Goddess of Light. It was a direct blow to my memory. I felt a violent shudder run down my spine; the Cursed Chains of the Goddess sank into my shoulders with a searing violet glow. It was a physical reaction of rejection; the curse in my body seemed offended by the mere comparison between divine purity and this biological aberration.
Their original faces had long since disappeared, eaten away from within by the fungus. Now, where eyes and a mouth should have been, only a black, fibrous hole remained, hissing clouds of acidic spores with every movement. Three of these guardians charged in unison. They were not warriors; they were biological killing machines with superhuman strength and a total absence of self-preservation instinct.
Saving the little mana I had left—the mana those chains tried to strangle every second—I relied solely on my pure sword technique. The first knight launched a devastating downward slash with a mace that looked more like a protrusion of hardened wood than a weapon. I spun on my axis with millimetric precision, letting the weapon strike the fractured marble floor. I took advantage of the momentum to launch a surgical thrust into the armpit joint, the only spot where the fungal growth was thin enough to allow the steel through.
My black iron sword pierced the soft, viscous mass. A thick green liquid sprouted from the wound, but the creature didn't even make a sound. They felt no pain. I had to decapitate it with a circular wrist movement, an advanced technique that cost me a painful pull in my ligaments due to the resistance of the chains. The body fell like a sack of sand, but there was no time to celebrate.
The second guardian tried to catch me in a deadly embrace to detonate its spores. In that critical second, the old silver ring on my finger shined with a cold intensity.
[Activating Skill: Ghost Steps]
I felt my weight vanish completely. For an instant, reality became blurred, and I moved faster than the human eye, or even the plague's instinct, could process. I appeared instantaneously behind it and sank my steel into its spine, severing the fungal cords that controlled its limbs. It collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
The effort left my lungs burning and my muscles on the verge of tearing. But the vision I had upon looking up was even more overwhelming. Beyond those walls of dead trees, in the center of the purple lake, I could see the remains of the Transcendent: a giant figure, an ancient hero of the Commotion War, wrapped in a white cocoon that throbbed like a sick heart.
I understood at that moment, with a bitterness that nearly brought me to my knees, that I was not ready for the core. My mastery of the ring was erratic—a crutch that failed when I needed it most—and I relied too much on an instinct that the chains punished fiercely. I could not depend solely on the skill embedded in the artifact; I needed the technique to be mine, born from my own muscles and not the object.
During the following weeks, I retreated into the depths of the Xitalia forests, where the fungus had not yet claimed all of the soil. It was not a spiritual retreat or a peaceful meditation; it was pure survival on the razor's edge. I practiced Ghost Steps in a clearing I had infested with natural traps and weight-sensitive spore mines.
Every mistake, every misstep, meant an explosion of acidic gas directly in my face. My hands ended up covered in oozing chemical burns, and my clothes were little more than bloody tatters clinging to my wounds. In this world, for a combat technique to integrate into your soul, you must pay a toll in blood.
This is where I remembered the true scale of this world. Techniques and skills are not simply movements; they are levels of understanding reality itself. Reflecting the user's interest in Asian fantasy and cultivation genres, the mastery system is divided into five fundamental stages:
Introduction: The basic level. The user can execute the movement but in a crude way, learning it on their own or using an item with the skill.
Minor Achievement: Here the technique begins to flow. Energy costs are reduced, and movements become instinctive. You no longer think about how to move your foot; the foot moves on its own.
Great Achievement: The user masters form and essence. The technique can be chained with others, and its impact is multiplied. The great masters of the Empire usually plateau here.
Perfection: There is no waste. Every muscle fiber and every drop of mana is used with maximum efficiency. The technique becomes impeccable, without flaws.
Exalted: The absolute pinnacle. At this level, the warrior ceases to be an executor and becomes a creator. They are capable of using, understanding, and most importantly, modifying every fragment and concept of the skill. You can rewrite the technique mid-combat to adapt it to any situation. It is a level only the Transcendents of legend ever reached.
The Cursed Chains tried to anchor me to the ground constantly, making every simple step feel as if I were carrying a mountain of iron on my back. But that was precisely the key: if I learned to be light under that superhuman weight, when the chains finally broke, my speed and precision would be divine. I was perfecting the base technique—the skeletal structure of the movement—to avoid being a slave to the ring’s power.
I closed my eyes in the middle of the clearing, ignoring the sting of my wounds. I sought the rhythm of my own soul, that essence that had merged with the memories of the "player" I once was. I took a step. Then another. This time, the ring did not shine on its own; it vibrated in perfect harmony with my heartbeat. My feet did not touch the ground; they glided millimeters above the dry leaves without moving a single speck of toxic dust.
[Technique Mastered: Ghost Steps - Introduction]
I smiled to myself. Now, with an introductory mastery of the base technique, combined with the skill inscribed in the ring, the result was equivalent to using the technique with a Minor Achievement. It was a small advance, but vital in my situation.
I also had to remember that techniques, like potions, have quality ranks: Bronze, Copper, Silver, Gold, and Diamond. "Ghost Steps" was a Diamond-rank technique—a legacy of the Transcendents who lived before the Commotion War and before the current Goddess of Light rose as the world's guardian.
I stopped at the edge of the forest, looking toward the horizon where the Lake of the Transcendent shined with that unnatural purple light. The water was not "blessed" or "purifying," as I lied to Charlotte; it was a pure and dense concentration of contaminated ancestral mana, the breeding ground from which the fungus fed to expand its empire of white ash.
I prepared my backpack with the few supplies I had left, stowed my notched sword, and took a deep breath. This was the final preparation to obtain the key. I needed that essence from the lake to force my body’s system, break the chains, or at least gain enough strength to handle mana normally despite them.
—"I feel light," huh? —I smiled bitterly as I finished drafting my misadventures, transforming them into fairy tales for Charlotte—. At least someone in this family should be able to sleep peacefully tonight, far from this hell.
How stupid I feel, trying to act like a romantic poet when these letters will reach her who knows when—if they arrive at all.
I murmured to myself while watching the sun hide behind the clouds of spores, preparing for the final descent toward the lake. The real game was about to begin.
