The sky over Paris was no longer the romantic tapestry of stars and moonlight that poets had praised for centuries.
It was a jagged, flickering mess.
High above the atmosphere, beyond the reach of human flight, the Astral Barrier groaned under the weight of a conflict that transcended mortal comprehension.
To the citizens below, the battle between the Myth-Grade Constellations, True Gods and Outer Deities appeared as sudden, silent bursts of violet and silver light that extinguished stars and rewrote Star Stream.
But the price of this cosmic defense was "Spatial Lag."
Reality in Europe, now the Shadow Protectorate under the rule of the True Creator, was beginning to stutter.
A man walking down the Avenue des Champs-Élysées would take a step, freeze mid-air for a microsecond, and then snap forward three meters.
The world was skipping frames.
Worse yet, through the widening cracks in the barrier, the Sublunary Eye—the High-dimensional Overseer—had begun to bleed its essence into the physical world.
It looked like Dimensional Ink.
Jet-black, iridescent liquid dripped from the empty air, staining the white stone of Parisian monuments.
Where the ink touched, the three-dimensional geometry of the city began to "flatten" or "skew," as if the buildings were being redrawn by a mad artist using a perspective that shouldn't exist.
In a dimly lit basement beneath the Market District, a man sat perfectly still.
He was a high-ranking officer of the Iron and Blood Cross Order, his uniform crisp and his expression stern.
But his shadow was wrong.
It didn't mimic his posture; it flickered with the translucent image of a man in blood-stained black armor with fiery red hair.
Medici.
The Red Angel.
He closed his eyes, his consciousness a tempest of three warring wills.
'Do you feel it?' a woman's voice hissed from the left side of his face. A bloody mouth opened on his cheek—the spirit of Vermonda Sauron. 'The ground... Something below this city is breathing, Medici. It recognizes the 'Status' clashing in the stars.'
'It's the convergence,' a second mouth opened on the right cheek—the spirit of the Einhorn ancestor. 'The barrier is thinning. The 'Truth' of the Fourth Epoch is reacting to the battle.'
Medici let out a dry, rasping chuckle.
"Shut up, both of you. I can hear the whispers without your screeching."
Medici stood up, his presence causing the dimensional ink on the walls to recoil.
He could feel the "Ominous Vibration" rising from the catacombs.
In the real world, the Bliss Society had been quiet, but in the spirit world, they were screaming.
They were preparing a feast, and the main course was the city of Paris itself.
Shin Jonghak was in a foul mood.
He was currently staying at the English Royal Court's Parisian embassy, a place of high security and even higher pretension.
He stared at a newspaper headline: [FENRIR AND BLACK LOTUS RETURN].
He crumpled the paper, the "Black Lotus" insignia mocking him.
"That bastard Hajin... always getting the spotlight," Jonghak growled.
"Jealousy is a very inefficient emotion, Jonghak-ssi."
Jonghak spun around, his hand instinctively reaching for the Conqueror Spear propped against the wall.
Standing by the balcony was Rachel.
She was dressed in the ceremonial armor of the English Royal Family, her blue eyes reflecting the chaotic sky.
Behind her, the air shimmered with the presence of high-tier elementals.
"English Royal Court sent me to check on the 'Spatial Lag' reports," Rachel said calmly. "The elementals are restless. They say the 'Breath of the Mother' is leaking into the Seine[1]."
Suddenly, the temperature in the room plummeted.
A flare of red light ignited in the center of the office, expanding into a holographic projection.
It wasn't a Star Stream message.
It was a manual transmission of pure, concentrated killing intent.
The figure of Medici—translucent and terrifying—materialized before them.
"Grandson of Shin Myungchul. And the little Princess of England," Medici's voice vibrated with the weight of a Sequence 1 Conqueror. "If you want to save this city while True Creator and Orthodox Gods are away, I suggest you listen."
Shin Jonghak narrowed his eyes.
"Medici. The 'Red Angel' who helped in South America. Why are you contacting us directly?"
"Because the Iron and Blood Cross Order has stopped taking my orders," Medici sneered. "They've been subverted. A group called the Bliss Society has planted a seed beneath your feet. While your 'Companions' are busy playing gods in the sky, rot is consuming the roots of this city."
Rachel stepped forward, her hand on her rapier. "The Bliss Society... they worship the Mother Tree of Desire, don't they?"
"They worship a hunger you cannot imagine," Medici replied. "Investigate the Market District. Look for the people who are 'Happy.' In a world ending like this, anyone smiling is a monster."
Following Medici's lead, Rachel and Shin Jonghak entered the Quartier du Marché.
The spatial lag here was devastating.
Pedestrians moved in stop-motion loops, their faces vacant.
As they moved deeper into the district, the scent changed.
It wasn't the smell of Parisian bread or exhaust; it was the smell of damp earth, rotting wood, and a sickly-sweet floral perfume that made Jonghak's head spin.
He used his special mana to burn away the headache.
"Look at them," Rachel whispered, pointing toward a group of laborers sitting in an alleyway.
They weren't eating.
They weren't talking.
They were huddled around a crack in the pavement where a thick, brownish-green root had broken through the stone.
The residents were pressed against it, their skin turning a pale, waxy green.
They looked like addicts, their eyes rolled back in euphoria as they "fed" on an invisible force emanating from the root.
"They're physically addicted to it," Rachel noted, miriads or elementals flickering around. "It's not mana. It's... Desire. Pure, unadulterated craving turned into a nutrient."
One of the residents looked up.
His jaw was unhinged, and small, pale flowers were beginning to bloom from his ear canals.
He smiled—a terrifying, wide grin that revealed teeth turned into jagged wood.
"The Mother... provides..." the resident wheezed.
At that moment, the sky above the district turned blood-red.
The "Dimensional Ink" that had been dripping from the sky began to swirl into a singular point above a nearby hotel—the Auberge du Coq Doré.
The holographic system windows of the Star Stream, the World Will all manifested simultaneously, overlapping until the text was a blur of multi-universal logic.
[A Hidden Scenario has arrived!]
===
< Hidden Scenario – The Shadow of the Sunken Epoch >
Category: Hidden
Difficulty: SS+
Summary: The battle beyond the Astral Barrier has destabilized the seals of the Fourth Epoch. Secret Organizations that worship Evil Gods are preparing for some ritual.
Clear Conditions: Destroy the plans of Evil Gods.
Time Limit: 72 Hours.
Reward: Possibility of a new Giant Story, Medici's Grudging Respect and 200,000 coins.
Failure: The transformation of France into a 'Desire Forest'. Absolute death of all residents in the sector.
===
Shin Jonghak gripped his spear, the iron-and-blood aura of his mana flaring.
"I don't care about the details."
He looked at the terrifying brownish-green tree that was slowly erupting through the roof of the hotel in the distance.
"I'm going to chop that damn weed down," Jonghak declared.
Rachel looked at the pale flowers blooming in the addicts' ears and felt a cold shiver.
Earthquake erupted.
The Auberge du Coq Doré did not merely collapse; it was digested.
As Shin Jonghak and Rachel approached, the hotel's limestone walls groaned with a sound like grinding teeth.
From the shattered windows, thick, brownish-green roots erupted, pulsing with a rhythmic, sickly light. These weren't ordinary plant life; they were fleshy, veined, and covered in a damp, mossy fur that seemed to shiver when the wind blew.
Paris, a city built on centuries of romance, greed, revolutionary fervor, and artistic obsession, was the richest soil the Mother Tree of Desire could have asked for.
The "Excessive Desires" of the residents—the lingering lust of the Pigalle, the hungry ambition of the politicians, the desperate prayers of the refugees—were being physically pulled from their bodies in the form of glowing, ethereal sap.
"Look at the roots," Rachel whispered, her rapier glowing with a frigid blue light as she summoned Undine to shield them from the floral scent.
The ground had become a translucent mesh of roots that dipped deep into the earth. Where the roots descended into the catacombs, they reached into the Fourth Epoch Trier, the sunken capital of the Tudor Empire that manifested itself in Paris catacombs as the Convergence of three universes began two month ago.
Through the semi-transparent bark, Jonghak could see images flickering like old film reels: a man being guillotined in a different century, a woman weeping over a lost child in a timeline that had been erased, a soldier dying in a trench that shouldn't exist.
Every branch carried a "memory" of a different timeline, a stolen moment of desire preserved in the wood.
Jonghak observed, his Conqueror Spear crackling with iron-black lightning.
"I'll try to get us closer," Rachel said. She closed her eyes, her mana rippling.
High-tier elementals of wood and spirit began to swirl around her, weaving a cloak of green-gold energy. She was attempting to disguise herself, intending to mask their presence by vibrating her mana to match the frequency of the Tree of Shadows. To the tree's rudimentary, malevolent intelligence, she should appear as a minor "Tree Spirit" or a manifestation of the forest.
'If only Master Chae was here,' she was referring to Chae Joochul, one of Nine Stars.
They stepped onto the tangled mass of roots.
For a moment, the tree remained still.
Then, the air grew cold.
The brownish-green branches above them unfolded.
Massive, pale flowers—damp and smelling of copper—bloomed instantly.
"It didn't work," Jonghak growled, stepping in front of Rachel.
The Tree of Shadows hissed.
It saw a "Hollow Reflection."
Because Rachel's heart was disciplined and her desires were tempered by her duty as a Queen, she lacked the "Nutrient" the tree recognized.
To the Mother Tree of Desire, an existence without uncontrolled craving was a void—a foreign object that needed to be purged.
"Intruders..." a voice wheezed from the shadows of the hotel's entrance.
A group of figures emerged.
They were Heroes and Djinns who had been sent to investigate earlier, but they were no longer human.
Their skin had turned into bark, and their eyes were replaced by the same pale flowers that bloomed in the addicts' ears. One Djinn, formerly a high-rank combatant of low-rank Devil, swung a mace that had been fused into his wooden arm.
"The Mother... wants... your fire..." the corrupted Hero gurgled, lunging at Jonghak.
"Then let her choke on it!" Jonghak roared.
He unleashed tenth of Crescent Moon Slashes. His spear became a blur of black fire and iron, a strike that aimed not at the wood, but at the Story of the corruption. His mana has a very unique trait. It can burn any corruption, any story and concept away.
It was the last gift that his grandpa left for him.
He cleaved through three of the guardians in a single arc, but they grew more vines to stitch their wounds shut.
As the skirmish intensified, the Tree of Shadows reached its Climax.
The crown of the tree, which had breached the hotel's roof, suddenly turned ethereal.
It shed its physical weight, transforming into a pillar of shimmering, iridescent light that shot upward, passing straight through the spatial lag and the clouds.
It pierced the Astral Barrier from the inside.
"It's signaling them," Rachel gasped, her elementals screaming in her mind.
High above, the cracks in the barrier widened.
The Tree of Shadows was acting as a narrative lightning rod, pulling the "Probability" of the cosmos down into the heart of Paris.
In the darkness beneath the Auberge du Coq Doré, the Bliss Society and the School of God's Descent stood in a circle of "Dimensional Ink."
They were utilizing the powers of the Sublunary Eye—the High-dimensional Overseer.
In their hands, they held brushes made from the hair of ancient martyrs and paint mixed with the blood of travelers.
"The Law of Similarity is absolute," the High Priestess whispered.
They began the Hostel Ritual.
On a massive, stone-cold canvas, they had drawn a perfect replica of the Market District. Every brick, every gas lamp, and every screaming resident was rendered in haunting detail.
The ritual required 13 "Rooms"—thirteen anchors to hold the fabricated reality in place.
"The anchor for Room 1 must be the one with the highest 'Status'," a member of the School of God's Descent noted, his eyes fixed on a glowing orb that tracked the presence of the warriors above. "The grandson of the Regressor... the one who carries the 'Emperor's' blood..."
Shin Jonghak was designated as Room 1.
Suddenly, the sky over space-lagged Paris fractured.
A massive earthquake, triggered by a constellation-level strike in the upper atmosphere, shook the foundations of reality.
[The 'Switch' has been triggered!]
[The Law of Similarity is merging Fabrication and Reality!]
Shin Jonghak and Rachel felt the world "tilt."
One moment, they were standing on wet, brownish-green roots in the middle of a battle.
The next, the colors of the world shifted into the vivid, overly-saturated hues of an oil painting.
The smell of rot vanished, replaced by the sharp, chemical scent of linseed oil and turpentine.
The sky above was a flat, perfect blue with painted white clouds that didn't move.
The residents around them were still there, but their movements were mechanical, stop-motion loops that repeated every five seconds.
"Jonghak-ssi? Rachel-ssi?"
A woman stood nearby, her hand resting on the hilt of a sword that radiated a terrifying, righteous heat.
She was dressed in practical combat gear, her eyes sharp and filled with the fatigue of a thousand battles.
Rachel's eyes widened.
"Heewon-ssi?"
[1] A river in France