"Protect your mother."
Baron Lamud's words hung heavily in the study.
"I may be gone for a long time. And... I cannot promise what I might do when my memories return." He leaned back in his high-backed chair, voice dropping to a near whisper, as if wrestling with unspoken thoughts. In the end, only a sigh remained. "Don, my child..."
Don understood all too well what the Death God's fall and its lingering contingencies signified—knowledge that, for him, had not been obscured.
He stayed silent for a moment, then nodded.
He wouldn't stop his father. Nor could he.
He was only Sequence 5, neither angel nor deity.
---
[Host, the mystical item 'Sinner's Shackles' operates under the following rules:]
The Sinner's Shackles was forged from the Beyonder characteristic of a Sequence 6: Judge from the Justiciar Pathway. Though matching its original rank, the System's built-in 'Artisan Module' had refined it to align with Don's needs—retaining its core power while mitigating side effects.
Its sole ability: "Mystique weakens, reality strengthens." Under this singular "decree," even a near-Sequence 6 Beyonder would struggle to break free swiftly.
This synergized perfectly with a Marionettist's capabilities.
By dampening mystical traits—not just the target's powers but also their artifacts and charms—it bought time for Spirit Body Thread manipulation.
The downside? For 24 hours after use, the wielder must obey the Shackles' imposed rule. Violation invited severe punishment.
Don: "Feels like a damn rule-based horror game."
[Current Rule:]
"Family is a warm harbor. Father's righteousness, mother's kindness, brother's camaraderie—only these sustain harmony."
[Time remaining: 22:59:52.]
Don: "Even more like one now… and just a single rule?" Seemed manageable.
[Host, you're celebrating too soon…]
Exiting the study, Don headed to test his new marionette, giddy as a child with a new toy.
"Don."
He hadn't gone far when his dear, dumb—ahem—brother intercepted him.
Fake smile.jpg
You'd better have a good reason.
Clearing his throat (and sensing via spirituality that prolonged interaction was unwise), Don cut in first: "Father wants you."
Owen's mouth opened, then shut at the mention of their father. "Mother plans to visit Backlund. Accompany her. The city's uneasy lately."
A thumbs-up later, Owen strode toward the study, while Don veered toward the gardens.
---
Lady Boianca's health had declined after Don's birth. She rarely ventured out, maintaining only essential social ties. Knowing this, the baron had filled the castle gardens with her favorite flowers. Now, she spent hours there, tending blooms planted with her husband.
En route, Don summoned his marionette.
As a puppetized corpse, it could be stored effortlessly in the System's spatial inventory.
'Huh. This System's damn convenient…'
[Host, ever considered switching to Mysticologist/Alchemist?]
Don: "Piss off. Thanks."
How polite—cursing and thanking it in one breath.
[Roger that.]
The System vanished promptly. Don eyed the marionette—Tank Belial, the demon—and accessed its vision, experiencing a surreal first-person VR.
As a Sequence 6: Demon, its strengths were demonization and precognitive danger sense. In melee combat, it outclassed most peers (though still inferior to a Dawn Knight from the Warrior Pathway). For a fragile caster like Don, it was a perfect meatshield.
"With the System's instant retrieval, if anyone tries to rush me…" He smirked. "They'll get a demon dropped on their head."
"Tank Belial—name fits the role."
"...But the Belial family? Are Blood Sanctify cultists active nearby?" He mused. "Might as well report them to the Evernight Church later."
Having studied extensively, Don saw no issue freeloading on the Goddess's resources.
In this Fourth Epoch, post-Pale Disaster, gods no longer walked the earth. Churches were still rebuilding across Loen.
The Nightwatchers didn't yet exist; Loen lacked a police force. Amid the chaos, heretics and occult rituals ran rampant—more than the overstretched churches could handle.
Even deities had limits.
After stowing the marionette, Don found his mother in the garden.
"Mother, when do you leave for Backlund?"
Lady Boianca paused, rising from her bonsai "Soon. Your father may join us." Her smile softened. "Don, I've been having… a dream lately."
"What dream?"
"I don't recall clearly. But I sense it wasn't a good one."
As a mundane human, her dreams were merely spirit-world echoes—unreliable as prophecy.
Yet Don couldn't shake the feeling: She already knows.
(End of Chapter)