The moon was higher now. Pale. Unreachable.
Thalen stood on the balcony of an abandoned chapel overlooking Valis, the stone cold beneath his bare feet. The wind tugged at his cloak, as if trying to pull him away from the ledge. Below, the city glowed softly—lanterns dotting the streets like stars scattered in amber ink.
He had killed a man.
And he hadn't lifted a hand to do it.
A laugh escaped him. Short. Dry. Like something had cracked inside his chest.
It wasn't madness. Not yet. But it wasn't sanity either.
"Touch the moon," he whispered, replaying the quest's text.
That had been the moment. The pinnacle. The proof.
The system didn't reject it. The penalty wasn't capped. There were no brakes, no administrator override, no divine "Are you sure?" confirmation.
He had written death in a sentence—and reality obeyed.
That power—
It was intoxicating.
His skin still buzzed with it, like electricity lived in his blood now. He felt taller. Sharper. Like the air itself bent differently around him.
I can make people move like pieces. I can shape fate—without anyone knowing it's me.
That thought surged through him like fire laced with ice.
But then came the weight.
Heavy. Wet.
Like standing in water too dark to see the bottom.
He wanted to live.
That line wouldn't leave him alone.
Doran had tried. He'd jumped. Spoken. Pleaded.
And he had failed.
Because Thalen made the rules unwinnable.
He mad the game unplayable
His smile faltered.
I killed him for a test.
He looked at his hands.
They were clean. No blood. No tremble.
And that was the worst part.
It hadn't taken anything from him physically. It had cost him nothing.
He hadn't needed to struggle, to duel, to risk.
He had simply chosen.
A command. A cost. A click.
And a life ended.
The euphoria was still there. It coiled under his skin, cold and delicious. A secret kind of triumph.
But guilt gnawed at its edges like rust on a golden blade.
What does it mean, he wondered, to have this power?
Not "What can I do with it?"
Not "Who should I use it on?"
But—what happens to me if I keep using it like this?
The question hung in the air like smoke. No answer came.
He thought of the Ring of Grace on his finger again. The irony twisted in his gut.
One artifact to heal.
One skill to destroy.
Balance? Maybe.
Maybe not.
He'd started with harmless games. Coins from children. Stolen sweets. Meaningless pranks.
But it escalated so easily.
One day it was "throw your cone."
The next, "touch the moon or die."
He hadn't meant to cross the line.
He wasn't sure when he did.
And part of him didn't want to go back.
Because deep down, in the quiet space behind the fear and doubt, there was a voice whispering:
You're more than them now.
You give quests. They follow.
You're not one of the pieces. You're the board.
That scared him.
More than death.
More than getting caught.
Because he didn't want to like this.
But he did.
That night, he didn't sleep.
He sat on the balcony until dawn, watching the stars fade, waiting for guilt to outweigh the euphoria—or for the euphoria to smother the guilt.
Neither happened.
He just waited.
Stuck between divinity and damnation.
Between a heartbeat… and silence.
....
Thalen had finally left the chapel by dawn, but the sun hadn't warmed him.
He walked the edge of Valis's upper district, moving like a shadow beneath the walls. No destination. Just motion. Just the slow burn of thoughts that refused to die.
He felt stretched—like a man standing on a blade's edge, flanked by the pull of godhood on one side and guilt on the other.
Doran's death still sat in his chest like a stone.
He wanted to live.
That voice again. His own, now. Not Doran's. Replaying. Gnawing.
He needed distance from that moment. From himself.
But the world—his world—wasn't done yet.
It came without warning.
[New quest received]
[Quest: stepping stone
[Description: kill a A-rank hunter or above]
[Reward: class upgrade to A rank. Every skill upgrade to A-rank]
Penalty: Death
Status: Active
Duration: 6 months
Thalen stopped mid-step.
He blinked.
The system message hung in his vision like a slap across the face.
"You are kidding me right?"
This can't be right.
His Quest Architect skill—his divine illusion, his puppet strings—only worked on B-rank and lower. He'd tested it. Repeatedly. It wasn't designed to touch elites.
The same system that once obeyed him.
Now it was assigning him a kill order.
Thalen stared at the glowing text like it was a bomb.
He was scared
Because an A-Rank hunter could level a city block.
An A-Rank hunter wouldn't care about illusions or excuses.
An A-Rank hunter would demand blood.
The system was… responding.
Or worse—shaping him.
He thought of Doran again.
Of the moment he'd written an impossible quest.
And how the system had simply obeyed.
He thought of the ice cream child, of laughing pedestrians suddenly compelled to kneel in the rain, chasing pigeons in the name of false gods.
And now?
It was turning the knife inward.
Not a prank.
Not a test.
A kill order.
He closed his eyes.
His mind split, voice silent on his tongue. But inside, two thoughts warred.
I can't kill a man just because a prompt told me to.
But if I don't… I stay weak. I stay prey. The A ranks might kill me anyway someday.
And beneath both voices, deeper and colder:
You've already killed one. What's another?
His fingers twitched.
A choice lay in front of him.
Was he a puppet of the system?
Or was he becoming it?
And did that difference even matter anymore?
Thalen stood.
He dismissed the prompt—but only temporarily.
His eyes tracked the fading message like a ghost leaving the room.
He wasn't saying no.
Not yet.
He just needed to think. To prepare. To understand.
Because something was changing inside the code. A line had been crossed.
And the next kill wouldn't be the end of his journey.
It would be the beginning of a war.
A war where gods weren't born.
They were assigned.
And if the gods were watching, they were silent. Or worse—smiling.