Chapter 32 Homunculus

Amos sat alone within the deepest chamber of the archive.

An open book lay before him—Kairos E. Kyros’ personal diary. And, to Amos’ dismay, the man seemed only more monstrous with each line he read. The entries detailed crimes capable of toppling entire kingdoms if revealed: war crimes, mass executions, human experimentation, soul research, forbidden magic, whole villages wiped from history. Through it all, Kairos wrote with an unnerving, chilling calm.

Amos flipped another page slowly.

A heading written in darker ink appeared across the parchment.

“First Attempt.”

Amos frowned slightly.

Then continued reading.

“If the prophecy cannot be entrusted to fate…”

“…then it must be created.”

Amos’ eyes narrowed as he kept. Kairos had a different take on the prophecy than later generations. While most descendants thought the foretold child would one day be born naturally into House Kyros, Kairos wasn’t convinced. Waiting, he believed, was too risky for humanity might fall apart before that. So, he set out to create the prophesied child himself, by artificial means.

“I have reach it, the chapter on creation of a new life.”

The following pages laid out the project in chilling detail: mana-engineered bloodline fusion, artificial soul stabilization, inheritance amplification, and mana resonance experiments, body and genetic modification—all designed to create a perfect successor with every trait needed to fulfill the prophecy. A being beyond the bounds of ordinary humanity.

Amos slowly rubbed his forehead.

“Unbelievable.”

Then came the name—Karos, the homunculus. Amos stared silently at the word. Kairos hadn’t made Karos just to serve as a guardian; Karos was meant to be the prophecy itself—an artificial savior, the first man-made Eos-bearer. But the experiment failed. Not because Karos was weak—quite the opposite. The diary painted her as a physical marvel: flawless mana flow, incredible adaptability, sharp intelligence, and a body tougher than high-ranked monsters. The problem lay somewhere entirely.

“She possesses no destiny.”

Amos blinked slowly.

Kairos continued writing beneath it.

“The prophecy simply isn't her.”

“She cannot become the one.”

The wording shook Amos to his core, as if Kairos had truly come to realization on some metaphysical truth that denied Karos very existence. Then, another line followed.

“She is alive.”

Amos reread it carefully.

Alive.

The diary took a turn after that, with a subtle shift in tone. It seemed Kairos spent years trying to teach Karos rather than destroy her. The entries spoke of conversations, training sessions, philosophical debates, and occasional moments that felt almost paternal.

Then Amos reached one specific passage.

“Karos asked me today if she was born wrong. SHe said she could feel my disappointment.” Amos stared at the sentence for a few seconds before continuing to read.“I couldn’t answer her. How could I respond to such question?”

“…Damn.”

Kairos sounded almost human, with a touch of regret in their voice.

“She understands now and volunteered without hesitation. If the true child is ever born, Karos will be there to protect them.”

Amos leaned back slowly.

So that was it.

Karos had stopped being an experiment. Kairos instead made her into something else entirely a guardian prepared to wait generations for the real prophesied child.

Which meant somewhere beneath House Kyros a centuries-old artificial being still existed still waiting.

Amos found it unbelievably interesting.

Then came Kairos’ complete take on the prophecy. The first ancestor’s words seemed to have been deliberately vague, and most later leaders took them symbolic. But not Kairos. He was convinced the prophecy foretold an unavoidable disaster—something so immense that House Kyros had been for the sole purpose of preparing for it.

“The child born beneath fate's gaze shall raise House Kyros higher than ever before.”

“And against the coming darkness…”

“…they shall stand at the center.”

The archive remained silent except for the soft turning of pages.

Amos had expected Kairos’ diary to spiral endlessly into darkness. And for the most part, it did. But toward the end, something shifted. The handwriting grew softer—not weaker, but calmer. The edges lost their bite. The paranoia faded.

Instead— They focus increasingly about Karos.

Amos frowned slightly while reading.

“The girl dislikes thunderstorms.”

“…But she stands near the windows during rain.”

Then continued.

“Today she asked whether she may continue studying swordsmanship despite already surpassing every instructor.”

“I allowed it.”

“She appeared to be very pleased.”

Another page.

“She asked me today what birthdays are.”

Long silence followed beneath the sentence.

Then finally—

“I did not realize she had none.”

Amos slowly lowered the page. The entries kept changing afterward. Kairos wrote less like a creator chronicling a project and more like an old father preserving memories.

“Karos has begun reading in the gardens.”

“She favors historical records. Terrible taste.”

Another.

“She smiled.”

The sentence stood by itself.  For nearly half the page, nothing else appeared, only those words were written.  Amos gazed at the ink in silence, then flipped to the next page.  

“I once believed perfection could be created.”

“I was wrong.”

“Karos was never my masterpiece because she was perfect.”

“He is my masterpiece because he is my child.”

Amos felt strangely uncomfortable reading further.

The terrifying monster known as Kairos E. Kyros, a man responsible for atrocities long buried in history, had slowly learned to love something he had originally created out of selfishness.

Another entry followed.

“She asked me today whether I regret creating him.”

“I answered honestly.”

“No. For how could a father ever hate his very own child.”

Amos closed his eyes briefly.

Then reopened them.

The last pages of the diary no longer carried the same edge as the writings of the infamous Heartbreaker. There were still backup plans, still careful preparations, still that, unsettling intelligence woven into every line. But the obsession had burned out. Kairos no longer wrote like someone bent on bending fate to will—just a worn-out old man wishing the future might treat her better than the past ever did.

Then Amos reached one final entry.

One of the last ever written.

“If the true child of prophecy is eventually born…”

“I hope Karos meets them.”

A pause beneath it.

Then another line.

“I hope they become friends.”

Silence filled the underground archive.

Amos stared at the page, frozen in place. Somehow, that one simple sentence struck harder than all the horrors that had come before. Kairos had once tried to craft an artificial savior, to bend destiny to his own will. But in the end, what mattered most to him wasn’t the, or House Kyros, or even power—it was whether the lonely artificial life he’d created would one day have someone by her side. Someone Kairos ultimately called his child.

Amos rested his chin against his hand quietly.

Then muttered to himself:

“I really need to find them now.”