Lucien stared at the charcoal-smeared map spread across a makeshift table in the underground base camp. He knew that finding the source of the curse was going to be a time-consuming task, but he hadn't anticipated this.

  A year and four months had already passed.

  The scope of the underground network was staggering—a subterranean labyrinth that seemed to defy the natural geography of Solennea. Even with the Church finally mobilizing its full manpower, they were still chasing ghosts. Father Julian had kept his word, and now hundreds of Church laborers and low-level clergy were crawling through the dark, but it wasn't enough.

  Whoever was behind this was running a masterclass in interference. Every time a search party got close to a major hub, the passages collapsed or were redirected through high-level illusions. It was like hunting a heartbeat in a body that could move its own organs.

  And while they fumbled in the dark, the curse didn't wait.

  The "Lullaby" had grown louder, more frequent. The florist’s son—the boy Lucien had briefly woken—was gone. He had finally turned into a perfect, frozen statue of salt and glass, along with several others in different villages. Lucien had bought them time, but he was no miracle worker. He could delay the inevitable, but he couldn't stop the clock.

  When he saw the boy’s parents break down, their wails echoing the very curse that had taken their son, Lucien had felt a familiar, bitter pang of powerlessness. He hated that feeling. It was the same feeling that had haunted him in his previous life as he watched the world burn. It was a cold, suffocating weight that no amount of hard work could shift.

  "Young Master," Sebas said, stepping into the dim light of the lantern. He looked older, his formal clothes perpetually dusted with stone and salt. "The scouts found another passagein Sector 4. But it’s the same story—the tunnel was sealed, and it would take us weeks to breach."

  Lucien didn't look up from the map. He gripped the edges of the table, his knuckles turning white. "He's laughing at us, Sebas. This 'mastermind.' He’s watching us dig through the dirt while he harvests the salt right under our noses."

  Lucien dropped the shovel, the metallic clang echoing sharply against the damp stone walls. The sound was flat, swallowed by the oppressive silence of the tunnel.

  "It's time to get out," he said, wiping a mixture of sweat and stone dust from his forehead. "I’m done for today."

  He had been exploring the latest "dead end" for fourteen hours, pushing his Equilibrium to the limit to sense hollows that weren't there. He was physically spent, but more than that, he was starved for a horizon that wasn't made of gray rock. They climbed the rope, the ascent feeling twice as long as usual, and finally hauled themselves over the lip of the village well.

  The air above was stagnant, but it was better than the recycled breath of the earth. Lucien began walking toward the small, private cottage the village had provided—a gesture of gratitude for the extra time he had bought their children. He was halfway there when a young acolyte scrambled toward him, nearly tripping over his own robes.

  "Sir Lucien!" the young man panted, his face flushed. "Father Julian... he is calling for you. Immediately."

  Lucien didn't even slow his pace. "I don’t have time. I’m tired," he said, his voice dismissive.

  "But... but Father Julian said that this is not a time to blow off the Church again!" The acolyte was persistent, matching Lucien’s stride with frantic steps.

  Lucien felt a spark of irritation. Over the past year, various higher-ups from the capital had sent summons, curious about the "Noble Prodigy" who could rouse the sleepers. He had ignored every single one. He didn't have time for the performative politics of the clergy, nor the desire to be a puppet for their propaganda. Julian was the only one he tolerated because Julian actually cared about the victims.

  "Tell him I’ll see him tomorrow," Lucien muttered.

  "Sir," the acolyte squeaked, desperation in his voice. "Dame Seraphine Valecourt has come to see you."

  Lucien brushed him off again, his hand already reaching for the latch of his cabin door. He didn't care for titles. But then, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. It wasn't the acolyte's weak grip; it was Sebas.

  "Sir," Sebas said, his tone unusually sharp. "A Paladin wants to meet us."

  Lucien froze. He slowly turned his head to look at Sebas, then back at the trembling acolyte. The young man’s head bobbed up and down like a doll’s, his face pale with awe and terror.

  A Paladin. The ultimate martial authority of Solennea. They weren't just soldiers; they were the living embodiments of the Church’s will, rarely seen outside of holy wars or cataclysmic events.

  "Well," Lucien said, a glint returning to his tired storm-grey eyes as he straightened his dirt-stained tunic. "Finally, someone of importance. Let's go."

  He turned on his heel, bypassing his cottage and heading straight for Father Julian’s cabin with a renewed, heavy stride.

  Lucien, Sebas, and the young acolyte stepped into the cramped, dimly lit cabin. The air inside was different—clearer, vibrating with a holy resonance that made the dust motes dance in fixed patterns.

  Sitting in Father Julian’s modest chair was a woman who seemed to command the very light in the room. Her hair was a rich, mahogany brown, tied back in a practical yet elegant warrior’s braid, and her eyes were a piercing, vibrant emerald that seemed to see through the walls themselves. She wore silver-white plate armor that gleamed even in the shadows, etched with the soaring wings of the Valecourt crest. Father Julian stood behind her, his usual nervous energy replaced by a stiff, reverent silence.

  Something snapped inside Lucien. Perhaps it was the sheer exhaustion of sixteen months in the dirt, or maybe it was the sudden shift from the grim darkness of the wells to such a radiant presence. The cold, calculated mask of the "curse expert" slipped, and for the first time since his regression, his thirteen-year-old body’s hormones collided head-on with his adult soul's confidence.

  The first thing that came out of his mouth was purely flirtatious.

  "I’ve spent over a year digging through the mud looking for something beautiful," Lucien said, his voice dropping into a smooth, effortless drawl as he leaned against the doorframe. "And here you are, sitting in a dusty cabin instead of a palace. Truly, Dame Seraphine, the legends of your grace didn't do you justice—though they did fail to mention that your eyes are far more captivating than the emeralds they're named after."

  The room went deathly silent.

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  The young acolyte looked like he was about to faint. Father Julian’s jaw hit his chest, his eyes wide with pure horror at the sheer blasphemy of flirting with a High Paladin of the Order. Sebas, for his part, simply closed his eyes and let out a long, pained sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  Dame Seraphine didn't move. She merely tilted her head, her emerald eyes narrowing as she scanned the small, dirt-streaked boy who had just had the audacity to charm her. A slow, dangerous smile played at the corners of her lips.

  "So," she said, her voice like velvet-covered steel. "This is the 'prodigy' Julian has been raving about. I expected a scholar, not a miniature troubadour with a death wish."

  Father Julian’s face turned a shade of grey that matched the stone walls. He began to stutter, his hands trembling as he looked between the Paladin and the boy. "I... I didn't think this would happen! My Lady, please, he is—"

  Lucien let out a short, melodic laugh and shook his head, his eyes never leaving Seraphine’s. "I apologize, My Lady. Being surrounded by darkness and death for so long... to suddenly see such a beautiful light has filled my soul with a vigor I thought I’d lost."

  "Has this boy lost his mind?!" Father Julian snapped, his voice cracking with panic.

  But Lucien hadn't lost his mind. He was simply being true to his nature. In his previous life, he had always been a man who appreciated the company of a formidable woman, and seeing a high-ranking beauty like Seraphine in this desolate village had caused that dormant part of his soul to snap back to the surface.

  Dame Seraphine’s dangerous smile didn't fade; instead, it sharpened. She didn't look offended—she looked like a predator that had just found a very interesting new type of prey.

  Recognizing the shift in the air, Lucien instantly reined in his charm. He straightened his posture, and the flirtatious glint in his eyes vanished, replaced by the cold, analytical depth of a master strategist.

  "I am assuming you did not come here to receive pleasantries," Lucien said, his tone shifting to one of absolute gravity. "A Paladin personally traveling to a border village means something has changed on a fundamental level. Why have you specifically come to talk to me?"

  He didn't wait for her to answer, leaning forward slightly as his Equilibrium hummed, grounding him.

  "Did you find the source of the curse?" he asked bluntly.

  The room’s temperature seemed to drop. Dame Seraphine sat back, her emerald eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight. The playfulness was gone, replaced by the weary weight of a soldier losing a war.

  "We didn't," she said, her voice dropping into a low, resonant tone. “And the curse grows stronger with every passing night. The Church can no longer hide the truth. Corpses are being exhumed and hauled away by the dozens, and there have even been brazen break-ins at our most heavily guarded catacombs. Whoever is behind this is cunning—they evade our search parties at every turn." She leaned forward, her gaze piercing. "Which is why I have come to consult our local... ‘expert’."

  The way she said expert dripped with a subtle, sharp-edged sarcasm.

  Lucien didn't blink. He knew the story he’d fed them—of a mysterious master and a childhood spent dispelling curses—smelled of fabrication to someone as seasoned as a High Paladin. But he also knew the reality of their situation: the Church was sinking, and he was the only one holding a life raft. They didn't have to believe his past to be desperate for his present.

  This is a problem, Lucien thought, his jaw tightening as he looked at the scrolls on the desk. The Mastermind wasn't just hiding; they were playing a game of cat-and-mouse with the entire Church, and by extension, with him. He wasn't about to let them win.

  "Bring out the maps," Lucien commanded, his voice cold and leaving no room for argument.

  They cleared the desk, spreading out the accumulation of a year and a half of grueling, dangerous labor. The parchment was a chaotic web—a massive, sprawling maze of an underground network plastered across several sheets. They all stared at it with grim intensity, but the more Lucien looked, the more the lines blurred. The interference had worked; the network seemed to have no beginning and no end.

  It was then that Sebas stepped closer, his gloved finger hovering over the ink.

  "Why don't we lay a trap?" Sebas suggested quietly.

  They all turned to him. "How do you mean?" Lucien asked, his eyes narrowing as he tried to see what his butler saw.

  "I mean... look at this," Sebas pointed to the latest discovery. "We found a cathedral made entirely of salt here. And then, we found similar deposits just there, here, and also here."

  "I have noticed a pattern," Sebas continued, his voice calm and methodical. "They let the curse run for approximately four nights in one location, and then they disappear and reappear somewhere else. We have been treating these people as if they are all-powerful, but surely a curse of this magnitude can't be cast just anywhere."

  He tapped the map again, his finger landing on the Salt Cathedral. "It has to be done in these specific hubs because of the density. The salt is proof of that. If the wailing comes from these nodes, then they aren't 'reappearing' randomly—they are rotating through a fixed route."

  Lucien’s breath hitched. Sebas was right. They had been chasing a moving target; Why not wait for it instead? They have found what they are assuming is the wailing grounds. So waiting in one should do the trick.

  "The salt isn't just a byproduct," Lucien whispered, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. "It’s the battery. They need a certain concentration of crystallized 'potential' to broadcast the Lullaby to the surface."

  He looked at Dame Seraphine, whose emerald eyes were now locked on the map with predatory focus. "If we know the rotation, we don't have to find them. We just have to be waiting at the next node before they arrive."

  "The fifth node," Seraphine murmured, her hand tracing the geometric progression Sebas had uncovered. "Based on this pattern, the next location should be directly beneath the Eastern Aqueducts."

  "And the four-night window means we have less than twelve hours before the 'Conductor' moves to the next stage," Lucien added, the gears of his mind turning at a frantic pace. "Sebas, sharpen the blades. Dame Seraphine, I think it is best that another Paladin comes with us on this expedition."

  Lucien looked her in the eye, his voice carrying an unnatural gravitas for a boy his age. "This curse is unusually powerful, and I don’t think even you will be enough to face this curse alone."

  Dame Seraphine looked at Lucien for a long moment, her emerald eyes searching his for any sign of doubt. Finding only a cold, hard certainty, she nodded in agreement. "You're right. I will take your word for it. You have earned the church's trust, so I will get Sir Valerius Dawnward to join us. Sir Othric Vaelthorne is currently indisposed at the capital’s border."

  Lucien nodded, a sense of grim satisfaction settling over him. Finally, it was time. After a year and a half of digging through the dark, of seeing parents weep over statues of their children, they had a target. He felt good about this—a sharp, premonitory instinct that tonight would be the night they finally looked the "Conductor" in the face.

  The cabin was silent, save for the rhythmic shick-shick of Sebas’s whetstone and the occasional crackle of the dying hearth. For Lucien, however, the room was a storm of invisible forces.

  Every breath was a deliberate exercise in stabilization. He pushed his Equilibrium to its absolute limits, imagining his soul as an anchor in a churning sea. He wasn't just holding his own ground anymore; he was extending his reach, weaving a tether of spiritual weight around Sebas. He practiced with the "Tilt"—shifting from a density that could crush stone to a lightness that could drift on the wind in a heartbeat.

  Sebas finally sheathed the last of the daggers, the metallic clack acting as a signal. He looked at Lucien, noting the faint beads of sweat on the boy’s brow and the unnatural stillness of his posture.

  "Everything is ready, Young Master," Sebas whispered. "The horses, the oil, and the Paladins."

  Lucien opened his eyes. The storm-grey irises seemed to glow for a fleeting second, hardened by a year and a half of frustration and fueled by a lifetime of regret. He stood up, and the floorboards beneath him didn't just creak—they groaned under the sudden, concentrated weight of his resolve.

  "The mastermind has had his stage for far too long," Lucien said, his voice cold and final. "It's time to put things to rest."

  He stepped toward the door, his cloak billowing like a shadow. Behind him, Sebas followed, a lethal extension of his master’s will. They left the warmth of the cabin behind, stepping into the biting night air where the two Paladins waited like silver and gold monoliths against the dark.

  It was time to set the trap.