NOVPUBPerched on the lip of a towering cliff where sky and sea meet in endless conversation, the sanctuary hidden between the leaves of Espadavale rests in quiet defiance of time. Here, the roar of the world fades into the soft murmurs of wind and wave—a place not forgotten, but deliberately set apart. The grass stretches thick and velvety underfoot, its lushness a testament to years of quiet care. Each blade seems to lean into the wind as if listening, too, to the secrets whispered by the tide far below.
Amon and his group followed the young sword maiden through the mysterious mist formation until they emerged into a transcendental plain. This beautiful paradise seemed untouched by human civilisation and industry. And at the centre of it all was a simple wooden hut.
The hut itself is a simple structure, shaped more by patience than by pride. Driftwood beams, sun-bleached and saltworn, frame its walls. The door creaks softly on its hinges, not in protest, but like an old friend waking from a nap. A narrow path of flat stones leads to it—each one placed long ago by hands that once guided a blade with deadly grace. The rocks are warm underfoot, dappled in golden sunlight that filters through the leaves of a single twisted pine standing sentinel near the cliff's edge.
Around the hut, the garden breathes. Not just in the rows of vegetables that could feed a family for months—broad beans, hearty carrots, deep green spinach—but in the riot of flowers that burst like quiet laughter from every spare patch of soil. Poppies bow gently in the breeze; morning glories climb the trellis beside the door, opening their blue faces to the dawn. The air is sweet with lavender and faintly herbal from rosemary and thyme planted along the path.
Time slows here. The breeze carries the scent of salt and soil, mingling with the quiet bubbling of a stone fountain fed by a natural spring that runs down from the hills above. Birds nest in the eaves and sing without fear. A lone dove tilted its head from a nearby branch, watching over the swordmaiden as she led the group of outsiders into this serene loft.
It was truly a magnificent location, particularly for those who wished to retire in peace.
And that fact wasn't lost on the trio.
"Have we stepped into Heaven?"
Arya muttered unknowingly, which caused the sword maiden's lips to curve slightly upwards.
"No, this is my home."
"Amazing… The mana is so dense here! The only place comparable is the Necropolis of the Gods, Sister Yval's place! How did the Sword Saint manage this?!"
Yue was stunned for an entirely different reason. As a magician, she relished in mana-rich areas. The greater the mana basin, the better the chance for improvements. And for the Sword Saint to create a sanctuary far superior to anything Yue could construct, it did tick her off slightly.
But that was quickly washed away when she realised how much effort must have gone into building this mirror dimension.
"Mana of this calibre… did he slay a Dragon? Or a Titan? There's no way this is formed naturally."
"..."
Amon concurred with Yue's hypothesis. There was no natural phenomenon capable of producing this much mana. When they reached the loft, Amon could feel a mystic wave of dense mana, one that would intoxicate and drown the average magician.
Amon and Arya would be fine, given their Solaris bloodline and superhuman training. And there was no need to worry about Yue. In such a mana-dense location, the woman was practically a fish in water. As for the sword maiden…
She remained entirely unfazed by the change. It was as if this environment were her preferred habitat. And Amon wasn't shocked, for he understood her true identity…
'The Sword Saint has raised a monster.'
If all things went well, the Sword Saint would stand with Amon against the Demon Cult, but at the same time, Amon was eyeing another prize… If the woman were willing, he would immediately induct her into the halls of Eldorin, officially making the sword maiden a Knight to fight against the Demon Cult.
Of course, before that could happen, he had to tackle the highest hurdle of them all.
"Grandfather, I'm back!"
The Sword Maiden raised her voice and waved her arms. That action drew the trio's attention towards the sweet garden, its flowers swaying like they too were pausing to listen. The air smelled of rosemary and fresh soil, and somewhere behind the hut, a finch sang a high, lazy note. The stone path, warmed by the afternoon sun, wound through beds of carrots and beans, lavender and marigold, leading to the worn wooden steps of the hut where 'he' now stood.
An elderly man emerged from the shade of his home slowly, but not weakly. His gait was steady, his frame wrapped in a loose tunic of faded earth tones, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands still dusted with soil. In one of them, he held a wooden trowel, the other a bucket with weeds.
His hair, long and pulled back into a rough tie, shimmered a pale grey-white in the sun. Strands lifted gently with the wind, like silver threads unfurling in slow motion. His face bore the etchings of time, deep lines across the brow, and a quiet dignity in the set of his jaw. Eyes—unremarkable at first glance, a common, blackish brown—studied the approaching figures. But behind them stirred something more profound: a calm awareness, sharp and unyielding, like a sword kept sheathed not out of dullness, but restraint.
Amon and the group slowed, almost unconsciously, as they reached the final steps. Perhaps it was the hush of the wind around him, or the stillness in his stance, rooted, as if the earth itself acknowledged him. He placed the trowel gently onto the low stone wall by the garden's edge and dusted his hands off on a cloth tucked at his belt.
"Bawi, you've returned."
The elderly man affectionately smiled and welcomed his granddaughter back with open arms. However, his unremarkable eyes turned back towards Amon and the rest before saying:
"And you've brought guests."
"Yes! I thought they were intruders at first, but…"
"Don't worry, these people aren't like the ones you faced before…"
The old man didn't scold the sword maiden for bringing foreigners into his sanctuary. Instead, it seemed like he had long expected their visit.
"You've come a long way, Amon Solaris."
"... you know me?"
"Of course," the elderly man smiled. "I may have turned myself into a reclusive hermit, but oddly enough, your fame still reaches my ears. I was wondering when you would show up."
Taking a moment to dust himself off, the elderly man stood up straight and poised himself like a wise sage. He scanned the young Knight from head to toe, before a brief gasp of admiration could be heard.
"And I must say… the rumours don't do you justice. You've far exceeded their gossip."
"I was lucky."
"Luck is also a personal strength," the elderly man laughed and shook his head. His distant gaze seemed to look beyond Amon and watch his turbulent past. Then, with a simple smile, the man finally said:
"Welcome to my humble abode. My name is Kassadin Bromm. Please, come in for tea."
And this was how Amon met the Sword Saint for the first time in this timeline.
❖❖❖
"S-Sir, we lost their trail!"
Around the time Amon and his group vanished into the mirror dimension, a scout from the Demon Cult called out urgently to his superior. They had been tailing Amon's party ever since they departed from the town, careful to remain unseen.
Lucas's earlier rampage—where he cut down nearly half their number—had left a sharp reminder: provoking this group, or whoever supported them from the shadows, was a risk too significant to take.
So, they kept their distance.
Cautious observation had become their only viable tactic, and in hindsight, it was likely their best approach. Their independent efforts to locate the Sword Saint had long since hit a dead end, every lead growing cold or turning to dust. But Amon and Yue were no ordinary travellers—they moved with purpose and skill, and the cult had quietly come to rely on their trail as a surrogate path to the truth.
And now, they had arrived.
Whatever lay beyond that mirror, whatever secrets Amon chased—it was clear they were close. The cultists hadn't found the Sword Saint.
But they were following the ones who might.
"Have our men secure the perimeter! Make sure no one escapes the area without us knowing! Also, report this to the Lord Apostle! He will want to hear about this."
"No need, I'm already here."
A deep, resonant voice cut through the air, freezing the high-ranking cultist in place. He snapped to attention instantly, the sound alone enough to strip the arrogance from his posture. His eyes darted nervously, betraying his unease, as an old man stepped through the grand doors—each stride slow, deliberate, and commanding. Without a word, the newcomer approached and seated himself upon the throne, as if it had always belonged to him.
"L-Lord Apostle, I didn't know you were here…"
"I'm about to visit an old friend, do you think I would miss it for anything?"
A thin smile curled across the old man's lips, drawing sharp attention to his eerie, green eyes that seemed to glow with an unnatural light. Two dark horns jutted from his head, a clear mark of his inhuman origin. But it wasn't just his monstrous features that made the air feel razor-thin—it was the way he carried himself.
The stillness of a seasoned swordsman clung to him like a shadow, coiled and ready. In that silence, everyone felt it: the unshakable sense that, with the slightest movement, he could sever their heads before they even blinked.
"I've been waiting a long time to meet him… So, I hope he doesn't disappoint."
Malachi, the Bone Sword, and the Sword Saint's former comrade, smiled sinisterly as a silent fury brewed beneath his ghostly eyes.
