"So, Arthur, what are your plans now?" Valen asked, his tone even, though his gaze remained sharp. There was still a flicker of hostility in his eyes—not so much for the beating I had given him, but for the fact that his daughter now looked at me with something uncomfortably close to devotion.
"Savage Communion," I replied without hesitation. "The weakest of the Cults need to fall first."
Valen's eyes narrowed slightly, but he gestured for me to continue.
"I know you've been preparing for war already," I said, meeting his gaze. "I'll help you destroy them."
He nodded slowly, weighing my words. "I'm not foolish enough to refuse your help, not when you're stronger than me."
His admission was blunt, and for a moment, I felt the weight of it settle in the room. Valen had always regarded me as a genius, but to him, a genius was someone with promise—a future threat, but not an equal in the present. That perception had changed.
Not anymore. Now, he saw me as his equal.
"In war, you'll have more impact than I will," I said honestly, acknowledging the truth. I might be stronger, but Valen's true strength was in the chaos of the battlefield. He was a king, a strategist, a general who could wield armies like an extension of his own body.
"Regardless," he said after a pause, "thank you. We'll discuss plans for the war soon."
"Yes, we sho—" My words froze in my throat as a wave of mana surged through the air, brushing against my skin with a weight that was almost suffocating.
Valen stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he turned toward the window. "What the hell was that?" he demanded.
I raised a hand instinctively, motioning for him to calm down. "Relax," I said, though my own voice was tight. My mind raced, trying to process what I had just felt.
"You know what this is?" Valen asked, his gaze flicking to me. There was something sharp in his tone—something bordering on fear.
I nodded, swallowing hard. "I do."
The mana was unmistakable. It was raw, ancient, and impossibly vast. A presence like that didn't just appear—it demanded attention, respect, and caution. Things were not going according to plan. In fact, they had just gone entirely off the rails.
A Mythical-grade artifact had descended upon Earth.
Artifacts were categorized into seven grades: normal, advanced, elite, historic, ancient, legendary, and mythical. Earth itself only possessed artifacts up to the Legendary grade—powerful enough to shape nations and determine wars. But Mythical-grade? That was something else entirely.
Mythical artifacts weren't just tools of power. They were forces of nature, embodiments of concepts so overwhelming they bordered on divine. With a Mythical artifact, even a low Radiant-ranker could slaughter a demigod at high Radiant-rank if they could wield it properly. Of course, wielding it properly was another matter entirely. These artifacts required the strength of a god—a true Divine-ranker—to fully unlock their potential.
Valen's voice cut through my thoughts. "What kind of artifact is it?"
I hesitated, closing my eyes as I reached out. "Luna," I called out mentally, summoning the familiar presence of my companion. "Which one is it?"
Her response was slow, and I could feel the tremor of unease in her words. 'From what Art said… this is…' Her voice faltered, heavy with dread. 'It's the Infernal Armis.'
The name alone sent a shiver down my spine.
The Infernal Armis. The Artifact of Ruin. A Mythical-grade weapon said to embody the pure, unrelenting essence of carnage and destruction. Its very presence twisted the fabric of reality, leaving chaos in its wake.
"What is it?" Valen pressed, his patience thinning.
"The Infernal Armis," I said, the words heavy and bitter on my tongue. "The Mythical Artifact of Carnage."
To call it an artifact was, frankly, underselling it. Mythical-grade artifacts were not simply tools or weapons—they were stories given form, legends forged in the crucible of countless worlds. They operated on a level so far beyond Legendary-grade artifacts that comparing the two felt almost insulting.
Legendary-grade artifacts, for all their power, were bound by the limitations of their origin. They were picky, certainly, but they belonged to their worlds, tied to the rules and fabric of the reality that birthed them. Becoming the master of a Legendary artifact was no small feat—it required worth, will, and sometimes pure dumb luck.
But Mythical-grade artifacts? They existed on an entirely different axis.
For one, they didn't form in a world at all. A singular world couldn't hope to contain their creation. Instead, they were born from the intersection of myths and stories across countless worlds, their very existence woven from the collective narrative of the universe. They weren't just forged—they were shaped, the echoes of tales and legends colliding in the void of space-time itself.
And they didn't stay still. Mythical-grade artifacts weren't bound by the laws of any single world. With their limited yet terrifying sapience, they could traverse the fabric of space-time with a grace that made even Radiant-rankers seem clumsy. But where Radiant-rankers moved within the threads of a single world's axis, these artifacts swam through the universe, choosing where—and to whom—they would appear.
Even the term "artifact" was misleading. Mythical-grade artifacts didn't confine themselves to the form of a blade or a staff. They transcended the idea of a mere weapon. They evolved. Bonding with such an artifact didn't just grant the user power—it transformed them. It promised complete evolution, an upgrade so fundamental that it redefined the very essence of the wielder's abilities. But, even then, wielding such power wasn't guaranteed. Bonding with the artifact was only the beginning; mastery was something else entirely.
And then there was the selection process.
Legendary-grade artifacts, for all their whimsy and stubbornness, were at least straightforward in their judgment. They would evaluate anyone who attempted to bond with them, weighing their worth instantly. It was a trial, yes, but a direct one.
Mythical-grade artifacts? They created their own space—an arena, a trial, a world unto itself. These spaces weren't just tests; they were manifestations of the artifact's will, akin to a True Domain. Entering that space meant submitting yourself entirely to the artifact's judgment. Breaking the rules of that space—attempting to force your way in or out—was possible, but only for Divine-rankers. However, doing so came at a price: immediate disqualification. The artifact would reject you utterly, vanishing into the currents of space-time to seek another world, another story, another wielder.
And no one could stop it. Mythical-grade artifacts had an unparalleled ability to slip through the threads of reality, disappearing into the universe without a trace. Even gods couldn't hold onto them if the artifact decided to leave.
I exhaled, the weight of this revelation settling over me like a storm cloud. The Infernal Armis wasn't just here to be found—it was here to judge. And every step we took from this moment onward would be under its silent scrutiny.