Chapter 6 – The Hands That Mended the Sky

Three days later.

The arena was no longer an execution ground. It had turned into a temple. And the god standing at the center of the sands wore torn pants and looked mildly annoyed.

BOOM.

A massive, two-headed Ogre slammed into the ground, kicking up a huge cloud of dust. The monster was unconscious, its legs tangled in its own chains in such a complex knot that even a seasoned sailor wouldn't be able to undo it.

Hope dusted off his hands. He hadn't thrown a single punch. He had only redirected the Ogre's momentum, tripped it at the perfect angle, and left the rest to the laws of physics.Then he extended his right hand and summoned his scythe. He drove it into the Ogre's chest and harvested its soul.

The silence lasted one second.

Then the explosion came.

"HOPE! HOPE! HOPE!"

The chants shook the stone foundations of the stadium. This wasn't the bloodthirsty roar of the first day. This was admiration. This was worship.

Colorful banners waved in the stands."WE LOVE THE ARCHITECT!""BUILD ME A FUTURE!""MARRY ME, HOPE!"

Hope ignored the Ogre.He ignored the gold coins tossed onto the sand.

Shielding his eyes from the sun, he turned toward the audience. He searched for Lypin's seat. She was there, as always, hands clasped over her chest as she watched him.

Hope raised his hands above his head and formed a rough, slightly crooked heart shape with his fingers.

He had seen it in an old, torn magazine he found in a pile of trash inside the dungeon. He thought it meant "I'm hungry," but Lypin seemed to like it.

She blushed, covering her face with her hands.

The crowd went insane.

"HE MADE A HEART!"

"SO COOL!"

"HE DOESN'T EVEN CARE ABOUT KILLING!"

In the tunnel, Deniz leaned against the wall, shaking her head.

"Incredible," Deniz muttered. "He treats monsters like pets, flirts with a special-class girl, and the people treat him like a savior. If he were actually aware of what he's doing… would he still be this carefree?"

Hope entered the tunnel, the deafening cheers fading behind him.

"That Ogre's balance was terrible," Hope said, grabbing a towel. "Its left head was heavier than the right. A birth defect… what a shame."

"You're the most famous man in the capital," Deniz said as she walked beside him. "Do you realize that? People are naming their babies 'Hope.' I even saw a bakery selling 'Architect Buns.'"

"Are they edible at least?" Hope asked seriously.

"That's not the point! You're becoming a symbol."

"Why?" Hope replied. "I just want to go outside and be with Lypin. By the way, is it lunchtime yet? I'm starving."

…

The Royal Library

While the sun shone on Hope, shadows clung to the highest tower of the castle.

King Kharonos stood before a massive window, looking down at the city below. Even from here, he could hear the chants of "Hope."

The hand gripping the window frame tightened until the stone cracked.

"They love him," the King whispered. His voice was cold, sharp as a razor. "They love a criminal more than their King."

Behind him, in the dim room filled with ancient scrolls and dust, the Grand Master coughed nervously.

"Popularity is fleeting, Your Majesty. Crowds are fickle."

"This isn't popularity, old man." The King turned, his cloak flaring. "This is admiration… worship. They look at him and see something unnatural. He's different from the other gladiators. Tell me. Did you find it?"

The Grand Master trembled. He placed a heavy, leather-bound book on the table. Its cover was made of dragonhide, black as night.

"As you commanded, I searched the Forbidden Archives. The age before the dungeons. The Age of the Rift."

The King stepped closer to the table. "Speak."

The Master opened the book. The pages were yellowed, their edges crumbling.

"Five hundred years ago," he began, his voice taking on the tone of a storyteller, "the sky didn't just have clouds. It had a wound. We call it the Rift Catastrophe. Monsters didn't live in dungeons back then; they fell from the sky like rain. Humanity stood on the brink of extinction."

The King listened, eyes narrowed. He knew the story. Every child did. But he needed the details.

"Armies fell. Magic failed. Prayers went unanswered," the Master continued. "And then… He came."

The Master pointed to a faded illustration on the page. It depicted a lone figure standing before a shattered sky. The image was badly worn.

"The First Architect," the King murmured.

"No one saw his face," the Master said. "He didn't fight the monsters. He ignored them. He walked toward the Rift, climbed stairs made of thin air, and with a single motion, sealed the entire wound."

"He… repaired the sky?"

"He treated reality like a cracked wall, Your Majesty. He stitched the fabric of space itself. He built the System that governs us today—levels, classes, skills. He bestowed it upon us so we could survive. He brought order to chaos."

"And then?"

"And then he vanished. He simply walked into the void and was gone. But…" The Master hesitated. "Years after his departure, Dungeons began erupting from the earth. Vast underground labyrinths filled with monsters and treasures."

The Master looked at the King with fearful eyes.

"Some say the Dungeons were his final gift—places to train and gather resources. Others say… they are like tears, heralding disaster upon the world."

The King traced a finger over the illustration of the First Architect.

"An architect who rivaled the gods," the King whispered. "Or perhaps God himself. And now, a child appears with the same eyes. Bearing the same class as the greatest being this world has ever known."

"If the boy is descended from the First Architect, or inherited that class…" The Master swallowed hard. "He could destroy the kingdom as easily as pulling a hair from butter."

The King smiled. It was not the smile of a man looking at a person, but of a man looking at a weapon.

"No. We won't kill him. A dead Architect is useless. But a controlled one…" His eyes gleamed. "Imagine it, Master. With his power, I wouldn't just rule this kingdom. I could place the entire world beneath my hands. I could claim a power my predecessors never even dreamed of. I could build an empire that would never fall. I could force him to swallow the words my father once said to me."

The King slammed the book shut.

"Let the boy play in the sand a little longer. Let him think himself a hero. When the time comes, I'll show him who truly owns this kingdom."

…

The Gladiator Canteen

The smell of boiled cabbage and some unidentifiable meat hung in the air.

The canteen was loud, filled with the clatter of wooden spoons and the boastful shouts of warriors. But in the center of the room, there was a circle of silence.

At a wooden table, Hope sat alone, happily eating a bowl of gray stew.

The other gladiators walked around his table, giving him a wide berth. They looked at him with a mix of fear and respect. This was the boy who had humiliated Spectre. The boy who had dropped an Ogre in a single move.

Hope didn't notice their stares. He was busy enjoying a potato. He had never eaten vegetables in the dungeon, and now potatoes had become his favorite.

"This food is amazing," he muttered. "There's so much good food in the outside world. I'm insanely full."

"Is this seat taken?"

Hope looked up.

Two figures stood at his table. They didn't look like warriors.

The one who spoke was a nervous man whose eyes constantly scanned the room. His head was inexplicably bald. His eyes were strangely red. He wore standard prisoner rags, but he kept scratching his left arm as if something beneath the skin itched endlessly.

"I'm Field," the man said, sitting down without waiting for an answer. "And this is… NO9."

The second figure took the seat across from Hope. Even in the brightly lit hall, he was hard to make out. He wasn't a shadow, but the light couldn't decide what to do with him either. His entire body was covered in darkness. The only visible part was his mouth.

He didn't speak.

Hope narrowed his eyes when he noticed the things floating in the air behind him. They looked like unfinished lines. They were there, but incomplete. As if someone had started drawing something and then stopped.

"Hi," Hope said, shoveling a spoonful of stew into his mouth. "Are you hungry? The meat's kind of rubbery, but Deniz says it boosts character stats."

Field glanced around nervously, checking the guards.

"We're not here for food, kid. We're here for your eyes."

Hope blinked. "My eyes? Are they red? Dust gets in them sometimes."

NO9 leaned forward. His voice was a dry, raspy whisper.

"You see the lines, don't you? The walls. The floors. The magic."

Hope stopped eating. He set the spoon down.

"I see how things are built. And how they break. Sometimes I see how they're supposed to be made."

Field slapped his hand on the table—quietly. He rolled up his sleeve.

"Look at this."

An intricate, chaotic tattoo covered Field's entire forearm. It looked like a map drawn by a drunk spider. Lines intersected, symbols overlapped, and ink bled everywhere.

"This," Field whispered, "is a copy of the arena's sewer system. I spent three years bribing guards to get the pieces of this map. We're getting out of this shithole arena, Architect. Tonight. And we need you to open the final gate."

Hope leaned in. His green eyes scanned the tattoo.

Field watched him expectantly. "Impressive, right? It leads straight to the eastern river."

Hope frowned.

Tilted his head.

Then sighed.

"Who drew this?" Hope asked.

"A master forger from Block 4," Field said proudly.

"He's an idiot," Hope said flatly.

Field nearly choked. "What?"

Hope pointed to a curved line near Field's elbow.

"This pipe? It's marked as two meters in diameter. But judging by the pressure valve shown on your wrist, this is a high-pressure waste discharge line. That's not a tunnel. That's a grinder."

Hope slid his finger down toward Field's wrist.

"And this exit? You think it leads to the river. But structurally, the drainage slope is wrong. It goes downward, not out. This leads to the underground monster pens."

Hope looked Field in the eyes.

"If you follow this map, you'll be ground into paste and fed to monsters."

Field turned pale. He stared at his arm, then at Hope.

"You… you can see all that from a bad tattoo?"

"The map is wrong, but the building's logic isn't," Hope said, picking up his spoon again. "I can feel the water's vibrations through the floor. The real exit isn't in the sewers."

NO9's eyes glowed in the darkness. They were orange.

"Where is it?"

Hope swallowed his stew and smiled.

"Up. The ventilation shafts of the VIP lounges. They used lighter stone to keep the air clean for the nobles. It's the weakest point in the entire castle."

Field and NO9 exchanged a look. Shock—followed by hope.

"Up…" Field murmured. "We never thought to go up."

"Everyone who wants to hide looks down," Hope said simply. "But the sky is always open."

Field leaned in close.

"You're in, kid. We have a plan. But we need a distraction. Something big. Something that'll shake this place to its foundations."

Hope wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"Deniz said my next opponents are Scorch and Zero. Apparently, they're strong enough to cause earthquakes."

NO9's ghostly lines trembled with excitement.

"Scorch and Zero… The Twin Legends. The most anticipated match. If that fight goes wrong… if the arena collapses…"

"Then we fly," Field finished.

Hope looked at the two freaks. Then he looked at the high, barred windows of the canteen, where a patch of blue sky was visible.

He thought of Lypin waiting for him.

"Alright," Hope said. "I'll fix your escape plan. I've got a reason to run too. But first…"

He pointed at Field's untouched bowl.

"Can I eat that potato too?"