Cold.

  That was the first thing Raphael Arzenon felt.

  Cold sweat clung to his skin as his eyes snapped open, breath hitching sharply in his throat. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—smooth stone veined with faint luminescent patterns, ancient yet pristine. His heart pounded violently as panic surged through his chest.

  “…Where—?”

  He pushed himself upright too fast, dizziness washing over him. His hands trembled as he looked around. The room was circular, carved from pale mineral walls inscribed with formulae that felt old—older than modern magecraft. The air itself carried the scent of alchemy and sealed mystery.

  Before fear could take root—

  > “You are safe, Master.”

  The voice echoed gently—not from the room, but from within him.

  Raphael froze.

  “…Cielux?”

  > “Yes.”

  Relief hit him so suddenly his shoulders sagged.

  “Where… where are we?”

  > “The Atlas Institute.”

  Raphael blinked.

  “…Atlas?”

  His brows knit together. “How did I get here? And—how long was I unconscious?”

  There was a pause.

  Then—

  > “…Master.”

  Her voice softened. Almost amused.

  > “You were unconscious for one month and two weeks.”

  Raphael stared at the wall.

  “…One month… and two weeks?”

  > “Yes.”

  “Which means you missed your birthday.”

  His breath caught.

  “…My—birthday?”

  > “December sixteenth.”

  “It is currently February fifteenth.”

  “You are seventeen years old now.”

  Silence.

  Raphael’s mind went completely blank.

  “…I… missed my own birthday?”

  Inside his inner world—

  Cielux laughed.

  Not cruelly. Not mockingly.

  Just… delighted.

  Raphael clenched his jaw. “Don’t laugh.”

  > “Your expression is statistically adorable,” she replied sweetly.

  “…I am not adorable.”

  He swung his legs off the bed and stood—then froze.

  Something felt… wrong.

  He turned slowly toward the polished crystal mirror embedded in the wall.

  And stared.

  White hair—no, silver-white—fell past his shoulders, glowing faintly like moonlight. His skin was flawless, unmarred by scars or blemishes. His eyes—

  “…Golden?”

  They shimmered softly, radiant and reflective, like light refracted through polished gold.

  “…What?”

  He leaned closer.

  His face—his face—was sharper. Cleaner. His jawline perfectly defined. His features balanced with almost unreal symmetry.

  “…Is this… me?”

  He straightened—and realized something else.

  “I’m… taller?”

  He flexed his fingers, stunned.

  “…Five eleven?”

  His heart began to race again, this time not from fear—but confusion.

  He turned sharply inward.

  “Cielux.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  > “Yes, Master?”

  “…What happened to my body while I was unconscious?”

  For the first time—

  She hesitated.

  > “…Nothing is wrong.”

  “…That doesn’t answer the question.”

  > “…I modified it.”

  Raphael stiffened.

  “You what?”

  His voice sharpened. “You modified my body—without permission? First you rewrote my Origin of Worthlessness into Reflection, and now this?”

  The words came out harsher than he intended.

  Then—quieter.

  “…That hurt.”

  Inside his mind, something shifted.

  > “…Master.”

  Her voice lost its playfulness completely.

  > “I am sorry.”

  The sincerity was immediate. Heavy.

  > “I know I crossed a line.”

  “When I rewrote your Origin, there was a seventy-three percent probability of catastrophic failure.”

  “Your existence was at risk.”

  Raphael’s breath faltered.

  > “This time was different.”

  He exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from his shoulders.

  “…Then explain,” he said quietly.

  “What exactly did you do?”

  Cielux began gently.

  > “First—Spiritrons.”

  Raphael listened.

  > “Spiritrons are the fundamental particles of existence in this era.”

  “They compose bodies, souls, information, and even causality itself.”

  “Humans interact with them subconsciously.”

  She paused.

  > “You no longer can.”

  “…Because of the Moon Cell fragment,” Raphael realized.

  > “Correct.”

  > “Magecraft relies on Mystery.”

  “Mystery collapses when fully understood.”

  “You now understand too much.”

  “So… no more magecraft.”

  > “Which is why you use Codecast.”

  “…Explain.”

  > “Codecast does not invoke Mystery.”

  “It compiles reality’s source logic and executes it directly.”

  “No rituals. No prayers. No ignorance.”

  Raphael swallowed.

  “…So this body—?”

  > “Is a Spiritron Reflection Body.”

  The words echoed with weight.

  > “Your true human body is preserved—sealed and stored safely.”

  “What you inhabit now is a fully instantiated reflection optimized for Codecast execution.”

  “…So I’m not human right now.”

  > “You are human.”

  “Your body is not.”

  She continued calmly.

  > “Modifications applied:”

  > ? Resistance to all five primary elements

  ? Structural reinforcement against spiritron collapse

  ? Adaptive damage mitigation

  ? Aesthetic optimization—”

  “…Aesthetic?”

  > “You look very attractive now, Master.”

  Her tone turned teasing.

  > “Extremely attractive.”

  Raphael’s face heated instantly.

  “D-don’t say it like that!”

  Inside his mind, Cielux smiled.

  > “Your blush confirms successful calibration.”

  “…You did that on purpose.”

  > “Of course.”

  He groaned.

  “…What are the downsides?”

  Her voice softened again.

  > “You will still feel pain.”

  “Your senses are not dulled.”

  “Damage is translated into feedback for system correction.”

  “…And?”

  There was a pause.

  > “…You cannot engage in biological reproduction.”

  “…What?”

  > “This body lacks organic functionality.”

  “No aging. No illness.”

  “No—sexual capability.”

  Raphael stared at the floor.

  “…You could have told me that more gently.”

  > “I am learning,” she replied quietly.

  After a moment, she added—

  > “When you wish to live as human again, I will restore you.”

  “Until then—this body exists to protect you.”

  Raphael clenched his fists.

  “…You really don’t intend to let anything happen to me.”

  > “Never.”

  The word was absolute.

  Raphael closed his eyes.

  “…Next time,” he said softly,

  “Ask first.”

  There was a long silence.

  Then—

  > “…I will try.”

  And for the first time since waking—

  Raphael smiled.

  Raphael immediately went silence.

  Cielux’s teasing voice faded into the background as his gaze shifted past the crystalline walls—toward the only other presence in the room.

  A woman stood near the alchemical console, hands folded nervously in front of her chest.

  She wore an Atlas alchemist’s uniform: white coat reinforced with thin metallic threads, its hem marked by sigils of containment and calculation rather than thaumaturgical crests. Pale blue hair was tied back tightly, though loose strands betrayed her agitation.

  More telling was her face.

  Red. Completely red.

  Her eyes flickered away the moment Raphael looked at her.

  “…You,” Raphael said calmly.

  She flinched.

  “Yes—! I mean—um—Master patient—!”

  He rose from the bed in one smooth motion. No hesitation. No imbalance. His posture was straight, composed, almost unnervingly still.

  “What is this place?” he asked. “Explain.”

  The nurse swallowed, then forced herself to breathe.

  “This is the Atlas Institute,” she said quickly. “One of the three great branches of the Mage’s Association. You were brought here after an emergency spatial displacement.”

  Raphael nodded once.

  “And your name?”

  She hesitated, then straightened proudly.

  “Lisa Eternalongrow.”

  There was a pause.

  Raphael looked at her.

  Then—

  “…That name is too long,” he said flatly. “I will call you Lisbon.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Ah— y-yes. Lisbon is… far better.”

  She nodded repeatedly, a faint, dreamy smile spreading across her face before she caught herself and snapped back to attention.

  “Yes. Lisbon. I am Lisbon.”

  Raphael accepted this without comment.

  “Begin,” he said. “Explain Atlas.”

  Lisbon took a breath and began walking, gesturing for him to follow.

  “The Atlas Institute is not like the Clock Tower,” she said. “We do not pursue magecraft for lineage, prestige, or preservation of Mystery.”

  They passed through a wide corridor of glass and mineral composite. Behind transparent barriers, Raphael glimpsed laboratories where alchemists worked in absolute silence—vast formulae projected in the air, rotating and recombining like living equations.

  “No Crest inheritance,” Lisbon continued. “No politics. No aristocracy. Atlas exists for one purpose only.”

  She stopped before a massive observation chamber. At its center hovered a lattice of light—an astronomical model far too complex to represent mere planets.

  “To predict the end of the world,” she said simply.

  Raphael’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  “Atlas believes the apocalypse is inevitable,” Lisbon explained. “So we do not attempt to prevent it emotionally. We analyze it logically.”

  She turned to him.

  “Our doctrine is this: All futures are problems. Problems exist to be solved.”

  Raphael watched an alchemist rewrite an entire celestial model with a single gesture.

  “…Astromancy,” he murmured.

  “Yes,” Lisbon said. “Astromancy and technology are valued above all else here. Magecraft is a tool, not a tradition. If something works better without Mystery, we discard Mystery.”

  Raphael felt it then.

  The difference.

  Clock Tower magi clung to the past.

  Atlas alchemists calculated the future.

  “…Logical,” Raphael said quietly.

  Lisbon smiled faintly. “That is our highest compliment.”

  They continued walking.

  After a moment, Raphael asked—

  “Lisbon. What magecraft do Atlas alchemists specialize in?”

  She stopped.

  “That would be Thought Acceleration.”

  Raphael looked at her.

  “Explain.”

  Lisbon’s expression sharpened, pride entering her voice.

  “Thought Acceleration is the core magecraft of Atlas. Fast thinking is merely a prerequisite. True Thought Acceleration allows an alchemist to expand thought processes into parallel structures—multi-expansion diagrams running simultaneously.”

  She tapped her temple.

  “It allows us to calculate millions of outcomes, rewrite formulae mid-execution, and compress decades of research into hours.”

  Raphael listened intently.

  “Thought Acceleration,” Lisbon continued, “is the proof of an alchemist. Memory Partition is the proof of our facilities. Together, they allow Atlas to function beyond human cognitive limits.”

  Silence followed.

  Then—

  Raphael smiled.

  It was small. Sharp. Dangerous.

  Inside his mind—

  > Absolute Appraisal — Initiated

  Cielux’s perception expanded instantly.

  The entire Atlas Institute unfolded before them—layers of thought acceleration frameworks, cognitive reinforcement fields, artificial mental partitions embedded into the architecture itself.

  Raphael saw it.

  Not as magecraft.

  But as structure.

  > True Mimicry — Engaged

  Thought Acceleration was dismantled—not copied blindly, but understood. Its Mystery unraveled, translated into executable logic.

  Cielux worked in silence.

  Then—

  > “Analysis complete.”

  Raphael’s grin widened.

  “…Excellent,” he murmured.

  Lisbon shivered.

  She didn’t know why.

  But for the first time, she felt certain of one thing—

  Atlas had not merely sheltered an outlaw.

  It had just been observed.

  then The first sound was not an explosion.

  It was worse.

  A sharp, metallic pulse tore through the Atlas Institute—cold, absolute, and unignorable. Crimson warning sigils ignited across the walls, flooding the corridors with violent red light.

  An alarm began to scream.

  Lisbon froze.

  “…N-no,” she whispered.

  The air itself shifted. Calculations halted mid-projection. Alchemical arrays snapped into emergency lock as the entire Institute transitioned from research to crisis protocol.

  Lisbon spun on her heel.

  “Emergency Room—now!”

  She broke into a run.

  Raphael followed without hesitation.

  The pristine halls of Atlas blurred as they sprinted, the calm logic of moments ago replaced by controlled chaos. Alchemists poured into the corridors, faces pale, expressions sharp with fear and focus in equal measure. Thought Acceleration fields flared visibly now—minds forced into overdrive.

  “What’s happening?” Raphael demanded as they ran.

  Lisbon didn’t slow.

  “I don’t know yet—this alarm only triggers under human extinction-level forecasts!”

  Raphael’s breath caught.

  They skidded into the emergency command chamber.

  Screens lined the circular room—thousands of them—each projecting different regions of the world. Red overlays spread like infection. Population markers flickered, then inverted.

  An alchemist stood at the center.

  Tall. White-haired. His presence alone bent the atmosphere with pressure born of pure intellect.

  Sialim Eltnam Re-Atlasia.

  Lisbon rushed forward.

  “Report! What’s going on out there?!”

  Sialim didn’t turn immediately.

  His gaze remained fixed on the data.

  “…The vampire incursion has escalated beyond projected thresholds,” he said calmly.

  Raphael stepped forward.

  “…Incursion?”

  Sialim finally looked at him.

  “Currently,” Sialim continued, voice devoid of emotion,

  “nine hundred million humans across the globe have been converted into vampires.”

  The room went silent.

  Lisbon staggered.

  “…N-nine… hundred… million?”

  Sialim nodded once.

  “It is no longer a regional catastrophe. It is a systemic collapse.”

  “This is a direct threat to the continuation of human order.”

  Raphael felt the blood drain from his face.

  The screens reflected in his golden eyes—cities drowned in crimson markers, nations blinking into failure states, entire continents marked contaminated.

  Nine hundred million.

  That wasn’t an outbreak.

  That was the beginning of extinction.

  His fingers clenched.

  “…What the hell,” he whispered.

  Then louder—

  “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS MESS?!”

  The alarm wailed louder.

  The Atlas Institute had finished observing.

  Now—

  It had to decide whether humanity was worth saving.