The Weft was nothing new.

When Aion created the world, all things were suffused with primordial mana, the most fundamental form of magical power.

Harnessing this power was extraordinarily difficult. Even individuals of exceptional talent were easily affected by its chaotic nature. You might intend to light yourself a cigarette, only to end up freezing yourself into a block of ice.

For the vast majority of ordinary people, magic was simply unattainable.

Indeed, for a very long time, magic was the exclusive domain of the gods.

After the first Goddess of Magic came into being, that benevolent deity created the Weft so that mortals could wield magic.

The Weft constrained raw mana, dramatically lowering the threshold for spellcasting. It allowed mortals to use magical power without suffering uncontrollable backlash from chaotic forces.

From that moment on, magical civilization entered a period of explosive growth.

But the goddess had been far too kind. She even entrusted administrative authority over the Weft to ambitious humans.

Thereafter, a genius archmage attempted something catastrophic. He sought to wrest full control of the Weft from the Goddess of Magic and elevate himself as the new god of magic.

The result was simple: the Weft exploded.

The former Goddess of Magic died outright, and the mortal who sought divinity was annihilated in the instant the Weft collapsed. Perhaps, for the briefest fraction of a moment before death, he truly did become the God of Magic—but not long enough to matter.

It was a classic cautionary tale. A mortal who reached for godhood was liable to destroy both himself and others in the process.

Indeed, perhaps ninety-nine percent of the world's great catastrophes began with some mortal trying to become a god.

That history, however, was not what Ambrose was interested in.

After the destruction of the Weft, the once-brilliant magical civilizations suffered a devastating blow. Eventually, a new Goddess of Magic was born from chaos and restored the Weft.

The second Goddess of Magic learned from her predecessor's mistakes. From then on, mortals were stripped of high-level permissions to the Weft, lest another madman attempt to blow it up again.

At the height of magical civilization, even the Wish spell hadn't been a rare success. Arrogant archmages reshaped the world at will, playing with reality so often that they began to think themselves gods.

After the new Weft was established, all spellcasters were cast back down to mortalhood. Their maximum spellcasting authority was strictly limited. Many legendary spells even vanished forever, never to be cast again.

Returning to the matter at hand, the purpose of the Weft was to make inherently uncontrollable mana manageable for mortals.

The elves' mana addiction was, at its core, physical degeneration. The mana their bodies naturally absorbed could not keep pace with the rate at which it dissipated, forcing them to rely on potions as compensation. Over time, the deficit would only widen until even drugs could no longer keep up. At that point, the afflicted would be drained into desiccated husks.

Before death, their minds would also suffer immense torment as they rapidly lost all sanity.

But here was the key question: even bedridden elves' mana continued to be drained. Where, then, did that vanished mana go?

If it simply dispersed into the air, then mana addiction was essentially a form of loss of mana control.

The principles behind the Weft were perfectly applicable to these elves.

If the out-of-control mana could be properly constrained, their worsening symptoms could be halted. By carefully supplementing them with mana, they could even maintain a normal lifestyle.

This was just Ambrose's hypothesis—but he knew he was right.

Yet for all its ubiquity, the Weft remained profoundly mysterious. Even Ambrose, a legendary mage who had poured all his points into intelligence, knew only of its existence, not its inner workings.

After the first Goddess of Magic was betrayed and killed by the spellcasters she cherished, the second Goddess destroyed all documentation related to the Weft and forbade any research into it. Mortals were permitted to use the Weft only under her supervision. Any mortal who dared to covet authority over the Weft would be punished.

And although Ambrose did not seek to seize control of the Weft but rather to save the elven race, the Goddess of Magic would, at best, turn a blind eye out of respect for the elven gods. She would offer no assistance.

Unable to obtain knowledge of the Weft from the Goddess of Magic, Ambrose had no choice but to seek another deity.

The Dark Goddess Shara was one of the two goddesses born from primordial chaos. She should have been among the most ancient and powerful of all deities, but she had been defeated and grievously wounded in her war against her twin sister, the Moon Goddess Selene.

The once-primal embodiment of darkness could not even preserve her own temples. Across the continent, few kingdoms still remembered Shara at all.

Perhaps remnants of her faith survived in distant pockets overseas. In any case, the goddess had been reduced to such weakness that she could no longer even protect her own followers.

Rumor had it that, in her quest to regain power, Shara had set her sights on the Goddess of Magic.

The first catastrophic shattering of the Weft had left several fragments behind, some of which Shara had acquired. She began to study these fragments in hopes of seizing the Goddess of Magic's power for herself.

Looked at closely, the matter carried a grim air of divine tragedy.

According to the epics of the gods, the first Goddess of Magic was born during Selene's war. Selene had torn a part of her own body away and hurled it at Shara as a weapon, grievously wounding her. That fragment absorbed Shara's power and gave birth to the first Goddess of Magic.

By that reckoning, the Goddess of Magic was the daughter of the twin sisters, giving her innate strength. After she gained dominion over magic itself, her strength surpassed almost all other gods'. Shara coveted that power above all else. If she could claim it, she would be able to claim her vengeance easily.

In any case, aside from the Goddess of Magic herself, only Shara truly understood the Weft.

The dust-covered book in Ambrose's hands was a scholarly record of the Dark Goddess's faith.

Though the gods were powerful and mysterious, the study of divinity had always been among the most important disciplines of mortals. This particular work described a special ritual that could be used to commune with Shara and seek answers from her.

The offering required, however, was somewhat unusual.

Each deity demanded unique sacrifices. Levitra favored self-mutilation or the torment of others. Blood and pain were her finest offerings. For the Lord of Dawn, the destruction of evil was the greatest sacrifice. The archdevils of the Hells prized souls above all, especially those tortured into madness.

As for Shara, her offering was special: anything associated with light.

Shara harbored a hatred for her sister Selene so deep it was carved into her very being. She sought to destroy all that bore Selene's mark. The Moon Goddess and the Lord of Dawn were staunch allies that had formed, in conjunction with many other gods, a coalition centered on light.

Thus, Shara also loathed the Lord of Dawn.

The finest offering, naturally, was the corruption of one of the Lord of Dawn's devotees. If Ambrose could present her with a fallen follower, Shara would surely lavish him richly.

If one of those paladins had still been around, Ambrose might have tried turning them into oathbreakers. Such a sacrifice might have caused Shara to reveal the secrets of the Weft outright. Lacking that option, he had to settle for a substitute.

From the mouth of a living mercury slime, Ambrose pried out a battered helmet, an ersatz artifact from the Lyon Empire. Though merely a replica, it possessed genuine divine power. The living mercury had only managed to corrode a small portion of it even after days of effort. Now, it would serve a final purpose.

Within his castle, Ambrose began preparing Shara's ritual.

The ritual was not difficult to construct, nor to carry out. It was so simple, in fact, that it felt almost insufficiently solemn. Perhaps Shara understood that her faith had waned; if her rites were too demanding, even fewer mortals would worship her.

Most mortals were, after all, selective in their faith.

Following the text precisely, Ambrose prepared the ritual and placed the shattered helmet, still suffused with divine light, upon the altar.

"Beneath the boundless night, we gather here to offer our faith to the Mistress of the Night. You are the weaver of shadows, the sovereign of darkness. Under your protection, all things may hide and be reborn…"

Ambrose recited the prayer with care. His tone was respectful, but not devout. He was a follower of no god, offering respect, but not worship, to these lofty beings.

As the prayer ended, Ambrose ignited a murky flame with his magic and set the helmet ablaze.

Dark mana clashed with divine light, hissing violently.

Ambrose's power far exceeded that of the living mercury. In short order, most of the light within the helmet was eroded away. Where it might once have been repairable, it was now utterly defiled beyond restoration.

To profane the light was to honor the night.

As the ritual concluded, a mass of pitch-black smoke surged from the altar, condensing into a shadow nearly ten meters tall.

The figure wore a cloak of black feathers, each plume dissolving into nothing before it could touch the ground. Shadow obscured her face, revealing only the graceful silhouette beneath the mantle.

Shara opened her mouth, her voice resonant yet desolate.

"Mortal, your offering pleases me. But you are not my follower. Speak. What do you wish for in exchange?"

Ambrose drew in his soul as tightly as he could, not daring to listen too closely to her voice.

The goddess had descended in the form of the Nightcaller. Her voice, infused with endless darkness, was laden with fatal allure. A single lapse could leave him enthralled, swallowed whole by the power of night and transformed into a fanatic.

"Honored Goddess of the Night, I offer this tainted divine light in exchange for knowledge of the Weft."

"Oh? Bold mortal, do you wish to reenact the destruction of the past?"

Ambrose did not answer her directly. Instead, he said, "If the destruction of the Weft is fated, then it will come regardless of my choice. Honored Goddess, would you accept this transaction?"

"The secrets of the Weft are of immeasurable value. A mere imitation artifact is far from sufficient."

"Then what price would satisfy you, my Lady?"

"Become my chosen. How does that sound?" Shara asked.

Ambrose fell silent. What was wrong with these goddesses? Why did they all want him as their chosen, one after another?

Shara may have lost much of her power, but surely she did not need to drag every legendary caster she saw into her camp.

Though he was a lich and naturally aligned with evil, neither pain nor darkness truly suited him. The gods could surely see the path he had chosen. Yet they all rushed to claim him, giving Ambrose an unsettling premonition.

"Do you refuse the favor of the night?" Shara pressed.

"I am sorry," Ambrose replied calmly. "I am faithless."

His refusal was absolute. Even if Shara denied him knowledge of the Weft, he would not relent.

Faith was no trifling matter. To believe in a god was to surrender the right of judgment to that god. Ordinary people might trade decades of life for divine protection, but Ambrose, a lich, had no reason to exchange eternity for such things.

Perhaps sensing his resolve, Shara did not persist. Instead, she offered a new condition.

"If you will not become my chosen, then bring me another legend to be my follower. Or cause three paladins to break their oaths. That, too, will suffice."

Ambrose sighed. "Honored Goddess, I require the Weft's knowledge for a matter of great urgency. Even if I agreed, I fear your conditions would take too long."

"No matter," Shara replied. "I can grant you what you seek first. You need only fulfill the pact within ten years."

Ambrose had not expected her to concede again. As he frowned and began to think about the situation more deeply, Shara added, "If you intend to peer into your future, spare the effort. You lack the standing to see clearly where the gods are concerned."

That silenced him.

Indeed, he could not see even Levitra's future. His last attempt had merely been a bluff meant to frighten the Mistress of Pain. Shara, though diminished, stood on a far higher plane. Naturally, her future lay beyond his sight.

Still, her repeated concessions made one thing clear: she believed this pact favored her.

So… should he take the gamble?

After a moment's hesitation, Ambrose spoke with resolve. "Honored Goddess, I accept your terms."