“[Deceiver], which do you like better, day or night?”

Across the private restaurant booth from me, [Deceiver] licked clean the last remnants of stew from a porcelain bowl.

[I. Like. What you. Like.]

“If you just said ‘night,’ I could have said, ‘Wow, me too.’”

[You. Want. To play. Pretend?]

“Hey, doesn’t your name explain it all? Who am I if not a pretender?”

[There is. Also. Another half. To. The name.]

[Deceiver] licked its lips and pulled close a fish dish with its claws.

[You decided. To owe. That girl.] It peered at me with its glowing white eyes. [Do you. Regret it?]

“You don’t know the answer already?”

[Deceiver] didn’t reply, but neither did it take its eyes away.

So eventually, I explained, “I don’t know if it was the right choice, but I don’t regret it.”

[Why?]

I shrugged half-heartedly.

“Rhoswen… I think that she wasn’t malicious, just selfish in wanting to be close to Acacius. But I can’t trust someone like that, right? I definitely can’t let her get close. So, even if I feel sorry towards her, it’s better to take care of things as cleanly as I can.”

[Hmm. And what. Of the events. Of the. Exam. Itself?]

“If I had to choose, I guess I do regret it. I underestimated the effects the collar would have on me, and I showed parts of myself I normally wouldn’t have. It just… feels a little strange. To have such a low-stakes regret.”

[Low. Stakes?]

“No one died,” I said. “I got everything I set out to get. In fact, since Luka gave me his prize, I got to pick a second reward out of the prize pool, too. And if I wanted to make friends, then mending things with Luka could have been considered a good thing.”

[And yet. You. Regret.]

I tried to smile, but didn’t quite make it.

“I just don’t want anyone to become close to me, that’s all.”

It was painful when they treated Acacius Duval earnestly, because I wasn’t the person who they wanted to reciprocate their feelings.

But it would be more painful if the one they cared about was me.

If they cared, then they’d want to understand, and if they wanted to understand, they had to enter my world. But in my world, there were memories so incomparably precious and painful that I felt like it would drive me crazy to show anyone else.

[If you. Were close. To others,] said [Deceiver], [My current form. Would become. The best weapon. Against them.]

I couldn’t help but let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Are you trying to comfort me or twist the knife right now?”

[Deceiver]’s tail brushed lightly against my leg under the table, which told me the answer.

[Your blood. Can still. Feed me. So. Stay like that.]

Right. If I didn’t care about myself, then my blood couldn’t be used by the [Devourer] form, after all.

“Thanks, [Deceiver],” I said, reaching under the table to pat its tail. “It’s okay. I know there are parts of myself I don’t like all that much… Like the fact that I can be so cold. But I’m not in the wrong for trying to survive, you know? It’s the world that’s wrong.”

Of course, this wasn’t my world, anymore.

I rested my chin on my hand and turned my gaze out the window, where the streetlights’ glowing eyes peered into the dark night.

“Do you have access to my memories?”

[I. Know. But I. Do not. Experience.]

“Then you don’t feel them the way I do?”

It shook its head. I nodded.

“Where I came from, things were… a lot rougher than they are here. Laws were for the benefit of powerful. Public safety was a racket run by the gangs. Order meant pretending to obey the person with the biggest fist, at least until you could take their place. I won’t say there wasn’t real affection and care between people, but you’d be surprised what you’re capable of when you’re starving or scared. So early on, I learned that these beautiful concepts were just fantasies used to make everyone behave.”

Outside, there were still pedestrians strolling through the streets, garbed in good clothes, hands empty of weapons, and lacking any vigilance towards their surroundings. How blissful, right?

“The conditions were better if you got into a settlement, and better still if you got into a quantum territory. But there was always that knowledge hanging over everyone, y’know? If you didn’t bow your head, do what you were told, then you’d be exiled back to the wastelands, where you would just fight for your survival until you die. I felt like anyone who believed in a better world was a fool.”

My family had all been fools. But they’d made me want to believe, too, that an illusion could become reality.

They’d died for their ideals, one way or another.

In the end, I guess I’d learned that foolish trait from them, too.

“Kosmonymia is a dangerous world,” I said. “But at the same time, it’s a much better world than mine. Look, the food is abundant, the weather is good, and there is sturdy shelter over so many people’s heads. Things are so good that people can afford to believe in things like laws, and safety, and peace. They’ve lived in the illusion for so long that violence is an intrusion into ordinary life, rather than an omnipresent possibility. It’s like they forget that, if someone just felt like it, they could break the peace anytime.”

[Someone. Such as. You.]

“Yeah. Like me.”

I leaned back in my seat, folding my hands behind my head as I gazed out the window. The stars, in all their uncertainty, gazed back at me from the night.

“This world isn’t paradise, and the safety here is an illusion, too. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have faced so much danger in KP-04. But I can’t help but feel a little envious of everyone who can really buy into that illusion of peace.”

In my world, only the people at the top could really believe in that. Here, though…

“I guess Teacher was right. If enough people believe in a dream, then they can turn that dream into reality.”

[But you. Never. Believed. In her dream.]

No. Just in her.

“Even if paradise existed,” I said, “It’s like my brother used to say. Once a sinner enters paradise, it can’t be paradise anymore.”

[Then. Are you. The sinner. For not. Being able. To believe?]

I laughed.

“I think everyone’s a sinner, [Deceiver]. No one has ever made it to the Pure Land. But I think… maybe, in this world, it’s possible to live better than in mine.”

[Deceiver] tilted its head thoughtfully.

[Then. Will you. Change. Your plans. To attack. Veratrum. Row?]

“Hell no. What’s that got to do with anything?”

At that, [Deceiver] laughed and laughed and laughed.

It just didn’t get it, did it? Well, whatever.

As long as [Deceiver] was happy, that was fine.

I had a lot to do. There was my deal with Tarascus, the ritual to rank up to the Chronicle realm, and all the preparations I needed to stage my attack on Veratrum Row.

I’d messaged Tarascus with my feedback about the brooch after the exam, which had prompted a flurry of excited messages typed in all caps before he ceased to respond entirely. I figured he’d find me when it was the right time.

So on Sunday, I decided it was time to rank up.

After disguising myself as usual, I took one of the trolley lines to the Scribe’s temple.

The temple was located on the other side of Nithemoore City from the Academy, across the main bridge over the river, in the historical district from before the country of Iyiria’s founding. Built out of pale brick and stone, it stood grandly in the middle of a large courtyard, dominating the sky with its belltower and cathedral dome.

Perhaps because it had been built before the Great Dragon’s descent, there were no fountains here, and the surroundings were lacking in dragon iconography compared to the rest of the city. There was only a statue of the Scribe in the center of the courtyard. The hooded figure, carved out of obsidian and marble, smiled enigmatically as it lifted a book in one hand and a knife in the other. The snake draped around its neck was devouring its own tail.

Ascending the steps into the entrance hall, the first thing that struck me was how silent it was compared to the Secret-Keeper’s temple.

The second thing that struck me was the huge wall of scrolls, stretching from floor to ceiling, that greeted me. The smell of ink and parchment filled the air. The scale and presence of all those records was so great, it nearly dwarfed the counter in front where a priest in a hooded black robe was waiting for me.

Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to feel too surprised when the priest pulled off the hood, revealing Isul’s face.

“Hello, my friend,” he said with a smile. “What a wonderful surprise to meet you here.”

“Are you sure you’re not following me around?” I asked.

He laughed. “How could that be? I respect the privacy of everyone who patronizes the Secret-Keeper’s temple. But,” he winked, “sometimes I get a little intuition from above.”

So in the end, I should be blaming the Tripartite again.

Still, it wasn’t a bad thing to have a familiar face here to guide me.

“I came today to challenge the Chronicle realm.”

Isul’s eyes gleamed. “What a momentous occasion! Is this your first time challenging?”

Could people challenge multiple times? “Yeah.”

“Then let’s get you to a private room — unless you don’t mind spectators?” he added with a sly smile. I rapidly shook my head, and he laughed. “Come on, I’ll explain more about the ritual as we go.”

Isul led me around the wall of scrolls behind the counter and down a large central hall. It was illuminated by the sunlight falling through the frosted glass skylights and lined on either side by bookshelves and archways to yet more hallways of endless books. Occasionally, we passed by robed priests with silver serpents embroidered onto their black vestments, but perhaps due to some weirdness of Isul’s, none of them seemed to notice us at all.

“There are five ranks of power under the Tripartite,” Isul said, “but in reality, the Record level is the category of the ‘unranked.’ No matter who you are, no matter how much or how little you accomplish with your life, the Scribe’s records will capture it all. There is no deed too great and no detail too small to be recorded by their pen. But some people want to leave greater marks than others.”

At the end of the hall, we passed through a large archway carved with chimeric beasts and entered a domed chamber with a massive mural painted on the ceiling. Dragons, phoenixes, and chimeras danced across the curved panes, sometimes in joy and sometimes tearing each other apart. They were entwined with — or perhaps bound by — a long line of calligraphic script, written in a golden spiral that covered the whole dome.

It was, of course, the same mystical script that had written my Record and announced the solving of KP-04.

[…from knowledge and interpretation to the construction of self; from the self to the construction of the world; from the world to the construction of existence…]

“Ranking up,” said Isul, “is your challenge to the Triarchs. That their knowledge of you, their interpretation of you, their record of your history, is less correct than what you yourself have to say.”

[…from the mind, the construction of the chain; from the chain, the construction of fate; from fate, the inevitable end of all things; from the end, the destruction of that which binds…]

“Is that not already true?” I asked him, uncertain.

Because no matter how much you knew about someone else, it didn’t mean you could fully understand them.

[…O Transcriber of all that has been, all that is, and all that will be, do not let our struggles be in vain…]

Isul smiled, eyes crinkling warmly.

“Spoken like a true challenger, my friend.”

He gestured for me to come up to the marble podium at the center of the chamber, over which hovered a glowing golden tome. As I drew near, a familiar electric sense of power thrummed in the air, raising the hair on my arms.

“To challenge the Tripartite, you must have the qualifications to speak. These are the so-called ‘achievement titles’ that so many seek — feats that the Tripartite themselves find worthy of acknowledgment. If you place your hands on the artifact, it will show you which of your titles qualify. Don’t worry,” he added with a crooked smile, “it’s quite private. No matter how much I look, I won’t be able to read a thing.”

“I think I’d still feel better if you stood further away.”

Isul laughed without taking offense, stepping away so that the artifact was between me and him. Now, if the book opened, he wouldn’t be able to see the pages.

Letting out a breath, I tentatively touched the giant tome.

It didn’t really feel like anything material, more like touching a pure current of power. A jolt ran up my arm, and the book before me slowly unfurled, ink tracing itself over the pages under the auspices of an invisible hand.

Name: Jeong Eunseok

World Proof: [Honest Man’s Deception]

Evaluation: Contradictory, hypocritical, capricious, and yet truthful and constant all the same, this being has chosen a way of life that others would find hard to match.

Qualifying Titles:

• [Denier of the Prison of Mind]
• [Incarnation of the Final Kaleidoscope]
• [Inevitable Survivor of Disaster]
• […]

So Acacius’ title, [Denier], was also an achievement, was it?

The other titles weren’t much of a surprise to me. I lingered silently on the last one for a while before retracting my hand from the book.

Darkness swept over the pages, like ink poured into clear water, dyeing it pitch black before the tome flipped itself shut with all the weight of a prison door.

I looked up at Isul. “What now?”

“Now,” said Isul, “I teach you the ritual.”

We left the chamber in the opposite direction that we’d entered, into a small inner courtyard with a large central statue of a beheaded snake. Isul brought me through one of the three identical doors around the courtyard. Behind it was a solemn chamber tiled in patterns of black and white stone. Hanging lanterns cast the light of their golden fire on the bas-relief that took up the entire opposite wall: a three-headed figure with three pairs of arms, each face split in half between black and white.

Isul fetched some thin books from the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves next to the door and beckoned me over eagerly.

The ritual, he explained, consisted of three parts. First, the Challenge would call the Tripartite’s attention. When they came forth, the Questioning would commence, under which you would have to stake three achievement titles to answer three of their questions. If you answered truthfully and to their satisfaction, then came the Selection. Normally, this was when someone would select a patron among the Triarchs, influencing how their power would grow and manifest itself in the world. The chosen patron would then promise to deliver a suitable trial to the challenger through which they could prove themselves.

“But you don’t have to worry about who to choose,” he said.

That just made me worry more…

Leveraging Isul’s clear passion about the Tripartite, I convinced him to tell me about how the selection would work for someone who wasn’t under the scrutiny of all three Triarchs. I mean, I wasn’t optimistic, but I couldn’t just give up, right? He indulged me by showing records of the typical back-and-forth to be expected with the gods, but with the air of someone humoring an improbable request.

Isul explained that once the ritual was concluded, you’d receive a “world seed” — something that could grow into your very own frame, overwriting the rules of the world around you, if you nurtured it far enough.

Trials usually came within a few years of ranking up. Passing a trial was guaranteed to award you an achievement title. Failing a trial meant that you’d have to undergo the Chronicle realm’s ranking-up ritual all over again, but you couldn’t use the titles you’d already staked before. You also couldn’t decide when and where a trial would come.

“But don’t worry,” Isul told me again. ”I bet you won’t have to wait long at all!”

There were a lot of downsides to deciding never to tell an outright lie again, but not being able to give a sarcastic “thanks for that” was pretty high up there.

We spent some time looked through different wordings and variations of the ritual recorded in the booklets. Isul kept suggesting that I use the risky-sounding ones, saying that the Tripartite was sure to love it, but I didn’t think that was a good thing. There weren’t really any good choices in those books either, though…

“It’s fine to tweak the wording a bit, right?” I asked.

“As long as the overall structure and intent is there, it’ll be fine. The reason people follow these scripts is to borrow their historical weight.” He gave me a meaningful look. “But not everyone needs it.”

Phew. At least that gave me some room to maneuver.

Anyways, I’d learned the purpose of the ritual and memorized the lines I planned to use, but this whole rank thing still felt kind of abstract to me.

So I said, “Hey, Isul, I don’t really know what kind of ‘seed’ I want. In your opinion, what are some of the great world seeds from history? It doesn’t have to be from someone who reached Legend rank.”

Isul stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“Let’s see. Sverrir Morgan, the [Tyrant who Gouged Out the Heart of the North], received the [Seed of the Cold Sword]. It matured into the Morgan family’s legacy, the [Mirror of Reason’s Frozen Sword], a sword art that consumes the user’s emotions to grant them greater power. If you want to cut off all connection to the world, I recommend trying a similar path.”

“Uh… that sounds pretty bad,” I said, politely refraining from asking why the hell he would say that to me. “Any other references?”

“Then how about Helene de Foix, the [Palacemaker of Marionettes]? She was an artisan in the Lemirian Court’s employ who received the [Seed of the Perfected Doll]. Legend has it that the dolls they hired her to make became so lifelike they could replace people without a single person noticing. During the inheritance struggle of that time, so many nobles hired her to create replacements for people they’d assassinated that by the time the king was decided, his court had already been taken over by her marionettes. If you have a strong sense of control and like staying behind the scenes, then you can use her as reference, too.”

“…I don’t want to accidentally become in charge of a country. That sounds terrifying.”

“Then what do you want?”

Something that was strong, something that could let me live peacefully, something that I could bear looking in the mirror to see?

I didn’t know if such a thing existed, and even if it did, would the Tripartite give it to me?

Isul looked at my face, and his enthusiasm softened into something gentler.

“Perhaps I’m approaching this from the wrong angle,” he said. “How about… I tell you about Traianon the Conqueror? I imagine he is unsuitable for your path as well, but his story may be helpful nonetheless.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s hear it.”

He smiled. “When it comes to Traianon, everyone always talks about his military brilliance, his self-made empire, and his shining crown of glory. But I rather like the story of his death. Are you familiar?”

I shook my head.

“When the kingdoms and empires allied to kill the prophet al-Sahira, they invited Traianon, too. Myth against Myth. Traianon accepted, of course. His Inner World was grown from the [Seed of Unending Conquest]. With it, he could bind anyone into conflict with him; and with it, he could use the results of past victories to fix the result of future struggles. It was an Inner World whose power required him to keep challenging new frontiers and winning forever, and it was exactly what he wanted.

“But Queen al-Sahira was one of the greatest warriors and leaders of her time. Traianon struggled. He could not win against her without using his Inner World, so he used the conquests of the past to fix his victory over her. He won, because his world decreed it so. But he could not stop her from igniting her blood to give her last prophecy, her final curse. Everyone who forcefully revealed a prophet would die, and everyone who had marched against her would accompany her to the grave.

“One by one, the kings and armies that had joined hands against al-Sahira withered away and died. It didn’t matter how far they ran. Al-Sahira’s curse painted the sky red with their blood. So Traianon thought. How could he overcome the [Blood Omen that Connects the End to the Beginning]? He would either have to defeat fate, or defeat death. The Scribe’s records, or the Secret-Keeper’s mysteries. It was an impossible task, but neither could he accept simply waiting for his end to come.

“Thus, Traianon took his Conqueror’s banner and rode into the desert where al-Sahira died. He manifested his Inner World and challenged the Tripartite. ‘Come forth. Be bound by my world. Give me a chance, if you dare. Which of you is brave enough to wager with me the conquest of your domain?’

“The world was silent, but when he turned around, there was a hooded figure waiting for him. They say the snakes around its neck were woven around each other, biting their tails to form a seamless knot. Behind it, a door to nowhere was swinging open. Nothing could be seen inside.

“[If you wish to overcome Us,] the figure told him, [It is very simple. You only need to enter the final door, and then return.]

“How could Traianon not know what that meant? But he was a conqueror, and conquerors do not retreat. So he did not turn back; he did not say goodbye, leave an inheritance, nor spend his last moments with the ones he loved. He planted his banner in the desert sand and said, ‘One day, I will return for this flag.’ And then, with the Scribe and Secret-Keeper themselves as his honor guard, he passed through the final door.

“They say, to this day, that if you walk through Tizemitia’s desert with the Tripartite’s favor upon you, that you might find a blood-red stretch of sand with a lonely banner decaying in the wind, and an open door standing behind it.”

Isul finished his tale just like that. I couldn’t think of a single good thing to take away from it. The dead silence was like another presence in the room before I found something to say.

“Why do you like his death so much? Because he was brave enough to challenge the Tripartite? Because it was pointless, and he died anyway?”

“Because his end was dictated by the person that he was,” said Isul. “At the end of your life, all you have is who you are. He couldn’t be more than that. But the person he was… was spectacular.”

He smiled.

“So… for your world seed, my friend, just think of who you want to be and let that guide your ascension. When the final day comes, your Inner World will be the proof of how you lived.”

The proof of how I’d lived?

My last act before I died…

It had been something really terrible. Who knew how many people had probably cursed my name. And Chen Xiarui, the one I’d left behind…

I forced a painful smile.

“I… think I have an idea of how my world seed will turn out, no matter how I want it to be.”

“Is that so?”

“Aren’t you close to the Tripartite? Can’t you do me a favor and ask them to be kind to me?”

Isul smiled softly. It looked a little bit sad.

“Yes. I will pray for your kindness and your efforts to be rewarded.”

That was not at all the same thing.

Maybe it was as good as I was gonna get.

“Thanks, Isul,” I said, and took a deep breath. “Wait for me outside, will you?”

It was time for me to challenge the Tripartite.