After that, we had our breakfast in the estate's quiet dining hall. Strangely, Lucian was nowhere to be seen this morning.
Maybe off on another one of his secretive errands. Or maybe he'd just slept in. Whatever the reason, his absence meant breakfast was, surprisingly, uneventful.
No sarcastic jabs. No philosophical rambling. Just... food.
We didn't talk much. There was no need to. Isolde sipped her tea with her usual grace, while Mia absentmindedly pushed her eggs around on her plate, already mentally preparing for her next round of studies. I, for once, simply enjoyed the rare calm.
After we finished, Mia was promptly dragged—er, escorted—by Isolde back to the study lounge to continue her transformation into a living, breathing encyclopedia.
Her eyes, filled with betrayal, darted to me like I'd abandoned her to some terrible fate.
"Be strong," I whispered, just loud enough for her to hear.
Her death glare could have shattered glass.
That was the last I saw of her for a while.
As for me? Isolde, in a rare act of mercy, didn't assign me anything for the day. Technically, I'd passed the threshold for mana sensitivity. I had "awakened," as she put it. Training under her had ended... at least officially.
Of course, Isolde being Isolde, had only restructured my training. Now, it was my responsibility to push forward. My real training—self-driven—had only just begun.
With that thought dragging me back into the harsh embrace of discipline, I found myself returning to the arena.
Unlike the brutal illusionary battlefield from before, the place looked... tamer now. Calmer. Simple tools: haystack dummies, wooden weapon stands, and practice mannequins scattered across the floor. They almost looked pitiful.
But I knew better than to let my guard down.
I let out a long sigh, stepping inside. The silence greeted me like an old friend.
Making my way to the weapon racks, I scanned the available options. Spears, axes, curved sabers, short swords.
But in the end, my hand landed on a longsword—well-balanced, iron-forged, nothing fancy. I didn't need a weapon that screamed pain like the axe I used against Brent. This time was different.
This time, I needed to sharpen myself.
My sword. My stance. My instincts.
'Cassius Lancaster's skill... brought to its fullest.'
"Profile," I muttered aloud.
A soft chime answered as glowing neon-blue lights shimmered into view, displaying my current stats.
Name: Cassius Lancaster
Element: Lightning, Nothing
[Physical Enhancement]
[Violet Violent Swordsmanship]
[Reading Comprehension]
Health: 30,000 / 30,000
Stat Points Available: 0
That skill... it was suspicious. No—really suspicious.
It wasn't just its absurd potency. It was everything about it. The way it activated without warning. The eerie sense of possession when it did. It didn't feel like something I used—it felt like something that used me.
That alone should've set off every red flag in existence. Yet for some reason, I hadn't questioned it until now. Maybe I'd been too caught up in the trial. Maybe I'd just been grateful to survive.
But now that the illusion was broken... I had questions.
And there was one simple way to get answers.
I exhaled and spoke clearly into the quiet arena, "Skill description: [Eye of the End]."
A chime rang out, and the familiar neon-blue interface shimmered back into existence.
A profane ocular ability said to be born from the dying gaze of the Nothingness. The Eye of the End grants the user a momentary surge of immense power, pushing their physical and magical capabilities to the absolute peak of what their body can withstand—no more, no less. It does not break limits; it perfects them.
The eye perceives the weaknesses, endpoints, and fracture-lines of all things—living or inanimate—and channels that knowledge into pure optimization. Every movement, every strike, every spell is performed with flawless efficiency, as though choreographed by the universe itself.
The Eye does not offer mercy. The closer the user dances to their limits, the closer they come to collapse. Overuse may result in neural strain, irreversible blindness, or total bodily breakdown.
Those who stare too long into the End may not return.
I stood there, letting the words sink in. The silence in the arena grew heavier. Even the air felt colder.
"Profane," I whispered under my breath.
That word stuck out like a branding iron against skin.
Profane. Not forbidden. Not dangerous. But profane—as in blasphemous, unnatural, something that should not exist.
Even the name gave me chills. That title... it was something I'd never seen in the game. Not as a boss, not as lore—not anywhere.
Yet here it was, engraved into my soul like a curse. Eye of the End... the Eye of Nothingness.
And suddenly, a terrifying realization struck me.
'This skill... was the reason behind those dreams.'
Those dark, vivid dreams. Where hatred festered in my chest like wildfire and the entire creation felt like something I needed to erase.
They weren't just dreams.
They were memories. Echoes of that Eye.
And the bigger question?
'Why do I have this power?'
Cassius Lancaster—the throwaway cuck of the game. The early obstacle, the stepping stone for Leon to rise. Why did he—why did I—possess such a world-ending ability?
Why was it never mentioned in the game's script, not even as a hidden route or corrupted file?
And then I remembered Mia's words. Her voice echoed faintly in my head.
"This world... it's real."
This wasn't just a simulation or a twisted version of the game I'd played. No—this world only shared its structure. The skeleton. The architecture.
But the soul of this place? It was alive. Different. Mutated.
Which meant the threats here weren't confined to a dev's design. There was no reset button, no power fantasy safety net. The dangers here were real.
Real consequences. Real death.
My fingers curled into fists, the edges of my nails digging into my palm. I felt my gaze sharpen, my breathing deepen.
And then, amidst all the tension... a strange sensation bloomed within me.
The harder this world was—the more terrifying, unpredictable, unfair—it only meant one thing: the thrill of conquering it would be even greater.
This was no longer about following a script or playing to a route. I would carve a new one—through blood and will.
I felt the fire ignite within me again. The same fire that pushed me to survive the trial. The same fire that laughed in the face of despair.
And now, with resolve hardened like steel, my mind drifted toward the other skill that felt out of place.
Violet Violent Swordsmanship.
Just the name alone was absurd—like something a chuuni would write into their school notebook.
I narrowed my eyes, staring down at the blade in my hand.
"Now then," I muttered, voice low. "Let's see what your secret is."