Inquisitor Seraphine did not sleep.
Neither did Aren.
The camp had grown unnaturally quiet after nightfall, as if even the wind feared being overheard. Fires burned low.
Soldiers lay awake with open eyes.
Priests clutched their symbols tighter than swords.
Faith was no longer comforting.
It was watching them.
Aren stood near the edge of the camp, his shadow stretched long by dying firelight. The newly unlocked skill pulsed quietly within him—Veil of Silent Blasphemy—a thin, invisible membrane that wrapped around his presence like a second skin.
For the first time since reincarnating…
The gods could not see him.
The realization was intoxicating.
And dangerous.
"So this is what freedom feels like," Aren murmured.
"Careful," a voice replied smoothly from behind him. "Freedom has a habit of attracting executioners."
Aren turned slowly.
Seraphine stood a few paces away, white armor gleaming faintly under the moonless sky. No guards. No priests.
Just her.
Confident.
Predatory.
"You shouldn't be able to approach me unnoticed," Aren said.
Seraphine smiled. "And you shouldn't be able to hide from the heavens."
Their gazes locked.
For a moment, the world felt fragile—like glass stretched too thin.
"Walk with me," Seraphine said. "I dislike shouting over corpses."
Aren considered refusing.
Then smiled faintly.
"Lead the way."
They walked through the ruined camp, past shattered tents and blood-darkened earth. Seraphine observed everything—the direction of broken debris, the pattern of scorch marks, the places where monsters had avoided stepping.
"You didn't just fight them," she said. "You studied them."
"I survived them," Aren replied. "Unlike some."
Seraphine chuckled. "You dislike heroes."
"I dislike incompetence," Aren corrected. "It simply wears halos these days."
They stopped near the remains of the altar.
Seraphine rested a gauntleted hand on the cracked stone.
"This altar was sanctified by three high priests," she said. "Do you know how rare that is?"
"And still useless," Aren replied.
Her silver eyes flickered.
"Careful," she warned softly.
"Blasphemy is punishable by divine erasure."
Aren leaned closer.
"Then why am I still here?"
Silence.
Seraphine studied him with renewed interest.
"You know," she said slowly, "most villains beg when they realize who I am."
"I'm not most villains."
"No," she agreed. "You're worse."
Seraphine dismissed the priests at dawn.
That alone sent shockwaves through the camp.
Inquisitors were supposed to operate under constant holy supervision. For her to isolate herself—to remove witnesses—was unthinkable.
Leonhardt found Aren sharpening a blade he didn't intend to use.
"She's calling for you," Leonhardt said quietly. "Alone."
Aren didn't look up.
"Are you afraid she'll kill me?" he asked.
Leonhardt hesitated.
"…No," he admitted. "I'm afraid she won't."
Aren smiled.
The interrogation chamber was a tent reinforced with runic chains and prayer seals. Candles burned with unnatural steadiness, their flames refusing to flicker.
Seraphine sat at a single table.
No restraints.
No guards.
Only truth.
"Sit," she said.
Aren did.
"Tell me," Seraphine began, "what do you believe?"
Aren raised an eyebrow. "About?"
"Gods," she replied. "Heroes. Villains. Fate."
Aren leaned back.
"I believe the world rewards obedience," he said. "And punishes curiosity."
Seraphine nodded slowly.
"And what do you believe you are?"
"A mistake," Aren replied. "One the world refuses to correct."
Her smile sharpened.
"Good answer."
She leaned forward.
"You see, Prince Aren, I don't care if gods are real," she said calmly. "I care whether people believe they are."
Aren's eyes narrowed.
"You're not a fanatic," he observed.
"No," Seraphine agreed. "I'm a gardener."
She tapped the table once.
"Faith is a crop. Too little, and chaos grows. Too much, and rot sets in."
The Shadow System stirred.
[Hidden Information Revealed]
Inquisitor Seraphine
Role: Faith Regulator
Alignment: Order over Truth
"So you prune," Aren said.
"I burn fields," she corrected.
Aren chuckled softly.
"So what am I?" he asked. "A weed?"
Seraphine met his gaze.
"A wildfire."
The trap sprang without warning.
The runes ignited.
Holy chains burst from the floor, wrapping around Aren's limbs, searing his skin with divine energy. Pain flared—white, blinding.
Leonhardt shouted outside.
Priests screamed prayers.
Seraphine watched calmly.
"Let's test something," she said. "Can shadows bleed?"
Aren clenched his jaw.
The system screamed.
[Divine Suppression Detected]
Synchronization Unstable
Shadow Access: Restricted
For the first time since awakening—
Aren felt powerless.
Seraphine stepped closer.
"Villains like you always believe they're special," she said softly. "But all systems fail under divine law."
Aren laughed.
Blood trickled from his lips.
"Then why," he asked hoarsely, "can't your chains see me properly?"
Seraphine froze.
The runes flickered.
The Veil of Silent Blasphemy pulsed violently.
The chains loosened.
Just slightly.
Enough.
Aren's shadow surged upward—not attacking, but disconnecting—slipping between layers of divine detection.
The chains shattered.
The tent imploded.
Shockwaves knocked priests to the ground.
When the dust settled—
Aren stood free.
Breathing heavily.
Alive.
Seraphine stared.
For the first time—
Her composure cracked.
"…Interesting," she whispered.
That night, the Church issued a quiet order.
Not execution.
Not arrest.
Surveillance.
Aren Veyl was no longer marked for immediate removal.
He was now labeled:
Potential Catalyst Event.
Leonhardt found Aren standing alone once more.
"They're afraid of you," Leonhardt said.
Aren looked toward the dark horizon.
"They should be," he replied. "I'm just getting started."
The Shadow System chimed softly.
[Main Quest Updated]
Title: Break the Halo
Objective: Collapse Heroic Faith Infrastructure
FirstTarget: The Chosen Hero
Aren closed his eyes.
The game had begun.
And this time—
The villain knew all the rules.
Chapter 6: When Heroes Start Lying
Heroes were not taught how to lie.
They were taught how to believe.
That was the first thing Aren realized as dawn bled across the horizon, pale and sickly, as if even the sun was reluctant to rise. Leonhardt Vale stood before the soldiers, sword planted in the earth, golden cloak fluttering weakly in the morning wind.
He was speaking.
And for the first time—
He wasn't telling the truth.
"The situation is contained," Leonhardt said, voice steady. "The monsters were driven back by divine will. Casualties were… unavoidable."
The soldiers listened.
They always listened.
Because heroes spoke with authority borrowed from faith, not earned by understanding.
Aren watched from the shadows of a broken watchtower, arms crossed, expression calm.
There it is, he thought. The first crack.
Leonhardt did not mention the Faith Devourers.
Did not mention how his radiance had drawn them.
Did not mention the shattered altar or the screams that followed.
Most importantly—
He did not mention Aren.
Not as a savior.
Not as a threat.
Not at all.
The Shadow System pulsed.
[Behavioral Shift Detected]
Target: Leonhardt Vale
Status: Moral Compromise — Initiated
Leonhardt finished his address and dismissed the troops. As they dispersed, murmurs followed—confusion, doubt, but still clinging to belief.
Aren stepped forward.
Leonhardt saw him immediately.
His jaw tightened.
"You're letting them believe a lie," Aren said quietly.
Leonhardt didn't respond.
"You didn't even hesitate," Aren continued. "Interesting."
Leonhardt finally turned.
"If they knew the truth," he said, voice low, "they would lose faith."
"And if they lose faith," Aren replied, "you lose power."
Silence.
Aren stepped closer.
"That's the difference between us," he said. "I gain strength from hatred. You borrow yours from belief."
Leonhardt's fists clenched.
"You enjoy this," Leonhardt accused.
"No," Aren said honestly. "I understand it."
The order came that afternoon.
The Holy Church demanded a public report.
Not an investigation.
A narrative.
Inquisitor Seraphine remained silent—but silence, Aren had learned, was a weapon sharper than condemnation.
Leonhardt was summoned to testify.
So was Aren.
Together.
The assembly was held in the ruins of the frontier chapel—a calculated choice. Half-rebuilt. Half-burned. A symbol.
Priests filled the benches. Soldiers lined the walls. Survivors watched from the back, eyes hollow.
Leonhardt stood beneath the cracked stained-glass window, light spilling across his shoulders.
Aren stood opposite him, cloaked in shadow.
Seraphine presided.
"Hero Leonhardt Vale," she said smoothly, "give your account."
Leonhardt inhaled.
And lied.
He spoke of sudden ambushes.
Of brave resistance.
Of divine intervention turning the tide.
He spoke well.
Too well.
Faith stirred.
Hope flickered.
Aren watched closely.
Every lie tightened around Leonhardt's throat like an invisible chain.
When Leonhardt finished, Seraphine turned her gaze to Aren.
"Prince Aren," she said. "Your account."
Aren stepped forward.
"I disagree," he said.
Gasps.
Leonhardt's head snapped toward him.
"I disagree with every word he just said."
The room erupted.
Seraphine raised a hand, silencing them.
"Explain," she said calmly.
Aren met Leonhardt's eyes.
"Heroes draw power from belief," Aren said. "The monsters we faced hunt that belief. They are attracted to divine energy. The brighter the light—the greater the swarm."
Murmurs spread like rot.
Leonhardt shook his head sharply.
"That's not proven," he said.
"It is," Aren replied. "Your survival proves it."
Leonhardt's voice hardened. "You're twisting facts."
"No," Aren said softly. "I'm removing decoration."
Seraphine watched intently.
"And yet," she said, "you used forbidden shadow arts."
"Yes," Aren said. "And people lived."
The survivors shifted.
Some nodded.
Some stared at Leonhardt.
Faith wavered.
[Mass Doubt Detected]
Localized Faith Stability: Declining
Shadow Synchronization: 44% → 48%
Leonhardt stepped forward.
"You want them to hate you," he said, desperation bleeding through his voice.
"You thrive on fear. Of course you'd poison them against the gods."
Aren smiled faintly.
"And you want them to need you," he replied. "Which of us is more selfish?"
The words struck like a blade.
Leonhardt froze.
For the first time—
He had no answer.
That night, Leonhardt couldn't sleep.
Aren knew.
He could feel it.
Doubt was loud.
It echoed.
Leonhardt stood alone in the chapel ruins, staring up at the fractured image of a radiant god whose face had been burned away.
"Why didn't you answer?" Leonhardt whispered.
Nothing replied.
Aren stepped out of the shadows.
"They never do," Aren said calmly.
Leonhardt spun around, hand on his sword.
"Did you follow me?"
"I followed the silence," Aren replied.
Leonhardt's shoulders sagged.
"I lied," he admitted. "And it felt…
wrong."
"And yet you'll do it again," Aren said.
Leonhardt looked up sharply.
"What?"
"Because the moment you stop lying," Aren continued, "the moment people see you doubt—your power collapses."
Leonhardt's voice trembled. "What do I do?"
Aren studied him.
The Chosen Hero.
Not chosen by gods.
Chosen by circumstance.
"You decide what you're willing to sacrifice," Aren said. "Truth… or control."
Leonhardt stared at the broken god.
"I just wanted to save people."
Aren's expression softened—just a fraction.
"So did I," he said.
The Shadow System chimed.
[Critical Milestone Achieved]
Hero Doubt: Rooted
Next Phase: Corruption or Collapse
Reward Pending
Far away, within the Holy Church's inner sanctum, bells rang without being touched.
A single phrase appeared in sacred script:
THE HERO IS UNSTABLE
And beneath it—
INITIATE SUCCESSION PROTOCOL
Aren stood in the darkness, eyes calm.
The world was preparing a new hero.
And heroes, he knew—
Were easiest to break before they were replaced.