Celebration Banquet V

It had started as nothing more than a curious question.

Why was Arthur Nightingale, the son of an ordinary knight captain in the Slatemark Empire, so important? So unnaturally talented that he was born with a Gift as broken as Mythweaver?

It wasn't inherited—not from my father. He hadn't possessed anything even remotely close to it.

So how had it come to me?

I had been looking at it all wrong.

For the longest time, I had assumed my father was the source of my legacy. I had assumed my strength, my existence, had been shaped by his lineage.

But I had been blind.

The Nightingale family was special.

But my father was not from the Nightingale bloodline.

He had married into it.

The true bloodline of the Nightingales—the source of my power—had come from my mother.

Not my father.

All along, it had been her.

I stared at her now, standing in the dim light of the tower, the once illustrious blonde hair I had grown up seeing now a midnight black, her once warm countenance now unrecognizable.

"Does father know?" I asked cautiously.

"Douglas is a good, down-to-earth man," she replied, her tone devoid of hesitation, as if she had already thought through this a thousand times. "He is not aware of anything, Arthur."

I exhaled slowly. "Then do you know?" I gestured to myself, my meaning unspoken but clear.

She nodded. "I do."

Then, with a slight tilt of her head, she added:

"I orchestrated this, after all."

The words sent a cold shiver down my spine.

"How do you think a soul from another world ended up in this body?"

I stiffened. "How?"

She smiled—a small, almost gentle smile—but the words that followed were anything but.

"I just had to kill my son when he was born," she said, her voice calm, casual, as if discussing a minor inconvenience. "That way, I could remove the soul from the body."

I felt something in me freeze.

She continued, as if explaining a simple equation:

"Then, I placed an autonomous soul—a fake placeholder soul—that would function until the time came for the Integration process much later in life. It was perfect. Arthur would grow up strong, independent, and talented enough for the world to take notice.

And when he entered Mythos Academy…"

Her blue eyes gleamed.

"I simply put your soul into his body."

Silence.

The words echoed in my mind, too vast, too horrifying to process all at once.

She had said it so easily.

But the process—the layers of intricacy, the level of power required to pull it off—was beyond comprehension.

This wasn't simple magic. This wasn't even something a Radiant-ranker should be capable of.

This was something else.

"How is this even possible?" I finally asked, my voice low, careful.

She gave me a look—not cruel, not condescending, but something close to mild disappointment, as if my question were unnecessary.

"You know how it is," she chided gently. "Mythweaver."

Then, with a smile that somehow felt infinite, she added:

"I am simply at a higher level than you."

I knew the truth just by seeing her.

My mother had released just a hint of her presence—not even a direct attack, not even a fraction of her full power—and it had been enough to make Alyssara Velcroix step away.

No, more than that—Alyssara hadn't even sensed her presence to begin with.

My breath came slow, measured, but the words escaped my lips before I could stop them.

"Divine-rank?"

She shook her head. "I wasn't worthy."

The way she said it—calm, without disappointment or regret, merely stating a fact—sent an eerie shiver down my spine.

Then, she looked at me, her blue eyes piercing through me, and I felt my stomach twist.

"You've done something foolish, son."

A simple sentence, yet a judgment, a sentence, a truth I could not deny.

"You've made a dangerous woman obsessed with you."

I swallowed.

"Alyssara Velcroix," my mother continued, "is someone even I cannot touch recklessly."

I had known that already. But hearing it from her?

Hearing that even she, with all her power—the woman who had rewritten the very foundation of my soul—was wary of Alyssara?

I felt my pulse quicken.

Because that meant something else.

It meant she blamed me.

It meant she didn't know about the regressions.

Alyssara had told me that three people were responsible for the loops.

One of them was Art.

I had assumed my mother was the second.

But now, I knew.

Even she was merely another piece on the board.

"Do you hate me now?" she asked, her voice absent of emotion, as if she were asking whether it would rain tomorrow.

Hate?

The thought rang hollow in my mind.

Did I hate her?

I didn't even know what I felt.

I was confused.

I didn't understand her.

So instead, I asked, "What exactly are we?"

For the first time, I saw something flicker in her expression.

"What are the Nightingales, mother?" I pressed. "Please. Tell me. I am strong enough now."

She studied me for a long moment, then gave a single nod.

"I suppose you are."

Then, finally—she spoke.

"Arthur," she began, her voice steady, absolute.

"We are… the ones designed to be heroes."

The words hung in the air, heavy, suffocating.

"Heroes?" I repeated, my throat dry.

She nodded.

"In the Eastern continent, Liam Kagu is considered a Hero because he defeated the Heavenly Demon and almost wiped out all vampires two centuries ago."

Her voice was smooth, unwavering, but there was something beneath it.

Something old.

Something heavy.

"But even he wasn't a true Hero," she continued. "He averted a continental crisis. He did not save the world."

Her fingers brushed against the cold stone railing as she stared out into the night.

"No," she murmured. "A Hero is someone who saves the world."

I swallowed.

Averting a continental-level crisis wasn't enough.

Liam Kagu had been revered for centuries yet he had not been a true Hero.

"But," she admitted, "if you ask me personally, I would say Liam Kagu was the First Hero."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because the Heavenly Demon was strong enough to endanger the world."

She looked at me then. "But that is only my personal opinion."

I took a slow breath. "Then what does that make us?"

She turned away from the night sky, her gaze fixing on me once more.

"Humanity is pathetic."

Her voice was cold.

"Weak. Fragile. Short-lived. Foolish."

Her words carried no hatred, only fact.

"But," she continued, "there was one who knew this better than anyone."

My chest tightened.

"Tiamat."

I felt the name settle deep in my bones.

"The Radiant Dragon."

"The one whose world was destroyed."

"The Dragon Emperor who lost all his people… and fled to Earth."

"He knew," my mother whispered. "He knew humanity could not stand alone."

Her fingers tightened against the stone railing.

"That's why," she said, "he created us. The Nightingales."

"Over a thousand years ago."