Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[Chapter 1]: Nightmare
Klein touched the bloody wooden stake on his chest, as though he was considering how to get it out.

During this process, he casually asked Adam, “You didn’t attempt to become a god in the Fourth Epoch because you didn’t obtain 0-08?”

“It was one factor. More importantly, there were still many latent dangers that haven’t been resolved at that time.” Adam looked at the huge cross in front of “Him” with a warm gaze.

Klein turned his head to the side and looked at the Visionary and said, “For example, during that period, the remnant will of the Primordial One was still very strong...”

Before he finished his sentence, a large amount of bright-red blood flowed down Klein’s head.

However, the corner of his lips curled up slightly.

Adam turned “His” head and looked at Klein. “His” limpid, light-colored eyes reflected the face that was stained with blood.

“His” expression remained unchanged, and there was a hint of pity in its warmth. It was as if a god was looking down upon the world.

Klein smiled at “Him” as his head cracked apart.

This trend on his body caused him to collapse into a pool of blood.

In the pool of blood were his clothing, the blood-soaked stake, and an ancient mirror.

In the corpse cathedral, in the divine kingdom of Visionary Adam, Klein had died a strange death.

Adam, dressed in a simple white robe, looked at the scene before “Him” with gentleness and calmness. It was unknown if “He” had expected it or if “He” had avoided having any emotions.

***

Klein dreamt of a corridor that stretched into infinity, shelves towering upward into darkness, their spines twisting and shimmering when glimpsed indirectly. A pale gray fog snaked along the floor, curling into corners and drifting upward as though alive, restless and observing.

Within its shifting depths, fleeting shapes flickered—faces half-formed and indistinct, whispering secrets just beyond comprehension. Dust motes floated lazily through the haze, catching the faint light of hovering lanterns and the glow of select books that pulsed softly, as though aware of unseen eyes. The floor rippled subtly, folding and stretching in impossible patterns, while the gray fog seeped into every crevice, filling the spaces between reality and illusion with a cold, damp presence.

The fog thickened in pockets, coiling around the towering shelves and cloaking passages in opaque veils that obscured distance and depth. Whispers, soft and fragmented, drifted along the tendrils of mist, carrying half-truths and riddles that wound through the library like living threads. Books hovered in midair, their edges faintly illuminated, tethered by invisible currents that pulsed in rhythm with the fog’s deliberate movement. In some places, the haze pooled and swirled with subtle intelligence, suggesting forms that were never fully present—eyes, limbs, shapes that vanished when approached.

Time itself seemed suspended, or perhaps fractured, the fog curling and folding in impossible ways, a silent witness and guardian of the endless labyrinth of knowledge.

[Aspirant! Welcome to the Nightmare Spell. Prepare for your First Trial…]

‘Where am I? How did I get here?’ Klein muttered, confusion tugging at him.

He looked down and realized something peculiar: he appeared as sixteen-year-old Klein Moretti, standing around 160.5 cm. “Damn, why am I also short in this life as well!?” he lampooned, shaking his head.

Then realization struck. “Can I still access the Sefirot Castle?” He had just confronted Adam; this had to be one of his schemes. Looking at his reflection—or rather, at himself—he saw a modern outfit: a white blazer over a black blouse, paired with black pants.

He attempted to access the Sefirot Castle, but to no avail. His intuition confirmed it: he had reverted to his Seer phase, a temporary cut-off. Once he exited this place, he would regain the Gray Fog. That thought brought a small measure of calm.

As he looked around, he noted the labyrinthine structure of the library. It twisted and turned in ways that defied observation, corridors bending and folding like the angles of a Weeping Angel, impossible to chart. And then it came back to him: “Right… in my head, there was something like a system. It called itself the Nightmare Spell.” Klein considered it carefully, walking deliberately through the maze. Though he occasionally ran into dead ends, his Seer instincts guided him, reassuring him that everything would be all right… or so he hoped.

Remembering the novels and webtoons he had read as a child, Klein concentrated, focusing on words like “status,” “myself,” and “information.” As he did, shimmering runes materialized in the air before him. Ancient letters, though entirely unfamiliar, conveyed their meaning as clearly as if they were written in his own mind—a language the system itself seemed to translate for him.

Klein allowed himself a small smile. He did not care that this might be one of ‘That Guy’s’ contrivances. This was extraordinary.

—
Name: Klein Moretti
True Name: –

Rank: Aspirant.
Class: Dormant.
Soul Cores: –
Soul Fragments: –

Memories: –
Echoes: –
Attributes: [Marked By Fate], [Echo of Divinity], [Seer's Whisper]

Aspect: [Gray Fog]
Aspect Description: [You are connected to a mysterious legendary being whom gods and daemons were wary of… your origin unknown your ever changing fate shrouded in fog of mystery; no one knows your true goal]
—

Klein was a bit excited as he was living his childhood dream of those system novels and webtoons. His intuition told him that his aspect should do something but he didn’t know what or how. Klein instead focuses his attention on his Attribute on his mind.

Attribute Name: [Marked by Fate]
Attribute Description: [The threads of destiny cling to you like an invisible shroud. Your life is a path both chosen and inevitable, and the world seems to bend subtly around your presence. Some will follow you unknowingly, others will collide with you as if the cosmos demanded it—but none can truly escape the mark you bear.]

Attribute Name: [Echo of Divinity]
Attribute Description: [Within your soul resonates the faint pulse of the divine. It is neither power nor command, but a lingering echo of truths too vast for mortals to fully grasp. In quiet moments, it whispers of the world as it truly is, hinting at forces beyond comprehension and granting fleeting glimpses of the eternal.]

Attribute Name: [Seer’s Whisper]
Attribute Description: [The world murmurs its secrets to you in a tongue few can hear. Dreams, omens, and subtle signs all converge into a single, silent voice that guides your steps. It does not dictate, but its counsel shapes the unseen currents of reality—and those who heed it may glimpse the path others cannot see.]

Klein understood what [Marked by Fate] meant. He’d always felt it—the subtle weight of destiny pressing on him, nudging, pushing, even when he tried to ignore it. Accepting it wasn’t exactly fun, but he knew protecting the people he cared about was worth every sacrifice, every uncertain step.
Even if one day he got replaced, erased, or completely forgotten, it didn’t matter. The threads of fate didn’t vanish; they carried his choices forward anyway, leaving marks in ways he might never see.

[Echo of Divinity] was trickier. It whispered of forces so far beyond normal understanding that even the cleverest humans couldn’t wrap their heads around them. Maybe it came from “Him”, or maybe it was tied to the Sefirot Castle now under his control.

Then there was [Seer’s Whisper]. Subtle, relentless, threading through the chaos like a quiet current no one else could feel. Dreams, omens, tiny hints—all of it blended into a single, almost intangible voice guiding him. Divination wasn’t some unbeatable cheat code, but Klein knew one thing for sure: trusting it was the only way out.

Through danger, confusion, or the shifting labyrinth, he had to follow it. And if he did? He could see paths no one else could, dodge dangers invisible to others, and stumble onto opportunities that seemed to appear out of nowhere. He knew how to use it after all he was a former seer.

The library’s atmosphere shifted. Klein froze, his instincts screaming at him that he wasn’t alone anymore. The gray fog thickened, coiling around the shelves like it had suddenly grown teeth. Shadows stretched and warped in ways that made no sense, and the silence… it wasn’t normal. It felt alive.

Then they appeared. Multiple shrouded humanoid forms, flickering at the edges of his vision, emerging from the fog like corrupted reflections. Their floating, disembodied eyes glared at him from within tattered robes, faces hidden behind rotting parchment. Skeletal hands slithered through walls and shelves, reaching, testing, probing.

And then came the whispers. Soft at first, then louder, layered, fragmented—impossible to understand yet dripping with intent. Every hiss and murmur clawed at the back of Klein’s mind, filling him with a creeping paranoia. The fog seemed to pulse with them, hiding and revealing forms that shouldn’t exist, shapes that twisted and vanished when he looked directly.

Klein pressed himself against the nearest shelf, muscles tight, holding his breath. His heart hammered, and his mind ran a hundred steps ahead, mapping every possible escape, every safe move. The Seer’s whisper reminded him, quietly but insistently, to observe, wait, and trust what he could feel more than what he could see. Divination wasn’t all-powerful, but right now, it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Time stretched. Each second felt heavy, like the fog itself was pressing down on him. The library had become a maze of knowledge and death, and Klein knew it: one wrong step, one careless motion, and they would notice. And if they noticed… well, he didn’t even want to think about that.

End of Chapter One: Nightmare.

Chapter Text

[Chapter 2]: Archive
Klein wanted to avoid the wraiths loitering in the corridor ahead, their formless shadows half-hidden in the roiling fog. But his intuition—a quiet, stubborn thing whispered to move forward. Beyond those creatures lay something important. A way out. A key. Or perhaps something far worse.

His jaw tightened. “Figures…” he muttered under his breath. “It was never going to be easy.”

He drew in a slow breath, pressing two fingers against his forehead. Spirit Vision flared to life behind his closed eyelids like a match struck in darkness. When he opened his eyes, the fog peeled back layer by layer, and the world sharpened.

They weren’t just vague shadows now. They had form—long, skeletal hands wrapped in parchment-like skin, their robes hanging in tatters. Faces were little more than hollow sockets and gaping maws, but the air around them bled whispers, a thousand fragmented voices speaking in languages that scraped against the soul rather than the ear.

And then one of the wraiths tilted its head. A ripple ran through the fog as its gaze fell on him. The whispers sharpened like the edge of a blade.
They saw him.

Klein’s pulse kicked into a sprint before he did. His boots pounded against the floor as he ran. The fog twisted violently, and the shelves around him groaned, shuddering to life. Wood scraped against stone with a shriek that cut through the silence. They moved—massive, heavy, alive—blocking the paths as though the library itself wanted him trapped. He couldn’t stop. Momentum carried him forward.
Crash.

Pain burst through his shoulder as he slammed into the shifting shelf. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs, stars exploding at the edges of his vision.

A jagged crack split the wood. A hand—thin, bony, too long to be human—slid through the gap, fingers dragging against the surface with a sound like tearing parchment.
Then came the whispers. Louder now. Closer.

From the shadows of the shelf, the wraiths emerged—drifting like ink bleeding into water, eyes burning faintly in the fog, voices overlapping into a single, drawn-out hiss.
“Kleeiiin…”

Klein pressed his back against the splintered shelf, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. The whispers of the wraiths crawled along the fog, brushing against his mind like cold fingers. They were still searching for him, slipping through the labyrinth with the patience of predators.

He forced himself to steady his breathing, tapping two fingers against his forehead again. The veil between sight and truth thinned as Spirit Vision bled into the world. The dim library became something sharper—crueler.
That was when he saw it.

Silver-gray threads stretched through the fog, faint as cobwebs, connecting the wraiths to something deeper within the maze. They pulsed in rhythm with the whispers, each thread carrying a weight of hatred and hunger. Klein followed the strands with narrowed eyes, careful not to move too fast. His intuition thrummed like a warning bell in his chest, but it didn’t urge him to run. It urged him to look closer.

The threads converged at the base of a towering shelf.

There, half-hidden beneath the fog and shadow, sat an old book. Its leather cover was cracked and rotting, its pages yellowed to the color of old bones. Unlike the rest, it didn’t rest passively on the shelf—it breathed, its spine rising and falling in slow, unnatural rhythm. The silver threads embedded into its surface like veins. “…So that’s your anchor,” Klein whispered.

Before he could move, the fog convulsed violently.

A sound—low and wet—rolled through the hall like a storm breaking. Black tentacles burst from the shadows, slamming into the ground with the weight of a falling tree. Klein threw himself sideways just in time. A tentacle crushed the tiles where he’d stood, sending shards skittering into the fog.

From the swirling darkness, the Shroud Archivist emerged, its parchment-skin fluttering in an unseen wind. Ink-black tendrils slithered from its ribcage, dragging across the floor like monstrous serpents. Hollow sockets burned with dim inkfire, and the air seemed to thrum with its presence, pressing down against Klein’s chest.

Klein crouched, boots skidding across the broken tiles. His instincts screamed at him to move smart, not fast. A tentacle lashed out, and he pivoted sharply, letting it crash into a nearby shelf. Splinters flew, tangling the tendrils. He didn’t waste the opening—he sprinted toward the anchor.

The Archivist blurred forward like ink spilling over paper. One tendril lashed, wrapping around Klein’s ankle with cold, suffocating pressure. He twisted, jerking free—but the scrap of wood he slammed into it barely slowed it. Another tentacle lashed across his ribs. Pain exploded through him, the air knocked from his lungs. He gasped, staggering, vision swimming.

“Damn it!” he grunted, clutching his side. The sharp pain radiated outward, slowing his movements. The Shroud didn’t relent. It sent a torrent of illusions into the fog—phantoms of the book flickered ahead of him, silver-threaded and breathing. Klein’s heart stuttered. Which was real? He lunged for one, only to slam his hand against empty air, pain flaring as a tentacle scraped his arm.

But then, a quiet whisper tickled his mind—Seer’s Whisper.

Not the illusions. The real book was always anchored by the threads. His eyes darted to the shimmering silver lines weaving through the fog. Even amidst chaos, the threads never lied.

He recalibrated. Every step became a calculation, not a reflex. Another tendril lashed, smashing against his shoulder, sending him reeling into a shelf. Wood cracked against his back; shards dug into his thigh as he rolled. Pain screamed, hot and sharp, but he pushed himself up, ignoring the ache.

He lunged, grabbing a splintered plank and jamming it into a black tendril. The Archivist shrieked—not a sound, but a distortion of reality itself. Shadows writhing. Tentacles lashed from every angle, smashing shelves, carving grooves into the floor. One struck him across the jaw, a jarring crack that made stars bloom in his vision.

Breathing ragged, he darted toward the book. Another illusion appeared ahead—its spine rising and falling like a heartbeat. Klein’s hand shot out instinctively, almost grabbing it. But the threads betrayed the false anchor. His eyes locked on the real book, silver veins glowing against the fog.

He lunged. Fingers clasped around the tome, heart hammering. Tentacles slammed from all sides, smashing into shelves, floor, ceiling. One hooked around his ankle, another wrapped around his wrist. Pain seared as he tore free, black ichor spraying across his clothes. His vision blurred from blood in his eye, sweat, and fog.

He slammed the book into the floor once—sparks of silver light cracking the air.

Twice.

Tentacles lashed wildly, but he used the broken shelves to redirect them, shoving his weight into the book. Pain radiated through his shoulder as a tentacle snapped back, striking him in the collarbone.

Third strike.

The spine cracked like bone. Light erupted, blinding, shredding the fog. Tentacles writhed violently, splintering and dissolving into black mist. The Archivist’s body unraveled, collapsing into inkfire and smoke. Its hollow sockets guttered out like dying lanterns.

Klein dropped to one knee, chest heaving, limbs trembling. Blood coated his palms, sweat mingled with dust, and every joint ached. He had multiple cuts, bruises, and a searing pain in his shoulder and side, but he had survived. The silver threads hung slack, the anchor destroyed, and the oppressive presence of the Shroud Archivist was gone.

[You have slain an Awakened Monster — Shroud Archivist.]

Even in victory, Klein could feel the library watching. The fog shifted around the broken shelves, whispering, testing him still. But he had learned something vital: cleverness, awareness, and a touch of intuition could bend even this nightmare.

Gasping, he sank to the floor, fingers brushing at the remains of the book. Blood mixed with ash and splinters, but a small grin tugged at his lips despite the pain. He had survived. He had fought the Shroud Archivist, clever and ruthless, and come out alive. For the first time in this endless maze, he felt something almost… human amidst the terror.

Klein stayed kneeling, chest heaving, fingers still trembling as the last remnants of the book crumbled into ash. The oppressive fog no longer coiled like a predator around him; it peeled back, the silence that followed heavy and vast. But even in the quiet, he didn’t let himself relax. An Awakened Monster wasn’t the end — just the first threshold. There would be more. Stronger. Hungrier. Watching from the dark.

[You have received a Memory: Librarian’s Cloak]

The message unfolded into the air like ink bleeding across old parchment.

Name: Klein Moretti
True Name: –

Rank: Aspirant.
Class: Dormant.

Memories: [Librarian’s Cloak]
Echoes: –
Attributes: [Marked By Fate], [Echo of Divinity], [Seer's Whisper]

Klein concentrated, focusing on words like “appear” As he did, shimmering runes materialized in the air before him. Ancient letters, though entirely unfamiliar, conveyed their meaning as clearly as if they were written in his own mind—a language the system itself seemed to translate for him.

And it appeared and atomically he was wearing it. It had molded against him like it had always been his, It was a tattered gray cloak lay in its place. The air around it smelled of dust and forgotten ink, and faint runes glimmered softly along its hem — like a pulse, faint but alive.

Klein crouched, brushing his fingers over the fabric. It was cool, almost unnaturally so. A whisper brushed against his ear, soft and steady — like a librarian hushing the noise of the world. The runes pulsing in quiet acknowledgment. A chill crawled down his spine as his boots began to lift off the ground. For a heartbeat, he simply hovered there — weightless, suspended between air and fog.

[Memory: Librarian’s Cloak]
Type: Cloak
Rank: Awakened
Description: A tattered gray cloak with faint ink runes etched along its hem. Its fabric is cold to the touch and carries the scent of dust, forgotten ink, and something faintly… alive. When worn, the cloak sways as if caught in an unseen wind, whispering softly in a language one can’t quite remember. “It once belonged to the silent keepers of the Endless Library. They swore never to speak, yet their cloaks learned every secret they carried.”

Ability – Soaring Quill: Grants the wearer short bursts of flight, letting them traverse vertical spaces or bypass obstacles.

Klein tilted his head as a grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “Flight,” he whispered, a quiet huff of disbelief escaping him. “Not bad.”

A laugh escaped him. A small, startled sound. But it was his. Not the distant, muted tone of something above the world — but raw, shaky, and real. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his heart hammering against his ribs. It wasn’t a cold, detached beat anymore. It hurt a little. It burned a little. But it was alive.

And that’s when it hit him.

He was human again.

Sequence 9. Mortal. Fallible. Warm. The detachment of Angelhood — the terrifying, numbing calm that came with being something beyond human — was gone. In its place was the weight of his own breath, the sting of pain in his shoulder, the rhythm of a heartbeat that wasn’t borrowed from something higher.

He laughed again, softer this time. “…I can feel it.”

For a brief, fragile moment, it was liberating. A reminder that he wasn’t just a mask or a divine echo — he was Klein Moretti.

But the warmth didn’t last forever. Reality followed quickly after.

Responsibility.

His grin faltered, replaced by a quiet, determined weight settling in his chest. He thought of his friends. His family. The people he had sworn to protect. They still existed beyond this nightmare. They were still vulnerable. And if he stayed like this forever… if he stayed just a Sequence 9… he wouldn’t be enough.

The world beyond the fog was merciless. Gods walked unseen. Monsters wore human faces. And the storms he’d once faced would not wait for him to grow comfortable in his humanity.

“…No,” he muttered to himself, the warmth in his chest mingling with something colder — resolve. “I can’t stay like this.”

He wanted to protect them. Benson and Melissa, the Tarot Club. He wanted to make sure no one he cared about had to face the kind of nightmare he did. And that meant climbing again. Becoming an Angel again. Going Beyond. Not out of hunger for power. Not because it was easy. But because someone had to bear that weight.

The smile that returned to his face wasn’t light this time. It was sharp. Tired. Unyielding.

“Just for a moment,” Klein whispered to the empty fog, “I’ll borrow this warmth. But I’m not stopping here.”

The cloak fluttered behind him like a quiet vow as the fog around the shelves thickened again. He tilted forward, letting the Soaring Quill carry him upward. For the first time since falling, he didn’t just move out of instinct.

He moved because he had a purpose.

Because Klein Moretti — Sequence 9 or Angel — would not turn his back on the people he swore to protect.

Klein hovered in place, letting the Soaring Quill carry him just above the floor, eyes fixed on the newly reconstructed shelves. The fog curled around the towering stacks like a living thing, obscuring the peaks that had been briefly visible moments ago. The door he had glimpsed before the reconstruction lingered in his mind—a faint impression burned into his instincts, a sense of urgency threaded with danger.

He exhaled slowly, letting his heartbeat settle. “Figures…” he muttered. The library didn’t just reset itself—it was testing him, guiding him, or perhaps punishing him for stepping too far. The thought did little to calm him.

Landing lightly, Klein scanned the base of the shelves for any opening, any crack, any hint of a path. His eyes caught the faint shimmer of a seam in the wood, a line too straight to be natural. He crouched closer, letting his fingers brush along the surface.

The instant he touched it, a cold pulse ran up his arm. Not pain exactly, but a warning, subtle and insistent. Something alive was behind that door. Something waiting.

Spirit Vision flared instinctively as he leaned in, silver-gray threads painting the air around him. They were faint, fragile… and twisted. Unlike the Shroud Archivist, these threads weren’t connected to a single anchor. They snaked outward, writhing, shifting, as though whatever lay beyond the door was constantly moving, changing.

Klein’s stomach tightened. He didn’t like this feeling, but his intuition was firm. This was the way forward, and it wasn’t optional. He rose, brushing off dust from his knees, and glanced at the fog-thickened corridors behind him. There was no turning back.

He had to be careful. The Soaring Quill was useless here—flying too close to the reconstructed shelves might trigger traps or alert whatever waited behind the door. His advantage now was stealth, observation, and his wits.

Taking a deep breath, Klein crouched low, letting his cloak whisper around him as he moved. The Veil of Silence hummed faintly, responding to his intent. Footstep by careful footstep, he approached the door, the shadows curling like tendrils along the walls.

And then he felt it—something shifting on the other side. A subtle vibration through the floorboards, a pulse through the air, a presence that didn’t belong to the library itself.

Klein froze, pressing his back against the nearest shelf, heart hammering. The Nightmare Spell around him was alive, watching, and testing him. Whatever waited behind that door… it was waiting for him.

“…Alright,” he muttered, a grim grin forming. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

He readied himself, every sense alert, every thread of Spirit Vision tracking the unseen. The next step could be his last—or the one that finally pushed him further into the heart of this space.

Chapter Text

[Chapter 3]: Archive Colossus
Klein hovered just above the fog-covered floor, the Soaring Quill carrying him silently. The reconstructed shelves twisted around him like the bones of some ancient, slumbering beast, peaks of the stacks hidden in rolling gray haze. A faint glow at the end of a corridor tugged at his instincts—the door he had glimpsed before the library shifted. Something waited behind it, and it was patient, calculating, and infinitely dangerous.

He exhaled slowly, letting his heartbeat settle. “Figures…” he muttered, dryly. The library didn’t just reset itself. It wasn’t random. It was testing him, punishing him, guiding him. He couldn’t help but imagine a divine librarian with a cup of tea, scribbling notes on his progress.

Landing lightly, Klein crouched, scanning the base of the shelves for anything resembling a path. His fingers brushed along a seam in the wood, too straight to be natural. The instant he touched it, a cold pulse ran up his arm—a warning, not pain, subtle and insistent. Whatever waited behind that door was . Watching.

Spirit Vision flared instinctively. Silver-gray threads painted the air around him, fragile yet undeniable. Three Shrouds drifted in the fog, skeletal hands stretching toward impossible reaches, hollow eyes tethered to threads that pulsed and rippled like liquid metal. The moment his Spirit Vision flared fully, a shiver ran through the threads—one of the Shrouds detected it.

Klein’s stomach tightened. Not ideal.

A hiss, soft and impatient, curled through the fog. Something in the library shifted, the corridors tightening, narrowing like the pages of a massive book being closed too quickly. The Shrouds were returning faster now. Using Spirit Vision had started a timer—their patrols would sweep back in seconds if he didn’t act.

He let the Quill lower him closer to the floor, Veil of Silence whispering against the fog. His eyes swept the environment: broken shelves, loose panels, shards of wood, and floating remnants of paper. Every object was , a cog in the library’s twisted puzzle. The door wasn’t the challenge—it was the environment itself. To reach it, he would need to manipulate the shifting shelves, harness the floating platforms, and anticipate the Colossus’ future stage before it even appeared.

The glyphs along the doorframe pulsed faintly. One wrong touch and the threads would scream like fire across the corridors, summoning the Shrouds instantly. But Klein didn’t just touch the glyphs—he observed the interaction of the glyphs with the environment. A floating shelf aligned with one glyph glowed dimly. A stack of parchment on the floor responded when he stepped near it. Dust swirled unnaturally, forming faint trails that hinted at hidden triggers.

“Well,” he muttered dryly, amusement curling his lips, “looks like I’m playing God with invisible electricity and furniture. Charming.”

He crouched lower, fingers grazing a shelf that vibrated under his touch. The vibration wasn’t random. Each piece of the environment hummed with purpose, a silent participant in the puzzle. He pressed a hand to a stack of scattered books—one slid across the floor, nudging a glyph into alignment. A loose plank shifted underfoot, revealing a faint shimmer along the base of the doorframe.

Time was bleeding away. The Shrouds were drifting closer, their threads snaking along the environment like hungry serpents. One skeletal hand reached past a floating shelf, its hollow gaze fixed, unblinking.

Klein exhaled. “Ah. You’re early. How courteous.”

He ignored the first tremor of fear. Instead, he mapped the room in his mind: each floating shelf, each loose panel, each fallen beam was a key to opening the door. One by one, he nudged, prodded, and balanced them, letting their movements interact with the glyphs. A shelf slammed into a runed pedestal, activating it. A shard of broken wood hit another glyph at the perfect angle. The system hummed approval—the door responded to the environment, not his direct touch.

And then it happened. With a low, resounding boom, the door slammed shut behind him. A wave of dust and fog whipped around him, threads quivering in sudden alert. The library had sealed him in, and the Shrouds were now fully aware of his presence. The timer had shortened. Every movement could trigger a deadly response.

Klein pressed himself against the nearest floating shelf, muscles tense, Veil of Silence caressing the edges of his cloak. Every shard of the room pulsed with potential danger or aid. He nudged one floating shelf with his foot—its pivot sent a glimmer along a glyph, another piece of parchment slid into place, and a faint click sounded.

The environment was . It was part puzzle, part trap, part ally. One misstep, one hasty gesture, and the Shrouds would descend.

Three skeletal figures emerged from the fog, threads quivering like lightning, eyes hollow fire. Their skeletal hands probed the space, probing the movement of dust, the alignment of shelves. The first reached a floating platform that tilted slightly under his weight, causing a glyph to activate prematurely. Klein ducked, suppressing a laugh. “Overeager,” he muttered. “Classic rookie mistake.”

The second Shroud drifted near a stack of parchment. Klein nudged a broken shelf just in time—the falling debris masked the subtle shimmer of his movements. The third swept toward a loose panel, sensing the vibrations in the floorboards.

He had seconds. Every floating shelf became a lever, every shard of wood a button, every line of dust a pointer. A soft grin tugged at his lips despite the tension. Not bad for a Monday, he thought dryly.

With a precise motion, he shifted a shelf to align three glyphs simultaneously. A hidden mechanism clicked. The glyphs along the doorframe glowed in sequence, the environment itself guiding the solution. Dust and fog spiraled in response, hiding his final movements. With a last gentle nudge of a shard, the final glyph activated. The door rumbled, then swung open with a groan, revealing the cavernous chamber beyond.

Fog peeled away to reveal shattered shelves, floating remnants of knowledge, and at the center, the Archive Colossus. A towering mass of parchment, ink, and shattered wood stitched together with library threads. Its hollow sockets pulsed with faint light, and black tendrils writhed across the floor like living ink.
Klein exhaled, dry amusement curling at the edge of his lips. “Big… and messy. Just how I like my opponents: dramatic, temperamental, and overcomplicated.”

The Colossus moved. Each step shook the floor, each tendril scraped the air, and the threads in the environment vibrated like the strings of a gigantic harp, responding to its massive form. The puzzle wasn’t over—this fight would also require using the environment, just as the door had.

Klein exhaled, dry and amused despite himself. “Big… and messy. I like my opponents like my libraries: intimidating and overcomplicated.”

The Archive Colossus stirred. Each step sent shivers through the shattered floorboards; each black tendril scraped against broken shelves, scattering parchment like snow in a storm. A low distortion spiraled from its core—a soundless roar that bent the fog around it, ink-like smoke unfurling in the air. Klein ducked behind a half-collapsed shelf, Veil of Silence brushing against him, hiding him from the Colossus’ crude perception.

Silver threads danced in the air, pulsing along the Colossus’ joints and seams. Its consciousness was anchored in its core; every illusory tendril, every floating fragment of debris, responded to it. Destroy the core, and the nightmare unraveled—but reaching it would be another matter.

He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, already counting cuts and bruises. Blood ran down his palms, his ribs protested each movement, and his shoulder burned like fire. The Shrouds’ timer pulsed faintly at the edge of his awareness. Every second spent hesitating brought reinforcements closer.

The Colossus moved again. One massive, ink-laden tendril lashed toward him, splintering the shelf he had been hiding behind. Klein rolled, grimacing as shards tore through his cloak and cut his arms. “Touchy, aren’t we?” he muttered, ducking another swing.

It was clever—far too clever. With a violent slam, the Colossus fractured a nearby floating shelf. From the debris, several smaller ink constructs—Ink Spares—sprang to life. They were crude, humanoid shapes, malformed and twitching, yet fast. Their movements were erratic but relentless, each strike designed to slow or trap him.

Klein swore under his breath, more dryly than angrily. “Ah, now we’re cooking. Little helpers… how considerate.”

He leapt backward, sending a fallen plank sliding into one Ink Spare. It toppled, dissolving into a puddle of viscous black ink. Another tendril lashed at him, and he ducked again, barely avoiding the whip-like appendage. Blood stung his side from a glancing blow. Pain was familiar now, almost comforting—it reminded him he was , mortal, fallible.

The Colossus began swinging debris like hammers, shards of wood and torn parchment acting as bludgeons. Klein had to move constantly, hopping across floating remnants, ducking under collapsing shelves, and redirecting debris toward its weak points. Every movement demanded calculation—one mistake and the Colossus’ size would crush him.

He tugged at a heavy shelf, sliding it into a gap in its side. The Colossus staggered, one core tether weakening. Sparks of light shot across the fog, illuminating the skeletal threads it wielded like a conductor’s baton. But the momentary advantage ended as the Colossus unleashed another wave of Ink Spares, faster and more numerous than before. Klein had to split attention—dodging attacks while exploiting structure.

A tendril slammed against his shoulder, knocking him sideways. He grunted, rolling to avoid a falling stack of books. “Persistent,” he muttered dryly, pressing a hand to the bloodied floor. Veil of Silence hummed softly, but the cloak could only conceal him for so long. He was running out of space, and the Shrouds’ timer pressed at the edges of his mind.

Then he saw it—the pattern. Every step the Colossus took caused shifts in the environment: floating shelves swung slightly, piles of parchment reacted, and beams quivered. He could use them.

Klein’s lips curled. “Patience, observation, exploitation… simple, really.”

He moved carefully, sending a collapsed shelf skimming into one Ink Spare, crushing it under a wooden splinter. Another tendril lashed, and he rolled through the gap of a floating platform. He nudged a hanging plank; it pivoted, smashing another Ink Spare into a floating pile of shattered books. The Colossus roared—distortion bending the fog—but Klein’s dry mutter escaped his lips: “Annoyed. Cute.”

The battle dragged on. Each movement was taxing; blood slicked his hands, ribs screamed, and his shoulder burned, yet Klein remained precise. He began predicting the Colossus’ motions by the faintest hints in thread vibration. Tendrils lashed, debris fell, Ink Spares multiplied—but the silver threads revealed weakness in its structure. Each strike had to be perfectly timed.

The Colossus swung a massive arm, smashing a series of shelves in a chain reaction. Piles of books cascaded around him. Klein ducked, rolled, and grabbed a broken shelf mid-fall. He twisted, hurling it into a joint exposed by the threads. The Colossus shuddered. Sparks flew; black tendrils recoiled.

A wave of exhaustion hit him, but Klein’s dry humor never faltered. “Nothing like acrobatics in a collapsing library to make you appreciate architecture,” he muttered, sliding under another incoming tendril.

He repeated the tactic. Each weak joint, each flicker of thread, each environmental hazard became part of his strategy. Ink Spares were destroyed as they approached; debris acted as battering tools; collapsed shelves became levers to destabilize the Colossus. Sweat, blood, and ink mixed on the floor.

Finally, Klein spotted the ultimate angle: a chain of precarious floating shelves and beams, perfectly aligned to crush the core if triggered simultaneously. It was risky; one misstep and he would be trapped under the falling wood. He adjusted, counted beats, and in one fluid motion—pushed, nudged, and leapt.

The shelves fell. Cracks spidered across the Colossus’ parchment body. Its hollow sockets flickered, sparks of light coursing through its black threads. Tendrils convulsed; Ink Spares dissolved mid-step. With a final, twisting collapse, the Colossus crumpled into a mass of shredded parchment and writhing black ink. One last tendril lashed uselessly. Klein rolled aside, laughing softly.

He dropped to one knee, chest heaving, body battered. Veil of Silence hummed faintly. Cuts, bruises, and aching joints reminded him that cleverness came at a cost.

The library seemed to exhale as fog coiled back around shattered shelves. A cold, precise voice echoed through his mind:

[The Blessings of the Ruler Above the Gray Fog recognize you as his own.]

Klein frowned, he dislike that "He" was apart of this plan. But he couldn't do anything right now, he was a human again—a mortal not a Demigod anymore.

[You have slain an Awakened Titan, Archive Colossus.]

[Wake up, Klein Moretti! Your nightmare is over.]

[Prepare for appraisal…]

Chapter Text

Chapter 4]: Mysteries
[Prepare for appraisal…]
Klein found himself in a space between dream and reality. It was an endless gray fog illuminated by a myriad of stars. Between those stars, countless strings of silver light were woven into a beautiful and inconceivably complex net, forming various nexuses and constellations. The mist rose around him in familiar folds—cold, soundless, ancient. Klein froze, not out of fear, but because he recognized it too well.
“This place…” he whispered, eyes narrowing.
The fog curled like the Gray Fog—the same endless pallor that once lay beneath the stars of Creation. The same stillness. The same oppressive quiet. But this was not it. Not truly.
The real Gray Fog did not hum—it breathed. It was one of the three Pillars, the foundation upon which existence rested. Its presence was undeniable, sovereign. This, however, was shallow—an imitation painted over the bones of a nightmare.
“They copied the scenery,” Klein muttered dryly, “but not the god behind it.”
The stars here felt hollow, their light cold and mechanical. It was like standing in a cathedral built by someone who had only ever seen a sketch of it. Accurate, but soulless.
He tilted his head slightly, watching how the silver threads pulsed, intersected, and branched out with precise rhythm. That was when it clicked. This wasn’t some divine realm—it was architecture. A construct. He could see its skeleton laid bare before him.
“Nightmare Spell…” he murmured. “So this is what your insides look like.”
It reminded him of a neural network—vast, intricate, eerily . But it wasn’t truly sentient. Not like the Gray Fog. This thing didn’t breathe; it processed.
Klein didn’t linger on the thought. He wasn’t here to philosophize. Whatever this ‘Appraisal’ was, it was already starting.
The Spell was still appraising his performance. Whatever that means, the first reward had nothing to do with it.

[You have received a Memory: Mistwrought Staff]

'A weapon! Finally, something I could bash someone with! Specifically a certain brother of Amon.' since Klein was sure "He" was related to this.

Klein felt incredibly elated. He didn't know what Awakened Beast was or Awakened Titan but he knew from the name of Beast and Titan—Titan was more powerful.

He wanted to take a look at the Mistwrought Staff, but there was no more time. The Spell was done with its appraisal..

Here in the gray fog, its voice didn't sound subtle and familiar anymore. Rather, it seemed like the universe itself was speaking. Klein held his breath, listening.

[Aspirant! Your trial is over.]

[A nameless wanderer treads upon the shattered sanctum.]

[You have defeated an Awakened Titan: Archive Colossus.]

[The First Seal is broken.]

[The chains of slumber fall away. The vessel awakens.]

[Final appraisal: Glorious, child of miracles.]

That final part was not really necessary, as far as Klein was concerned, but he was still pretty satisfied with the praise from the Spell.

Klein felt as though he was lost, he didn't know what these terms meant and if he could keep them if he went out and came back. If he did then it was quite exciting though this might be the plan of "Him" so he didn't felt comfortable keeping this.

[Receive your True Name—Masquerading Fool.]

[The throne stirs. The veil remembers your steps.]

He didn't know what it meant by having a true name but he felt like it was an amazing feat he could be proud of and to him it seems like True Names comes from the soul of the person and their past because of the name Masquerading Fool.

But the rewards kept coming.

[Your Aspect is ready to evolve. Evolve Aspect?]

'What kind of a question is that?!'

Klein crossed his fingers and said "yes".

[Dormant Aspect Gray Fog is evolving…]

[New Aspect acquired.]

[Aspect Rank: Divine.]

[Aspect Name: Mysteries.]

***

'Divine? Mhm by the name of it, it seems impressive’ Right now Divine Aspect doesn't matter since he doesn't know the context.

Confused by all this terminology, Klein silently summoned the runes and found the lines describing his aspect.

Aspect: [Mystery]
Aspect rank: Divine
Aspect Description: [You are connected to a mysterious legendary being whom gods, daemons and [Unknown] were wary of… your origin unknown your ever changing fate shrouded in fog of mystery; no one knows your true goal]

Innate Ability: [Echoes of the Gray Fog]
Ability Description: [Beneath the eternal Gray Fog, the fragment of the ancient throne hums with forgotten echoes. Shards of Sefirot Castle stir, bending reality to the whispers threading through your soul. Each lie whispered, each step in the fog, threads its will tighter to yours. When the veil thins, it will not ask—
it will rise and rend what you call “I,” sewing your name into its lips verdict]

Aspect Legacy: [Sefirot Castle]
Legacy Ability: [A Fragment of [Unknown].]
Legacy Ability Description: [A fragment of a throne from the dawn of creation. Within its the paths converge, destinies entwine, and echoes of forgotten divinities stir. Those who inherit the castle become its vessel, its anchor, its mask. Beneath the foundation of the eternal Gray Fog, something ancient and nameless sleeps, its whispers threading through reality and into your soul. The more you draw upon this legacy, the clearer its voice becomes.]

So just my gray fog abilities? Klein thought.
His mind brushed against that connection instinctively, like running fingers along the edge of a blade. The fog pulsed in answer, weightless and heavy all at once, the quiet hum of something ancient and patient. He could feel the layered threads of the world through it—the faint, structured rhythm of ritual, the subtle drift of hidden paths.
Even now, without consciously drawing on its depths, its influence threaded through his perception. His presence blurred, as though the world itself struggled to fix his shape. His thoughts sharpened, calculations aligning with a precision that was less human and more… inevitable. In the Gray Fog, possibilities were strings, and he had learned how to pluck them.
Klein exhaled softly. ‘Good. At least something familiar.’ The Nightmare Spell might be strange, but the throne above the mist was his anchor. A constant. And if things went wrong, he always had that silent, waiting throne to fall back on.
A corner of his mouth lifted in dry amusement. 'Not a problem.'

If the Spell had the ability to laugh, it would surely do so after hearing his thoughts. However, it didn't. Instead, it began to speak again:

[The First Seal is broken.]

[Awakening dormant powers…]

Klein felt something waking up inside of him. With a startled cry, he clutched his chest and stared into the darkness, trying to understand what was happening. The feeling was not painful or unpleasant, yet it was like nothing he had ever experienced. It was as though his soul was being shaken awake, infused with strange new energy.

However, that energy did not come from some outside source. Rather, it was coming from within, as though it had always been there, sleeping.

The energy filled every fiber of his being. Klein felt his emotions becoming clearer and sharper. Then, his body began to change, too. He felt as though a miniature star was burning in the center of his chest: waves of heat were radiating from it, slowly reaching his stomach and shoulders, then his arms and legs, then his hands and feet.

Under that heat, his bones, muscles, organs and blood vessels were being rebuilt and revitalized. Klein felt like he was being reborn. He was becoming stronger, faster, healthier.

After some time had passed, the star burning in his chest finally cooled down. The heat was replaced with a soothing coldness. That coldness washed over Klein's body, taking away all the aches and discomforts that had been accumulated there over the years. Then it moved up, reaching his brain and, finally, his eyes.

His vision strangely doubled.

He could still see the void populated by an endless pattern of stars. But he could also see something different.

A silent, calm dark sea illuminated by a lonely black sun.

Klein thought this was the Sea of Collective Subconscious.

But the difference for starters, The star hanging above, Klein used Spirit Vision concluded that that was his “Soul Core” due to its connections to his body. It was burning with bright light, and Gray Fog filling the Soul Sea, blinding and shining.

Not wishing to waste any more time on this right now, Klein turned back to the Misty Sun and finally spotted two spheres of light orbiting around it, as though caught in the soul core's gravity well. A subtle smile appeared on his face.

These were his Memories: Silver Bell and Pupetter's Shroud. Later, there would be dozens of such spheres here. If he was lucky, he would even acquire an Echo or two!

The Spell's voice suddenly pulled him out of the Sea of Soul.

[You have received an attribute: Clown’s Precision]

The cold, mechanical whisper of the Spell still echoed in the back of his mind when something new bloomed within Klein — sharp, subtle, and terrifyingly clear. His senses stretched, not outward, but inward, sinking into every tendon and vein, every joint and nerve. It was as if a thousand invisible strings had been attached to his limbs, and he, the master puppeteer, could pluck each one with perfect control.

‘So when I ascended the more sequence abilities I gained?’ Klein was not sure about this and only thought of this as a gut theory.

[Awakening Aspect Ability…]

'Another one? Is it connected to my Aspect?’' Klein thought.

[Aspect Ability acquired.]
[Aspect Ability: Veil of the Gray Fog.]

Klein hurriedly summoned the runes. He wanted to go to the description of his new ability right away, but then decided to give his overall information a look first.
Name: Klein Moretti
True Name: Masquerading Fool
Rank: Dreamer
Spirit Cores:Dormant
Spirit Fragments: 12/1000
‘What… is that?’
Where the words Soul Core should have been, something had changed. The text shimmered faintly before settling into a new term—Spirit Core. Klein stared at it, blinking in disbelief. A moment ago, it hadn’t been like this. Has something about him… shifted? Was he really that different?
The thought unsettled him, but without any answers, all he could do was exhale slowly and push the question aside.
‘I’ll have to explore this carefully.’
Aspect: [Mystery]
Aspect Rank: Divine
Aspect Description: [You are connected to a mysterious legendary being whom gods and daemons were wary of… your origin unknown, your ever-changing fate shrouded in a fog of mystery; no one knows your true goal.]
Innate Ability: [Echoes of the Gray Fog]
Ability Description: [Beneath the eternal Gray Fog, the fragment of the ancient throne hums with forgotten echoes. Shards of Sefirot Castle stir, bending reality to the whispers threading through your soul. Each lie whispered, each step in the fog, threads its will tighter to yours. When the veil thins, it will not ask—it will rise and rend what you call “I,” sewing your name into its lips as verdict.]
Aspect Ability: [Veil of the Gray Fog]
Aspect Ability Description: [You can merge with the Gray Fog, becoming intangible and elusive to most senses. While within the fog, you may enter fragments of the Sefirot Castle itself—hallways, chambers, and hidden corridors that exist partially outside reality. Within these spaces, the fog responds to your intent: shadows twist, threads of fate ripple, and perception can be subtly altered. You may observe hidden truths, trace the connections between beings or objects, and manipulate the environment to your advantage, creating illusions, misdirection, or concealment. The Castle’s fragments act as extensions of your mind, allowing near-limitless observation and tactical insight.]
Aspect Legacy: [Sefirot Castle]
Legacy Ability: [A Fragment of [Unknown]]
Legacy Ability Description: [A fragment of a throne from the dawn of creation. Within it, paths converge, destinies entwine, and echoes of forgotten divinities stir. Those who inherit the castle become its vessel, its anchor, its mask. Beneath the foundation of the eternal Gray Fog, something ancient and nameless sleeps, its whispers threading through reality and into your soul. The more you draw upon this legacy, the clearer its voice becomes.]

'What is that supposed to mean?'

Klein held his breath and began to read the description again, but at that moment, a new set of runes appeared just below it. Simultaneously, the Spell's voice resounded in the black void.

[All power has a price.]

[You have received a Flaw.]

[Your Flaw is: …]

Klein read the runes, and his eyes widened in horror.

‘What? What does that… No. No. no no no no…’

He closed his eyes, then opened them again, hoping that the runes would disappear.

'What is this?!'

But the runes were still there, shining slightly, as though mocking him.
Flaw: [You Cannot Lie]
Flaw Description: [May your masquerade bend the very fabric of reality, and may your illusions ripple across the world, yet your words remain chained, bound to truth.]
Klein stared at these three simple words, feeling like there was a bottomless abyss opening right beneath his feet. The Spell, which was usually frivolous with its descriptions, decided to be straight and on point this time. There were only three words. They left him no room to maneuver.

'What Does It mean I Can’t Lie, How is that even possible and What is a Flaw why did it appear out of nowhere?!'

Klein's very survival was predicated on his ability to deceive and outsmart other people. Even the Spell itself congratulated him on his treachery! Without the ability to lie, he wouldn't be able to achieve anything.

Not to mention…

His heart suddenly felt as though it was about to stop.

If he could only tell the truth, how was he supposed to hide his True Name? Wouldn't anyone be able to turn him into an obedient slave by simply asking a couple of innocent questions?

"Sh…"

Klein was about to scream and curse, but at that moment, the Spell spoke again.

[Wake up, Masquerading Fool!]