The night passed without incident. The gentle glow of the lunar stones arranged around the camp kept the darkness and fear of the wild night at bay. The quiet crackling of the fire mingled with the occasional sounds of forest creatures, but nothing attacked — even the abyssals seemed to avoid the rocky shelter.

  Astar, lying not far from the fire, slept deeply, as if for the first time in months he had finally allowed himself to relax. His sleep was strangely deep, and his body—long accustomed to constant tension—finally experienced some measure of rest.

  With the first rays of sunlight, the camp came to life. The warriors moved swiftly and in sync, folding tents, checking weapons, and preparing their gear to continue the journey. Astar watched them as he stretched his shoulders after sleeping. What caught his attention was how quickly those who had been writhing in pain the day before were now back on their feet. Many moved as though their injuries had mostly healed, leaving behind only a faint weakness.

  "This world is incredible… I’ve experienced supernatural regeneration too, but it’s still wild to witness it like this," Astar thought, reminding himself that the rules he once knew no longer applied here. He approached one of the warriors he remembered clearly—the man’s right shoulder had been in terrible shape the day before. Now he was smoothly fastening his armor.

  "Hey, are you sure you weren’t faking it?" Astar asked with a grin, nodding toward the man's arm.

  The warrior looked at him in surprise, then chuckled.

  "I wish," he replied, tightening the last strap across his chest. "Thanks to a supply of memoria and some healing salves, I managed to stabilize it. Without your help, our injuries would’ve been much worse."

  Astar simply smiled and nodded, all the while gathering his own things.

  "Same as with me…" he mused. "I guess our bodies are like some sort of batteries… We can store energy inside ourselves and use it for inhuman feats. What’s more, memoria regenerates with rest — an external source isn’t strictly necessary. My case’s a little different, though… There’s not enough abyssia around, so I still have to rely on absorbing abyssal cores regularly."

  He was about to speak to Lukaris, but at that moment Zunar’s voice rang out:

  "Form up! We leave in five minutes!"

  The warriors sprang into motion immediately. Lukaris and Sirael seemed ready to move as well. Lukaris cheerfully tightened the strap on his travel bag and called out to his sister:

  "Well then, shall we? Enough lazing by the fire."

  Sirael simply nodded, scanning the camp. One glance was enough for her to know the group was ready to depart.

  Astar followed their lead, stepping forward. He felt strange — as if he had found a small island of civilization and calm in a mad world. Lukaris, with his teasing jokes, and Sirael, with her cold but sincere care, already felt closer to him after just one night.

  As the sun fully rose over the horizon, the group finally set out. The golden rays pierced the thick canopy above, bathing the forest in warm light. Astar walked just behind Lukaris and Sirael, coming across more like a companion than a hired blade.

  Before long, the group emerged from the forest, and before Astar stretched a road paved with flat, even stones. It wound ahead, disappearing around bends and eventually vanishing into the horizon. This was the road, as Zunar had said, that led to Koros — their next major destination. Though, of course, there would be a few smaller towns along the way. He’d explained that it was a long journey, but also the safest. There were shorter trade routes to the lands of the Noxuli, but those were guarded by powerful Mnemarchs — and the father of Lukaris and Sirael couldn’t afford such luxuries for this trip.

  Astar couldn’t help but smile. After all his wandering through the wild, the sight of a proper road brought him genuine relief.

  "Quite the heavenly view, huh, Astar?" Lukaris joked, glancing back at him with a playful grin.

  "Heavenly, you say? If we’re not attacked by another abyssal on a Gray Mnemarch’s level, then yeah," Astar replied with a smirk.

  Lukaris laughed, shaking his head.

  "Probably just fate playing a cruel joke. I doubt we’ll see another monster like that. Something might’ve gone wrong on one of the higher-level roads… That brute probably fled this way."

  "You didn’t seem so sure of that yesterday," Astar teased, shooting a wink at Sirael.

  Lukaris threw up his hands dramatically, as if he had no idea what Astar was talking about.

  "Seems like fear messed with your memory, friend. I’m pretty sure things went down differently..." Lukaris muttered thoughtfully, putting on a pensive expression. He truly was thick-skinned… or more accurately — a thick-skinned Noxuli.

  Astar laughed. This guy reminded him so much of James. They even had similar mannerisms — easygoing, constantly joking to the point of silliness, but reliable when it truly mattered.

  Not long after they resumed their journey, Astar noticed something. About once every hour, stone towers rose alongside the road. They weren’t tall — just a bit over twice a man’s height — but at the top of each one was a glowing stone, emanating light and a faint, barely visible mist.

  "What are those towers?" Astar asked, pointing at one. He recalled seeing something similar when he escaped — at the time, it had seemed like the road was lit by some kind of guiding light.

  Lukaris stopped and crossed his arms, assuming the posture of a seasoned guide.

  "Those are markers. Towers like these indicate the danger level of the road. See how the stone glows? The color and density of the mist show how dangerous the area is. This road is marked at the Premarch level. Right now, we’re walking through territory where only weak abyssals appear. The next danger tier will also have gray mist, but it’ll be much denser."

  At that moment, Zunar chimed in with a nod.

  "The color and intensity of the mist match the levels of the Mnemarchs. Dense gray mist means a threat equivalent to a Gray Mnemarch. Blue mist—Blue Mnemarch, and so on."

  Astar nodded, examining the tower more closely before looking back at Lukaris.

  "So these things serve as a warning?"

  "Exactly," Lukaris confirmed. "The Church of Memoria and the Order of Wanderings and Trade use these markers all across the continent. Pretty convenient, right?"

  "Yeah," Astar nodded. "I can imagine how much effort went into building all of this..."

  "All noble houses, clans, and independent cities pay tribute to the Church of Memoria," Lukaris said with a smirk. "So technically, it’s a collective effort. Of course, the main tech and magical protections came from the Order and the Church."

  Hearing that, Astar was once again convinced it was best to stay far away from the Church of Memoria. It was a benevolent institution, a pillar of stability, and everyone spoke of it with reverence. But he couldn’t expect a warm welcome from them — not with what was inside his body, nor with the nature of his technique...

  "Say, Lukaris... what are the actual danger levels for roads?" Astar asked. Dalanar had once told him that a Premarch-tier road was considered third-level in terms of risk.

  The answer surprised Astar — though only at first. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Lukaris grinned and said:

  "Well, every race—even individual houses—have their own terms and traditions. But to keep it simple, go by the color. You could say that a road with faint gray mist is the safest one you'll find on the continent. Warrior-tier roads are usually just around city outskirts. Truly safe ones? Only under the protective barriers inside cities."

  "So to travel between settlements, you’d definitely need an escort at the Premarch level?" Astar clarified.

  "Exactly. And preferably more than one — like in our case. Usually, you can hire an escort from the Church or from one of the Order's guilds. Every settlement has them. If the local one’s short-staffed, they’ll send a request to a larger city, and all you have to do is wait. Of course... you’ll need to pay for it."

  The system seemed fairly logical. In Astar’s mind, it resembled hiring a private security company to escort valuable cargo through dangerous terrain. He still didn’t understand a lot, but slowly, this world was starting to reveal its structure.

  "What about the more dangerous roads?" he asked.

  "Hmm..." Lukaris exhaled, thinking. "There are also blue and violet roads. But their difficulty also depends on the mist’s density. Then there are black... and gold ones," he added quietly, as if the words themselves made him uneasy.

  "Black and gold?" Astar echoed, a spark of interest in his eyes. It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots. He’d just learned that beyond the Violet Mnemarch, there were at least two more stages of power.

  It seemed Lukaris didn’t really want to talk about it. But after a brief hesitation, he explained anyway:

  "Violet roads and territories are lethally dangerous, filled with threats of all kinds. They’re rich in resources and memoria, but also home to terrifying abyssals and chaotic natural phenomena. To cross such areas, you’d need incredibly strong teams..."

  "As for black ones... those aren’t really roads. They’re danger zones scattered across Mnemoris. Usually, they’re controlled by entire allied armies. They overflow with resources—but also with horrors. Any monster at the level of a Black Mnemarch can wipe out entire cities," he muttered, voice low and cold. "Honestly, I don’t know much more than that. These matters are for the minds of the strongest clans and houses. Definitely not the concern—or the reach—of a modest family like ours, the Tenebris."

  "What about the gold ones?" Astar asked, slightly shocked.

  "Gold…" Lukaris echoed, pausing for a moment. "If we’re talking about the Forbidden Dead Wastes, then the entire zone is classified as black. But rumors say there are sections within it that are especially deadly… Those are said to be gold-level areas."

  Hearing that, only a few thoughts rushed through Astar’s mind: "How many Gold Mnemarchs are there in this world? And what the hell are those monsters capable of?!"

  As they continued walking, Astar kept glancing at the towers. The glowing stone and the faint mist emanating from it gave him a strange feeling—a mix of awe and wonder. It was yet another reminder of just how different this world was from the one he used to know.

  The sun kept climbing higher, illuminating the road and refracting gently through the mist that drifted from the marker towers. The group moved steadily, energized by the warm light and the prospect of reaching nearby settlements. Astar kept casting looks at the towers, pondering the strange but logical safety system of this world.

  Suddenly, the quiet—broken only by footsteps and occasional conversation — was interrupted by Zunar’s voice.

  "By the way, we still haven’t decided what to do with that abyssal’s core," he remarked, glancing over his shoulder toward their young lords. His eyes settled on Sirael, clearly waiting for her decision.

  The young woman lifted her head, as if the mention of the core had brought her out of her thoughts. Her expression reflected mild surprise, as if she'd completely forgotten about it since morning. But she quickly composed herself again—a calm demeanor Astar was beginning to recognize as her default.

  "Once we reach the city, we’ll sell it to the exorcists for purification," she said confidently.

  Astar froze for a moment upon hearing the words "exorcists" and "purification." He didn’t understand the full context, but he definitely remembered hearing about exorcists before. When he first activated the Corruption Devouring Technique, the ancestor’s voice had said: "If its true potential is ever discovered, not a single exorcist will be able to resist wanting it."

  "I need to learn more about them!" Astar thought urgently. "Maybe this is connected to my family… Maybe I can even get rid of the curse!"

  But before he could ask anything, Sirael continued:

  "And yes," she added, her gaze softening as it met Astar’s, "considering how much you helped during the battle, a portion of the core’s profit will go to you. It’s only fair."

  Lukaris, walking beside them, chuckled — though without his usual sarcasm this time.

  "Fair? He could’ve asked for more. Did you see how he cracked that monster’s skull? Without him, we’d be dead."

  "It was still a team effort," Zunar interjected dryly, though there was no annoyance in his voice. "But your contribution was significant, Astar. I support Lady Sirael’s decision."

  "Um… thank you?" Astar replied awkwardly, unsure how to respond to such formal gratitude. But his mind was already turning toward a more pressing question.

  "And what exactly is this 'purification'? Why are the cores sold specifically to exorcists? Could you explain it to me?"

  Sirael took the lead again, matching Astar’s pace and speaking in a calm, confident tone.

  "Raw abyssal cores are full of memoria — but also saturated with abyssia. That corruption poisons and damages the soul. Trying to use an unpurified core… the consequences are horrific. Purified cores, on the other hand, are highly valuable and safe for use in many ways."

  "Abyssia," Astar repeated, frowning. "So these cores and other contaminated items get cleansed by so-called exorcists?"

  "Exactly," Sirael confirmed. "Purification removes the taint, leaving only pure memoria behind. But it requires specialized skills — ones only the exorcists of the Church of Memoria possess. That’s part of what makes them the most powerful and influential organization in the world."

  "Well, not exactly…" Lukaris chimed in. He slowed his pace slightly, leaning closer to Astar as if he didn’t want to be overheard.

  "The Church of Memoria claims all exorcists for themselves," he began in a lower voice. "But really, they’re just Mnemarchs who possess a rare gift — the ability to resist abyssia. As far as I know, people like that have an unusually strong connection between their memoria and their soul. That bond allows them to cleanse corrupted cores, artifacts, even entire areas. But, as you can imagine, it’s not just a talent — it comes with enormous risk."

  Astar raised a brow, interest piqued.

  "Risk? What kind of risk are we talking about?" he asked carefully.

  Lukaris glanced at his sister, who gave a silent nod, signaling that he could go on.

  "Abyssals aren’t just monsters," he said, his tone growing more serious. "When a Mnemarch uses such a gift without proper training or the Church’s blessing, they risk being poisoned by abyssia. An abyssal—whatever it once was—used to be a sentient being whose soul was devoured by corruption. And if a Mnemarch, even a powerful one, tries to purify a core or something similar without the right knowledge or protection, the abyssia infects their soul."

  Astar tensed involuntarily as he listened. Lukaris continued, eyes fixed on the road ahead:

  "That’s why unauthorized exorcism is forbidden throughout the continent of Mnemoris. The Church monitors it strictly. Mishandling abyssia leads to what we call the ‘spawn of abyssia,’ ‘the cursed,’ and many other names. These beings cause far worse problems than normal abyssals. They’re stronger, more cunning, incredibly powerful—and they spread the corruption. What’s worse, they usually fall while still inside the protective domes of Temples of Memoria and then unleash blood-soaked terror inside cities."

  "Spawn of abyssia?" Astar echoed in a low voice, his tone unsteady. The term reminded him of something his ancestor had said...

  Lukaris nodded, staring ahead.

  "Yes. They appear rarely, but each incident is catastrophic. These creatures are incomparably more dangerous than typical abyssals. It’s believed the spawn retain fragments of memory and consciousness, which makes them unpredictable. It’s one thing if it happens to a mere mortal or a Warrior… But if it’s a powerful Mnemarch—"

  Sirael, walking slightly ahead, added:

  "That’s why every exorcist in the Church undergoes harsh selection. They’re not only trained in purification, but taught to control their memoria and shield their soul. That’s what makes them so vital to our world. Without them, we’d drown in corruption. And beyond that, we’d lack resources… For some reason, purified items are far more powerful than natural memoria-based resources, like crystals and the like."

  Astar slowly nodded, absorbing the information. He couldn’t help but compare this so-called "exorcism" to his own abilities.

  "So… the Church claims everyone capable of exorcism?" he asked, trying to understand how voluntary that service actually was.

  "They have no choice," Lukaris replied, a note of regret in his voice. "If someone is found to have resistance to abyssia, the Church either invites them into service… or eliminates them."

  Those words hung heavy in the air. A chill ran down Astar’s spine. He hadn’t expected that level of cruelty.

  "Eliminates?" he asked hoarsely.

  "If an exorcist rejects the Church, that’s suspicious in itself," Sirael explained, turning to Astar. "They’re too valuable to be left unsupervised. And the risk that they’ll eventually fall to corruption is too high. Essentially, they’re a threat just waiting to happen. Leaving people like that unchecked would be sheer stupidity."

  "Sounds dangerous…" Astar managed to say. He now understood even more clearly just how perilous this world was, and how strict its rules could be.

  In that moment, his very existence seemed even more tangled. "My technique… My connection to abyssia… If the Church found out about me, would they just eliminate me? Or try to recruit me?" A troubling thought flickered through his mind.

  Lukaris noticed the change in Astar’s expression. With a friendly smile, he clapped him on the shoulder and said:

  "Hey, don’t take it so personally, my friend. The Church of Memoria doesn’t hunt just anyone. Only those with abyssia resistance—or those who accidentally inherited a technique from their ancestors."

  After a brief pause, he laughed and added:

  "You’re not planning on performing illegal exorcisms, right?" he joked, earning a scolding look from Sirael.

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "Lukaris!" she exclaimed. "This isn’t something to joke about."

  But Astar merely smirked, hiding his anxiety behind a light smile.

  "Don’t worry. I don’t even know what it looks like yet," he said, trying to keep his tone light. "But thanks for the warning. I’ll definitely steer clear of exorcism."

  Sirael, as if sensing the slight insincerity in his voice, gave him a more searching look but said nothing. She returned to her usual tone—calm, informative, like a teacher lecturing on a vital piece of history.

  "Exorcism… is an ancient art," she began, shifting her gaze to the road ahead. "Long before the Church of Memoria existed, all the peoples of the continent were simply fighting to survive. Abyssals didn’t just appear—they flooded the world. Borders as we know them didn’t exist, and safe cities were rare. Those were dark times. And those born with resistance to corruption began to experiment—purifying resources and artifacts."

  "Some even say there was a time when abyssia and abyssals didn’t exist at all," Lukaris added with a laugh. "But that sounds more like a joke, ha-ha."

  Sirael paused for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully.

  "Those pioneers—the first exorcists—were the heroes of their time. They sacrificed their lives, and sometimes even their souls, to find a way to stop abyssia. But their methods..." She grimaced. "They were barbaric. Those who dared to purify often died from the corruption, and their souls were claimed by the abyss."

  Astar listened intently, imagining what it must have been like. Dark times, chaos, battles against monsters, the strongest warriors dying to save others. It sounded like something out of ancient legends or myths.

  "And their success was limited?" he asked.

  "Very limited," Sirael replied. "Their techniques were primitive, and most of them didn’t live long. In some legends, it’s even said they purified abyssia at the cost of their own companions’ lives—or entire villages."

  "Just imagine the risk," Lukaris added with a smirk. "You ask an exorcist to cleanse a core, and in the process he turns into a monster and wipes out your whole group. Heh."

  Sirael shook her head disapprovingly but didn’t scold him again.

  "That’s why no race allows unauthorized exorcists to operate," she continued. "When the Church of Memoria was founded, they gathered all ancient knowledge and techniques, systematized them, and added their own research. That made exorcism into an art accessible only to the chosen. In their hands, it finally became truly safe... or almost safe."

  "Almost?" Astar raised a cautious brow.

  Sirael nodded, her voice softening, though it remained serious.

  "As my brother said earlier, even today exorcists take great risks. Every time they purify a core, artifact, or something larger, they’re fighting abyssia. If their control slips, they may die—or go mad. But thanks to training, special tools, and the Church’s protective rituals, that risk is minimized. And of course, exorcists are heavily guarded. They’re an incredibly valuable resource."

  Lukaris snorted, glancing at his sister.

  "You make it sound like you're writing a book about the Church. Personally, I think they hold way too much power..." he muttered, earning a dark glare from Sirael.

  Seeing her reaction, Lukaris cleared his throat and pretended he hadn’t said anything.

  "I'm just trying to explain how things really are," she said, trying to maintain her composure. "Astar, it’s important to understand: modern exorcists are a source of pride and one of the guarantees of our world’s protection. But even with their skills and strength, no race could manage without the help of the Church of Memoria. That’s why their influence is so vast."

  Astar nodded slowly. With every word, the picture of this world became clearer—and more complex. The old, primitive exorcism techniques… the modern rituals, controlled by the Church’s might… the risk of becoming an abyssal.

  "What if someone inherited a primitive exorcism technique from an ancient ancestor?" he asked suddenly. "Not just resistance to abyssia, but the technique itself?"

  Lukaris raised an eyebrow, looking at him with interest. It seemed he liked the direction of Astar’s thinking.

  "I’ve met a lot of folks during my drunken adventures," he began, as if recalling something. "And I’ve heard those cases really do exist. Sometimes a Premarch inherits a technique related to exorcism from distant ancestors."

  Astar frowned, listening closely. Lukaris continued, his smirk returning:

  "If that happens, the lucky one is legally required to report it to the Church of Memoria. They find those people quickly—it’s a rare occurrence. The Church is always eager to recruit anyone with that kind of gift. And any new technique of exorcism, even if it’s ancient, might offer a fresh perspective on the craft."

  "Recruit?" Astar echoed, doing his best to keep his tone neutral, though anxiety stirred inside him.

  "Yeah," Lukaris nodded. "They’re taken into service immediately. You see, techniques from ancient ancestors aren’t just dangerous abilities—they’re keys to understanding and defeating abyssia. Those who possess them have a much greater chance of becoming successful exorcists. That’s why the Church is critically interested in people like that."

  He glanced at his sister, but she remained silent, calmly observing and allowing him to go on.

  "You know, people like that are always considered lucky," Lukaris added with a faint smile. "Under the Church’s guidance, they get everything—honor, fame, money. And being an exorcist is a high status in itself. People see them as heroes, capable of protecting the world from corruption."

  "Honor and fame?" Astar repeated, trying to hide his tension. "But what if someone doesn’t want to serve the Church? Would they be… eliminated too?"

  Lukaris shrugged slightly, as if the question barely deserved an answer.

  "Well... let’s just say it’s a bad choice. Some might try to hide or refuse the service, but that rarely happens. The Church acts quickly and decisively. And if someone with such a gift and technique decides to use it for personal gain..." He spread his arms, as if that explained everything. "Then they become a threat. And threats are eliminated. Or imprisoned—so their technique can be thoroughly extracted first."

  Sirael finally stepped in, looking at Astar with a slightly softer gaze than usual.

  "It’s not just about control. The Church really does give such individuals a chance to reach their potential, trains them, and often provides techniques that are safer and more suitable than ancient ones. If someone misuses their technique, they can easily become a new source of corruption."

  Astar nodded slowly, processing her words. Everything Lukaris and Sirael had said only deepened his unease.

  “It won’t work in my case... The ancestor said I couldn’t replace the Corruption Devouring Technique—it fused with my soul and body... I wouldn’t be able to accept another technique from the Church of Memoria,” Astar thought to himself.

  He tried to maintain a calm expression as Lukaris continued speaking. His companion’s voice was light, even carefree—but to Astar, every word was like a blow against the glass dome he was trying to build around his secret.

  And yet, another thought gnawed at him: “But what if this really is a chance? What if the Church can help me break the curse, become stronger, and find answers?”

  That hope clashed with a darker fear: “But what if they don’t want to help? What if they just see me as a threat to eliminate?”

  Anxiety stirred inside him, but he masked it with a calm smile. Still, he didn’t want to miss the opportunity to learn more. Maybe things weren’t as bad as they seemed. Maybe other exorcists also stored abyssia within themselves, just like him.

  "So tell me," he asked suddenly, "how exactly does this exorcism work? Do they actually store abyssia in their bodies instead of memoria?"

  For a second, silence fell. Lukaris froze as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Then he burst into loud, good-natured laughter, which echoed through the forest. Even Sirael, usually reserved, had to cover her mouth to hide a smile. A few nearby warriors turned around, clearly baffled by the question.

  "Abyssia... inside themselves?" Lukaris finally pulled himself together, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "Are you serious, Astar? No sane being could do something like that. That’s... that’s pure suicide!"

  Still smiling, Sirael added:

  "An abyssal, as you already know, is a creature whose soul has been completely devoured by corruption. Memoria is destroyed, and the body becomes a vessel for abyssia. Trying to store that kind of energy within oneself inevitably leads to the same end."

  Lukaris nodded, his tone turning more serious.

  "Exorcism works differently. Exorcists don’t store abyssia. Their task is to pull strands of it from contaminated objects and destroy it using their own memoria. The process demands immense concentration and control. One wrong move, and even the most skilled exorcist could be lost."

  Astar frowned slightly, trying to picture how that worked.

  "Pull it out? What does it look like?" he asked.

  Lukaris answered with his usual clarity:

  "The techniques vary... But in general, it looks like a thin thread—dark and dense, like smoke. The exorcist draws it out of the tainted object or core, separating the abyssia from the memoria. Then they use their own memoria to destroy the corruption, preventing it from spreading. It’s an incredibly long and demanding process that requires total focus."

  "If the exorcist is too weak, or if they get interrupted, the abyssia can invade their soul. That’s why they’re trained for years, and for complex tasks, they’re usually deployed in teams."

  Lukaris smirked again, but his expression was gentler now.

  "That’s why no one would even think of storing abyssia in themselves. It’s like injecting poison into your veins and hoping it won’t kill you. No, my friend, exorcists use memoria to destroy corruption, not to play with it."

  Astar nodded, doing his best to hide the rising unease inside him. His technique was the complete opposite of what they were describing. He really was "injecting poison" into himself—or worse, storing it. But somehow, his body had adapted. It even drew strength from that poison.

  “No… It’s absolutely clear now that I must never set foot in the Church of Memoria…” the thought flashed through Astar’s mind.

  He quickly looked away, not wanting anyone to notice his doubt.

  "Sounds like being an exorcist is just endless risk," he remarked with a slight smile, trying to shift the topic.

  "It is," Sirael replied, slipping back into her usual strict tone. "But that’s exactly why they are so revered. They take on that risk to protect the entire world."

  "And in return, they get the best wine and the finest women," Lukaris added, winking at Astar.

  Sirael shot her brother a heavy glare, but Astar still laughed at the harmless joke.

  Lukaris continued with a smirk:

  "You probably think all that fame surrounding exorcists is just a nice story, right? That they sit on a pedestal, bask in glory, and enjoy the world’s rewards. But it’s far from that."

  Astar nodded, showing he was listening intently. Lukaris paused before adding:

  "The fame exorcists get is earned through immense hardship. Their life is constant risk, because working with abyssia eats away at their bodies and souls. When they draw out corruption, it doesn’t vanish into thin air. As you’ve probably figured out, abyssia carries with it hatred, pain, fear, and malice. It’s not just energy—it’s like... emotions and feelings. Toxic. Poisonous. Destructive."

  Sirael supported her brother, her voice calmer but no less serious:

  "And those emotions affect the mind. Even the strongest exorcists sometimes experience changes in behavior. Some become short-tempered, others fall into dark moods, and some lose control completely."

  "Yeah, many top exorcists are eccentric or, to put it bluntly, unstable," Lukaris chimed in. "I know a story about one who, after purifying a massive core, announced he wanted to kill children and drink virgin blood… Sick bastard," he said, making a face.

  Astar let out a chuckle, then burst into full laughter, replying mid-step:

  "Sounds like you were way too drunk when you heard that nonsense, ha-ha-ha! That’s the dumbest rumor I’ve ever heard."

  "My brother is smart, but in some things he’s a total idiot," Sirael sighed, shaking her head.

  Lukaris didn’t bother denying it. He simply laughed, clearly pleased that he’d once again lifted the mood.

  "But all jokes aside," he added, "many exorcists really are… strange. Abyssia doesn’t just rot the soul—it warps the mind."

  That part hit Astar harder than he expected. The idea that abyssia could slowly twist even the most powerful minds was terrifying in his case. He looked at Lukaris and asked:

  "How much abyssia does it take to drive someone insane… say, the weakest possible exorcist?"

  Lukaris squinted slightly, as if the question amused him, but he understood its weight.

  "Depends on the exorcist’s resistance," he began, picking up his pace a little. "See, you can’t even become an exorcist until you’ve reached the Premarch stage. Before that, your memoria just isn’t strong enough to deal with abyssia."

  "Why Premarch specifically?" Astar asked.

  Sirael answered before Lukaris could:

  "Because only as a Premarch do you awaken your Soul Vault. That’s a critical milestone. Without it, you can’t use memoria refinement techniques—and that means you can’t work with abyssia."

  Lukaris nodded and picked up where she left off:

  "At the Premarch stage, exorcists can only purify the weakest cores. They’re rarely trusted with even low-level Premarch cores because the risk is too high. Usually they’re trained on small fragments or tainted artifacts, where the abyssia is minimal."

  He stopped and turned to Astar:

  "If an exorcist mishandles abyssia, even a few threads of the stuff can poison them. No joke. Abyssia is real poison—for both soul and mind."

  Astar nodded slowly, eyes drifting toward the distance.

  "So exorcism… is like walking a razor’s edge," he muttered, more to himself than the others.

  "Exactly," Lukaris confirmed. "From what I know, a lot of trainees 'wash out'—they go mad before they ever become full-fledged exorcists."

  Astar walked in silence, absorbing every word. The picture was becoming clearer: exorcism was not only a gift, but a heavy burden—one not everyone could survive.

  But one inconsistency suddenly surfaced in Astar’s mind—something that wouldn’t let him rest. He squinted thoughtfully, gazing at another stone tower along the road.

  "Wait a second," he finally said, breaking the silence. "Exorcists die too, right? Shouldn’t their techniques be passed down through their bloodlines? Why aren’t there powerful families entirely focused on exorcism? How does the Church of Memoria control all of this?"

  Lukaris exhaled, his gaze drifting toward the sky.

  "That’s an interesting question," he said, folding his arms across his chest. "But the answer is much simpler than you think."

  He paused, as if searching for the right words.

  "All advanced exorcism techniques are preserved within the Church of Memoria," he began. "When a powerful exorcist dies, their soul is sealed."

  "Sealed?" Astar repeated with a frown.

  Sirael stepped closer and added:

  "It’s necessary for the safety of the world. An exorcist’s soul contains not just the technique, but all their knowledge of the process—secrets that must not fall into the wrong hands. If that knowledge were to be misused, the consequences could be catastrophic."

  Lukaris nodded, continuing:

  "The Church of Memoria uses special artifacts known as Soul Prisons. When an exorcist dies, their soul is sealed and placed into storage. That way, all their knowledge and techniques remain within the Church."

  "And what? Their descendants get nothing?" Astar asked.

  "Nothing," Lukaris confirmed. "Those memories are stored so they can be transferred to a suitable new candidate. The process is complicated, and honestly, I don’t understand it well myself… So sorry, my friend—I can’t explain more."

  Sirael glanced at Astar and added:

  "The only exception is if the exorcism technique comes from an ancestor who lived before the Church of Memoria was founded. That means the ancestor must be over five thousand years old."

  Astar walked in silence, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, though his thoughts wandered far away. He was trying to process everything he’d just heard, and each new detail felt like another piece of a puzzle he couldn’t quite complete.

  "Five thousand years..." he repeated inwardly, recalling Sirael’s words.

  He was fairly certain that his Corruption Devouring Technique could be classified as a form of exorcism, though it was unlike any method described so far. He didn’t extract abyssia to destroy it—he absorbed it into himself, effortlessly, and at times even with a perverse sense of satisfaction. More importantly, Astar hadn’t felt any of the mental degradation or emotional instability that Lukaris and Sirael had mentioned. That is, aside from the occasional backlash of the technique...

  "Irritability? Madness?" he thought. "On the contrary—I feel stronger. More focused than ever."

  The realization made him sharpen his attention, digging deeper into the nature of his technique. It wasn’t just unique—it violated the very fundamentals of exorcism as his companions understood it.

  He recalled the words of the ancestor who had passed the technique to him. Back then, they had seemed like nothing more than grand declarations. But now...

  If his ancestor had truly wielded this technique, then he must have been unimaginably powerful. So powerful, in fact, that had the Church of Memoria existed in his time, they would’ve done everything to seal away his soul and prevent such knowledge from leaking out.

  "Clearly, my ancestor lived before the Church of Memoria," Astar realized. "His technique predates their teachings. And more than that—it’s not primitive like the old methods they described. It’s... something else entirely."

  Astar clenched his fists, overwhelmed by a strange mix of emotions: fear, anticipation, danger, curiosity.

  At that moment, Lukaris glanced back at him, noticing the silence.

  "Why so pensive, Astar? Did we spook you with all this talk about the Church and exorcists?"

  Astar looked up, his face calm, though his thoughts churned beneath the surface.

  "Not spooked exactly," he replied, trying to sound casual. "It’s just a lot of information for one day. Feels like some weird fairy tale, ha-ha."

  "That’s for sure," Lukaris chuckled. "But don’t worry. We’ll help you get your memory back, and then none of this will seem strange anymore."

  "Not so sure about that…" Astar thought, but he simply nodded, hiding his doubt behind a faint smile.

  He kept walking, continuing to sort the information in his mind. His technique wasn’t just rare—it defied the very foundation of exorcism as it was understood in this world. If anyone discovered that he, too, was an exorcist, it would change everything.

  "If this comes to light, by the laws of this world, I’ll be forced to serve in the Church of Memoria," Astar thought, feeling his muscles tense involuntarily. "But they’ll quickly realize I don’t cleanse abyssia like they do… I literally consume it."

  The thought pierced him like an icy dagger. He imagined what would come next—examinations, tests, experiments, torture. At best, he’d be turned into a lab rat. At worst...

  "They’ll destroy me," he realized grimly. "I have to be careful," he thought, his gaze hardening. "No one must find out how my technique really works. Let them think I’m just an ordinary Primarch… or a lost wanderer. Maybe I should pose as a merchant or a businessman. That way I can buy corrupted items and live peacefully..."

  He glanced at Lukaris and Sirael walking ahead, deep in conversation. They were friendly, but even they could become a threat if they learned the truth.

  "I must be cautious," he decided. "I need to absorb abyssia—but in a way no one will notice..."

  His thoughts returned to the words of his ancestor:

  "Abyssia is the fuel for the Corruption Devouring Technique. You must draw it from spawn of the abyss and other cursed objects to develop your abilities. Memoria is now useless to you. Far too weak. Only abyssia can unlock the true power of this technique! Only it can truly cleanse the world!"

  Now, those words didn’t sound like a warning anymore—they felt like instructions. He understood that his path would be dangerous and difficult, but he had no other choice.

  "If I want to survive and learn who I am, I need to study and work. Same as on Earth—I need money and knowledge. And some connections wouldn’t hurt either..." he concluded. "But for such ambitions, I need the right starting point. The biggest cities should offer the best opportunities—to earn and disappear."

  "Same with information. If I want to research techniques like mine, or my lineage… I should start in a large city. Looks like I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me..."

  With these thoughts, he turned his gaze toward his new companions. Remembering their late-night conversation, he suddenly spoke up:

  "Hey... You mentioned the Order of Wanderings and Trade..."

  Lukaris and Sirael looked back at him, raising their brows with interest.

  "Yeah, what about it?" Lukaris asked, grinning. "Don’t tell me you’ve decided to accept my offer?" he joked.

  Astar smiled faintly, but then his expression turned serious.

  "Right now I don’t have memories... or goals, honestly. Maybe I can at least see the world," he said, looking at them earnestly. "I’d really like to go with you. Would you mind?"

  There was a brief silence. Lukaris exchanged a glance with his sister, who looked momentarily puzzled. But before either could answer, Astar hurriedly raised a hand and added:

  "I didn’t mention it before, but in the cave where I woke up, I found several purified cores. So I’ve got some money. I won’t be a burden."

  That brought a genuine laugh from Lukaris.

  "Ha-ha! Bragging about your coin, huh?" he said with a smile—not mockery, but approval. "You keep surprising me, Astar."

  Sirael, who had remained quiet, finally spoke:

  "Are you sure this is the right decision? The Order of Wanderings and Trade... It’s a whole different world. You'll find all kinds of races there, with all kinds of motives. It’s not a place for a casual stroll. And it’s far—on the opposite end of the world."

  "I’m sure," Astar replied firmly. "If there’s one thing I want, it’s to find out who I am and what happened to me. And I get the feeling that a place full of knowledge and opportunities is the best place to start."

  Lukaris smirked, throwing his hands behind his head.

  "Well, I like your resolve. If you’ve got coin, you’ll be just fine. Though honestly, even if you didn’t, I’d still take you with us—so long as you weren’t lying about that whole drinking and meeting girls thing!"

  Sirael rolled her eyes and cast her brother a scolding look, but then, to Astar’s surprise, she smiled. And for a brief moment, something sincere shone in her eyes—something she usually kept well hidden.

  "I’m in favor too," she said, crossing her arms. "Our father always told us that travel is the best way to forge important bonds. You never know who someone might become later in life. Astar, perhaps one day, you’ll be an important ally."

  Astar, caught off guard by the warmth of her words, hesitated for a moment. Such kindness felt almost unexpected.

  "Thank you," he said, meeting her gaze. "I’ll always be grateful for your trust."

  Lukaris snorted, breaking the moment with one of his usual jokes:

  "Just don’t you dare flirt with my sister, Astar. I need you as a comrade! Someone to share the heavy burden of being a drunk and a womanizer! All my plans will go to waste if you get swept away by love!" he said with a wink, prompting an irritated shake of the head from Sirael.

  "Lukaris, stop talking nonsense," she replied sternly.

  "What? You’re usually so quiet, but with Astar you’re all sweet and chatty!" Lukaris declared theatrically, making Sirael blush slightly.

  "Idiot..." she muttered under her breath, clearly annoyed.

  But then his tone shifted, becoming more sincere.

  "Alright, jokes aside. I already like you, Astar. If you want to come with us—I’m all for it. And honestly, there’s something about you… Something that earns respect."

  "Respect?" Astar repeated, smiling faintly.

  "Yeah," Lukaris answered seriously with a nod. "Not everyone would keep their head after everything you’ve been through. But you not only kept yours—you found the strength to keep moving forward. That’s something to admire."

  Sirael, who had been quietly observing their exchange, gave a small nod.

  "Then it’s settled. You’re coming with us, Astar," she said with a gentle smile.

  "Thanks again," he replied with sincere gratitude.

  A warm feeling spread in his chest. For the first time in what felt like ages, Astar felt something akin to belonging—like he was part of something greater than himself.