Temple of the Demon Lord of Wishes

"The strange occurrence earlier must be the will of the masses in this Fractured Reality..."

Nathan said, his voice cold and steady as though drawing a calculated conclusion.

"They're warning us..."

Nathan added.

Ivaim blinked, confused.

"Will of the masses?"

Nathan's eyes narrowed as he shot Ivaim a sharp glance.

"You're seriously this clueless? Who's your Reality Master? Possessing such powerful abilities but not even teaching his Walkers the basics?"

Ivaim frowned, slightly defensive.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Nathan crossed his arms, his expression stone-cold.

"It means your Reality Master isn't doing his job right. You should tell him to promote my son's Walker Ranking while he's at it."

Ivaim blinked, baffled.
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"Eh? How'd you figure out Reves is under the same Reality Master as me?"

Nathan's lips thinned into a grim line.

"I saw him use that absurd and stupid jumping skill of yours. The one that makes you lucky enough to dodge and escape from almost anything."

Ivaim muttered under his breath.

"It's not that stupid…"

Nathan ignored him, his tone unyielding.

"Frankly, I think that skill quite suits Reves as he is able to avoid danger better that way, so perhaps I should thank you Reality Master for that."

Ivaim winced, biting back a snarky response.

'I'm standing right here, by the way. Reality Master in the room.'

He thought with a twitch of his lips.

"My Reality Master isn't evil, I swear."

Ivaim said quickly.

"He makes Walkers do good deeds before they can even use their powers. You can ask Reves yourself."

'Except Williams...'

Ivaim thought bitterly.

'That guy has to spread the name of my cult—uh, temple.'

Nathan's expression remained impassive as he paused to gather his thoughts.

"We'll discuss your Reality Master later. Right now—what exactly do you think Fractured Realities are?"

Ivaim tilted his head, puzzled by the sudden shift.

"They're illusions created by a Reality Master's power, aren't they?"

Nathan's tone turned cold, authoritative.

"No. They're not illusions. They're states of existence."

Ivaim frowned, confused.

"And that means what exactly?"

Nathan's eyes glinted with sharp clarity. "To put it simply, The reason why they're called Reality Masters is because they have to bear the weight of the existence they were made from."

Ivaim's brow furrowed.

"That's... vague. Like, really vague. What does that even mean in practice?"

Silence hung between them, thick and heavy.

'Don't tell me you don't know either...'

Ivaim thought sarcastically noticing how Nathan just went quiet.

Nathan broke the quiet with a curt response.

"According to my master—the Eighth Throne Holder... No Reality Master fully understands that phrase."

"Wow, super reassuring."

Ivaim quipped dryly.

Nathan ignored the sarcasm, continuing with a steely calm.

"But there's someone who might know—"

He paused, his voice dropping to a grim tone.

"—that pesky woman who prophecies futures..."

Ivaim raised an eyebrow at the sudden shift in topic.

"Prophecies futures?"

Nathan's lip curled ever so slightly.

"She's called 'The Empress.' The one who prophesized that Reves would be the cause of the Ten Throne Holders' downfall."

Nathan's expression didn't soften.

"She doesn't just see near futures—she sees far ahead, too."

"And that's why she's pesky?"

Ivaim asked curiously.

Nathan shook his head.

"No. What makes her dangerous is that she can twist the future she sees to fit her desires. That's why the Throne Holders are wary of her."

Ivaim's stomach dropped.

'Twisting the future? Wait... Williams has that button that supposedly sees into the future, doesn't he? Shit. Does that thing belong to one of her Walkers?'

'Another reason to confiscate it...'

"The Empress, huh? Never heard of her."

Ivaim said aloud.

Nathan's voice turned colder.

"It's better to call her 'the pesky woman' instead."

"Why?"

"There's a rumor that calling her by her title allows her to pry into your future."

Ivaim felt a chill run down his spine.

"You're kidding, right?"

Nathan's tone didn't waver.

"Don't worry. We're inside a Fractured Reality. She can't reach us here."

Ivaim forced a grin, though unease lingered in his mind.

"Glad to hear it... I think."

...

The days following the regional championship were filled with long discussions about the team's strategy for the upcoming Coliseum of Chosens.

The victory had cemented Nathan's reputation, giving him not just prestige but leverage.

With the title of Regional Champion in hand, he wasted no time making requests to the blacksmiths in Elthram.

"Not just for me." Nathan stated firmly to the master smith.

"I need equipment crafted for two others... For that mouthy Underdog and my son."

The blacksmiths exchanged glances but nodded without question.

No one dared refuse a request from the champion, especially one so coldly resolute.

Meanwhile, the Black Veil Master stood apart, arms folded in quiet defiance.

When Nathan had offered to commission something for her as well, she had flatly declined.

"I have no interest in burdensome trinkets."

She said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"Such things will only hinder my fighting capabilities."

Nathan didn't press further.

He simply gave her a curt nod and moved on, his practical nature recognizing that persuasion was futile.

A week later, Ivaim examined his new equipment under the crisp morning light.

The armor was crafted from lightweight but sturdy materials, fitting snugly without restricting his movements.

Thin iron plates protected his shoulders and chest, while the rest of the suit allowed for quick, agile movement — perfect for someone who relied on speed and instinct.

Resting beside the armor was an iron baton, sleek and unassuming at first glance.

However, faint rune-like etchings spiraled along its length, evidence of enchantments woven carefully into the weapon.

"Damn, this looks cool..."

Ivaim muttered, giving the baton an experimental spin.

It whistled faintly through the air, the enchantments humming beneath his fingers.

He couldn't help but grin.

"Definitely better than my old stick."

After securing his gear, he prepared for the next leg of his journey.

The Coliseum of Chosens awaited in two months, but Ivaim had unfinished business — finding Darian.

At first, his search took him to the towns surrounding Elthram.

He wandered through markets and training grounds, questioning merchants and local fighters alike.

Each inquiry led to dead ends, vague rumors, or outright dismissals.

When that yielded no results, Ivaim expanded his search to neighboring regions.

He traveled tirelessly, following every lead no matter how flimsy.

His boots wore thin on dusty roads, and inns became his temporary refuge during the long, fruitless journey.

A month and a half later, frustration gnawed at him.

Even with his enhanced luck from [Coin of Fortune], he wasn't able to find him at all.