Ziven ignored the blare of his UI, the frantic countdown shrinking like a lit fuse. He ignored the high prelate, who was now babbling incoherent prayers, face a mottled mess of sweat and terror, pressed against the shimmering force field that sealed the sanctum. Ziven merely pushed past the man as if he were an irritating pop-up ad, sauntering over to the colossal, gilded dais seat that dominated the far end of the chamber. He settled into its plush, crimson velvet, propping his boots on a carved armrest. The entire room was sealed shut, but Ziven wasn’t focused on escape. He was focused on the primary console, on the ‘Purge Protocol’ actively tearing Vytas apart, on the looming ‘Server Wipe’ notification. The sheer audacity of the game designers! An unskippable escort mission disguised as an endgame raid! A core anchor that could be *soul-extracted* by a random NPC with a bad script! “This is utter garbage,” Ziven muttered, flicking his wrist in the empty air as if dismissing a virtual menu. “Who programs a server core with 1% HP and then gives the main villain an instant-kill button? And why is the UI not giving me a proper heal option? This isn't a raid boss; it's a structural integrity pillar! This is a *trap*.” Milda, who had followed him, looked utterly bewildered. Zarthus was on his knees, wailing, and the chamber thrummed with the dying pulses of the world, yet Ziven sat on the velvet cushion, calm as a lake, staring at nothing. “My Lord, what… what are you doing?” Milda asked, her voice hushed, reverent despite the rising panic in the room. The crackle from the central pillar was intensifying, the arcane glyphs now thrashing like captured lightning. “Calculating a heal strategy,” Ziven replied, still tapping invisible buttons. “They’ve sealed the room, which means I can’t just waltz over to the console and inject a mana potion. I need to find the correct sequence, the override code, or an item with a specific buff. And if this doesn't have a reverse-polarity setting, I might have to go full debug mode. This whole protocol is a hard counter, a forced fail state. Pure garbage programming.” He let out a frustrated grunt. “This game design is just *spiteful*.” Milda leaned forward, a dawning comprehension clearing her brow. “You… you seek to heal the Hollow King?” she whispered, a tremble in her voice. “The very enemy of the Synod, the architect of our world’s sorrow?” Her gaze drifted to the humming dais, then back to Ziven, now ablaze with adoration. “You speak of ‘mana potions’ and ‘override codes’ not for your own benefit, but to mend the suffering of *all* beings, even those deemed your foes. This is not mere strategy, my Lord. This is divine compassion, a true god’s mercy, extending even to the most cursed among us!” Ziven blinked, briefly glancing at Milda, then shrugging. “Yeah, sure. Divine compassion. Whatever you want to call it. I’m just preserving the game state.” “Preserving the game state,” Milda repeated, her voice thick with awe. “To maintain the delicate balance of existence, to prevent the realm from shattering into oblivion. Such profound wisdom, such boundless empathy!” She sank to her knees, bowing her head. “My Lord, your insights are truly unfathomable. I am but a humble servant, yet I swear to aid you in this most sacred task.” [ Achievement Unlocked: 'Misinterpreted Mercy' – Turn sociopathic detachment into profound divine wisdom. +100 XP. ] Ziven felt a low rumble beneath his feet. The countdown on his UI was now at 35 seconds. “Okay, so the console is barred. The sanctum itself is sealed. I need an item that bypasses this lockdown. A specific keycard, maybe. Or a password. Something I might have… acquired.” He pondered for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Snax, you got anything useful? Any weird drops from those Seraphim you ate?” Snax, who had been curled up by Ziven’s boots, watching the priest with mild curiosity, unfurled slightly. He let out a low, guttural burp, a sound like gravel shifting in a cave. Then, with a wet cough, he spat out a small, gnarled object onto the polished floor. It was a desiccated digit, unnaturally pale, with a cracked, obsidian nail. A faint, corrupt aura shimmered around it, but its tip glowed with a sickly green light. “A saint’s relic!” Milda gasped, recoiling in horror at the sight of the severed digit. “The sacred phalange of Arch-Saint Odonn, said to hold the key to the Synod’s deepest vault! But… it’s been corrupted. It’s glowing with abyssal energy!” Ziven’s eyes, however, lit up. [ Item Acquired: 'Corrupted Saint’s Finger (Sanctum Key)' – Grants temporary override of Radiant Synod wards. ] “Bingo,” Ziven said, hopping off the seat. “Knew that guy would drop something useful.” He snatched the mummified bone, its corrupted glow feeling oddly warm in his palm. “Right, Milda, point me to the console. We’re on the clock.” He strode towards the glowing font, Zarthus still weeping on the floor, ignoring the man’s sudden, terrified whimper as Ziven approached. The severed bone pulsed, humming in his hand. Just as he reached the pedestal, the entire Spire of Sanctity groaned. It wasn't just a tremor; the colossal structure began to *tilt*. A low, drawn-out shriek of stressed stone echoed from the very foundations. Dust rained from the high ceilings, and the stained-glass windows depicting serene saints shattered, raining razor-sharp shards onto the floor. Through the gaping holes, the sky outside was no longer blue-grey; it was a furious, boiling crimson, ripped open to reveal the raw, exposed core of the world. Velska’s crust, massive and ancient, began to audibly rip apart, like a sheet of parchment being torn inched towards a flame.

Preserving the Game State