Side Story: The Hero’s Bitter Past (II)

Months slipped by since the last council, and the high clergy strained like bows for the Celestial God’s next command.

The bishop wore calm like a winter lake, yet in the shadows he quietly confined Annias.

That single move planted a number in many hearts, and they drifted from Annias’s line like fallen leaves.

Meanwhile, Birand roamed the Demon King’s old domain with an elderly traveler, footsteps whispering over black stone.

“Mr. Yuris, I think what we discussed needs more weighing,” Birand said with a quick spring-branch smile.

“Oh?” Yuris looked at him, brows tilted like hooked reeds.

“The Demon King’s sword carries storms. Handing it straight to you, I’d have no cover with the church,” Birand sighed, breath like mist.

Yuris studied him, gaze steady as a millstone. “Birand… will you really bend your neck to those people?”

“...Sir, that’s a sharp blade of a question.” Birand’s face shifted like cloud-shadow.

“I know you don’t want waves. You just want to hide away with your wife, quiet as moss,” Yuris breathed, voice heavy with buried stones.

“...” Birand said nothing. His eyes dropped to the earth, silence pooled like ink.

“If you don’t start preparing, then…” Yuris watched him, then only sighed, like a door closing on wind.

Enough. Say too much, and you tip the scales of what’s to come.

They let the topic drift and spoke of the Demon Race’s art, of bone flutes and iron inks. At dusk’s rim, they parted.

“Am I ready?” Birand floated in the air, watching the sun sink like a bleeding coin, a weight settling behind his ribs.

Unease first, then a helpless smile. He’d been chasing shadows in his head lately.

Maybe the church’s chill toward him had salted his heart.

Still, he believed they couldn’t find the small island where he and his wife hid, a pearl swallowed by sea fog.

So long as he didn’t try to replace those men, he thought, they’d have no honest pretext to move on him.

It was his worst decision. He lowered his guard like a warrior setting down a shield.

Days fell like sand. Under the bold banner of the Hero’s Guard, nations grew still, wars held like leashed hounds.

The people’s cry for the Hero swelled, wave after wave on a stone shore.

In secret, the bishop reached out to rulers, weighing their stances like coins on a scale.

No one knew if they’d struck any covenants under the tablecloth.

Above, a vast net seemed to unfurl in the sky, dropping toward the world like nightfall.

Birand didn’t know and didn’t care for the Hero’s Guard. He saw only blind fervor, heat that would fade if absent long enough.

He misread how long politicians can hold their breath.

One day, while he fished on a riverbank that mirrored clouds, a Beastkin envoy padded up beside him.

“Hero, it’s been a long time,” the envoy said, bowing, tail still as a spear.

“Finding me at all—that’s a trick,” Birand flicked him a glance, hook glinting like a cold star.

“Heh. This is Beastkin land. When someone like you enters, even stones whisper,” the envoy said with a thin smile.

“So why are you here?” Birand set down his rod, and killing intent rose like storm surf along his back.

Another voice brushed his ear like a cold reed: “Hero.”

Birand didn’t turn. He let a laugh cut sideways. “Bishop. Didn’t expect you to come calling.”

“Hero, I didn’t choose to come. The Celestial God sent me. Do you understand?” The bishop’s smile hung like a painted mask.

Birand’s eyes narrowed, edges keen as a drawn blade.

“She also said we’ve invited Ms. Icarina to tea at the Holy Sanctuary’s heart. She asks if you’ll join her.”

“You… all of you?” Birand’s pupils tightened, a needle through silk.

He reached for Icarina in thought, but some force swatted his will like midges on glass.

“How long did you prepare? You even sniffed out Icarina’s place,” Birand said, smiling like frost.

“So. Will you come quietly, or…?” the bishop asked softly, voice a knife wrapped in silk.

“Let’s go. A trip to the Holy Sanctuary isn’t new. I’ve walked those halls,” Birand said, jaw locked like iron.

He had to make sure Icarina was safe.

In the Holy Sanctuary, he saw Icarina sitting dazed at the center like a lost swan, ringed by armored knights like iron trees.

“Damn it! Nana, are you okay?” Birand moved like a gale, landing at her side, hand lifting for the soft line of her neck.

Care blurs the eye, especially in a trap set by a god.

The woman’s hand snapped up, and a blade of light shoved through Birand’s heart like winter ice.

He stared down, unbelieving, at the light skewering his chest, a pale spear of dawn.

Icarina’s face ran like wax, resolving into the hard, imperious woman stamped in his memory.

Cold and pained, she looked at him. “A tool that no longer serves. I see no reason to keep it.”

He raised an arm to fight, but the encircling knights shed armor like snake skin.

They were the Celestial God’s direct hand—the Archangels of the Eight Heavenly Spheres. Their spears struck as one and pinned him like a moth.

They hoisted him into the air, a banner of blood against white stone.

“Didn’t expect it to be this easy,” the bishop said, sweat beading like dew.

“The Celestial God moved herself. Who but the Demon King could stand?” an Angel at his side sneered, voice like cold brass.

But Birand’s form blurred, thinning like smoke.

The Celestial God’s gaze drifted afar, cool as moonlight. “He won’t escape. A simple decoy. We still tore him deep.”

The citywide hunt snapped open, iron comb through reeds.

Birand fled, bleeding, body a cracked bell under layered curses. The Celestial God had sown thorns in his flesh in advance.

At last, less than a kilometer from the Holy Sanctuary, he coughed blood like spilled ink and fell.

Knights found him quickly, shackled him like a broken wolf, and dragged him back to the Holy Sanctuary.

They locked him in the dungeon, stone breathing damp around him.

They say the Celestial God and bishops kept blackening the Hero’s deeds, smearing filth like soot across a white banner.

The people—some still stood with the Hero, candles in a storm.

But with the Celestial God and the bishops chanting one song, who would dare call it false?

Even the faithful couldn’t stop the god’s blade.

The Demon Race was dead. With no roadblock, she sent Angels in secret, uprooting stubborn hearts like weeds.

In time, few dared speak for the Hero. Tongues hid like turtles in shells.

Years sluiced by. In the seventh year underground, Birand learned the true Icarina hadn’t been found.

He had to get out.

Yet one thorn remained: if they had him, why still hunt Icarina? The thought crawled, a centipede on his spine.

One day, he felt a trickle of power returning, a spring under stone. He hid his joy and saved every drop.

Three more years. He caught a crack in the seal, tore it open, and killed scores of Holy Sanctuary jailers, red rain on white steps.

He ran for their hidden refuge, a shadow crossing the world’s ribs.

The people saw a Hero shaped like a Fiend and believed the Celestial God’s tale more deeply, a nail hammered flush.

The Hero… had become a dragon of evil in their mouths.

He found Icarina. Their hearts surged, warm as lamps behind paper. Together, they vanished into the world’s deep places.

Time turned its wheel. Three more years passed, quiet as falling ash.

On patrol one day, Birand looked up and saw Angels winging across the sky like cold gulls.

So, they’d find them after all?