Gifts were rare. So rare that those born with them were practically fated to break past the Wall—that invisible boundary where most warriors, no matter how talented, found themselves stranded. Less than one in a hundred thousand possessed the spark of a Gift, and even fewer managed to ignite it properly.
But not all Gifts were equal.
So, like the legendary Yin-Yang Body, stood at the pinnacle, one of the four greatest Gifts in all of recorded history. A power that could rewrite reality itself, bending the laws of existence to its wielder's will. Others, while still formidable, simply didn't compare—footnotes in the grand tapestry of power that defined this world's hierarchy.
Mine—Lucent Harmony—was powerful. A Gift born from Luna's will, surpassing even Ian's Dragon Will, which had been diluted by the simple fact that Tiamat had split her power among three. It was strong. It was enough.
Or so I had thought.
Then ca the realization that clawed at the back of my mind, refusing to be ignored, digging deeper with each confrontation, each near-death experience.
The strongest figures in this world—Lucifer Windward and Jack Blazespout, the protagonist and the antagonist—had two Gifts. And that was terrifying. The gap between one Gift and two wasn't linear. It was exponential, a chasm that seed impossible to bridge through conventional ans.
Jack's second Gift had co from the Heavenly Demon's intervention. A twist of fate, a cruel handout from sothing far beyond mortal understanding. Lucifer? Well, he was the protagonist. Of course he had two. The universe itself bent over backward for him, rearranging probabilities, manufacturing coincidences, all to ensure his ascension.
Even Julius Slatemark, the first emperor, one of the most legendary figures in history—had he possessed two Gifts as well? The uncertainty gnawed at , a persistent ache that never quite subsided. The historical records were unclear, contradictory, as if the truth itself couldn't bear to be pinned down.
Could I gain a second Gift?
Or was I dood to be a step behind them forever?
That thought haunted . It shadowed my victories, tainted my achievents, whispered doubt into every mont of triumph.
And then, reality decided to shatter my expectations.
Because right now, in this mont, I had a second Gift.
Soul Resonance.
It was absurd. A power beyond overpowered. The kind of ability that shouldn't exist in a world even remotely concerned with balance. The kind of Gift that would have scholars and powermongers alike foaming at the mouth if they knew of its existence.
I could sync with the souls of those around , borrowing their abilities, even storing one of their techniques as my own. I wouldn't be able to perfectly copy it—not unless I reached their level of mastery—but that didn't matter. The sheer utility of this ability was staggering, its potential limited only by the strength of those around .
And right now?
I was about to put it to use.
The Bishop lood before , his blood magic saturating the air, weighing it down with the stench of copper and decay. His face was a mask of cruel amusent, like a child watching an insect struggle in a spider's web. He knew the gap between us. He knew I was running on borrowed ti, that Reika's Gift was already beginning to fade, the black symbols on my skin dimming, dissolving.
Without hesitation, I activated Soul Resonance. The strongest soul in the vicinity—no surprise—was Luna. Even sealed, even diminished, she was still sothing beyond mortal comprehension. A god in chains was still a god. Our souls were bound, intrinsically linked by covenant and circumstance. I reached out to her, tapping into the dormant power that still crackled beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.
And it worked.
A surge of raw, unfiltered energy flooded through , crashing against the confines of my mortal form like a tsunami against a sandcastle. My vision blurred, reality fragnting into shards of perception that refused to align properly.
Power. Her power.
Luna was a qilin, a mythical beast that walked between storms and moonlight, a force of nature barely contained in flesh. The sheer number of abilities available to was overwhelming, a torrent of possibilities that threatened to drown my consciousness. But there was no hesitation.
The choice was obvious.
Qilinification.
It was similar to draconification—how those bonded with dragons could take on draconic traits, harden their skin into scales, reshape their hearts to pump fire through their veins. But qilinification wasn't just a transformation. It was an ascension, a step toward sothing transcendent, a glimpse of what it ant to exist beyond the mundane.
And of course, it had many abilities.
For now, I focused on the two abilities that mattered.
Soul Vision.
The world opened to .
My vision sharpened, not just physically, but spiritually. I could see the flow of mana, not as vague impressions, but as tangible currents, threads of power weaving through reality. Every movent, every shift in the battlefield beca predictable. I could see the intention before the action, the gathering of power before its release. Paired with Seraphim's Embrace, my perception soared to sothing terrifying, sothing that shouldn't be possible for soone of my rank.
The Bishop's blood magic was no longer just crimson energy—it was a living tapestry of malice, each tendril pulsing with purpose, with history, with the stolen vitality of countless sacrifices. I could see the weaknesses in his technique, the split-second gaps between one movent and the next.
Mythic Body.
Power surged through my muscles, my bones, my very essence.
Strength. Speed. Endurance. Everything multiplied. My human limits stretched, cracking apart as sothing greater took their place. My body didn't just enhance—it changed, a step toward the true form of a qilin. My skin hardened, not into scales but into sothing more subtle, more refined—a shimring barrier that deflected both physical blows and magical assault. My muscles densified, fibers rearranging themselves into configurations that defied conventional anatomy.
Of course, closer was a relative term. Compared to a real qilin, I was still pathetic. A human taking their first steps in a storm while Luna had long since beco the tempest itself. A candle flickering beside the sun.
But it was enough.
For now, it was enough.
Because help would co soon.
I moved.
The Bishop's eyes widened fractionally—the first genuine surprise I'd managed to elicit from him. I was no longer just fast; I was a blur, a distortion in space that his eyes struggled to track. My sword, still cracked from our earlier exchange, humd with renewed energy, Purelight flaring along its length, mingling with the silvery glow of qilin essence.
I struck not at his center, where his defense was strongest, but at the periphery—the outer edge of his mana field, where blood magic thinned to conserve energy. My blade sliced through the barrier, drawing a shallow line across his forearm.
First blood.
The Bishop hissed, more in surprise than pain, his composure slipping for a fleeting mont. "Impossible," he murmured, his gaze reassessing . "What are you?"
I didn't waste breath on a response. Instead, I pressed the advantage, my body flowing from one strike to the next in a continuous sequence of motion. Each attack targeted a different angle, a different approach, never allowing him to settle into a defensive rhythm.
High slash to the neck, feint to the left, twist into a low sweep at the legs, then up again in a diagonal cut aid at the junction of shoulder and torso. I moved like water, like wind, my form incorporeal yet devastating.
But the Bishop wasn't an Ascendant-ranker for nothing.
His recovery was instantaneous, his blood magic surging to compensate for the new threat I posed. His staff blurred, intercepting each of my strikes with precision that defied mortal limits. Where my blade found purchase, his blood magic flowed, sealing wounds even as they ford, regenerating damaged tissue in the span of heartbeats.
"Better," he acknowledged, a thin smile playing at the edges of his lips. "But still insufficient."
He counterattacked, and the world slowed.
With Soul Vision and Seraphim's Embrace, I could see every movent in excruciating detail. The way his staff twisted, leaving trails of crimson energy in its wake. The complex sigils he wove with his free hand, blood magic condensing into formations of staggering complexity. The shift in his stance, weight transferring from back foot to front in a motion too fluid to be entirely human.
I saw it all. But seeing wasn't enough.
I parried the first strike, barely, my sword screaming in protest as cracks spread further along its length. The second blow I dodged, contorting my body in ways that should have been impossible, the edge of his staff missing my throat by milliters.
The third hit ho.
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