[World] Origin
He couldn’t remember when that black shadow started standing at his side.
Was it on that night of storm-tossed waves and tearing rain?
Was it inside that ward boiling with noise, a cauldron of breath and sweat?
Or did it exist the instant he first stepped into the mist, like a ghost in dew?
Maybe it had lived since before humans ever drew breath.
Or... maybe everything was a mirage his mind painted on water.
He did wonder. He just didn’t care.
Real or unreal, it was the same moon on the same river.
It never touched him; it only stood there, mute as a winter tree.
It never spoke; it only watched, like a lone owl at dusk.
Lonely for too long, he drifted aimlessly down the current, and he grew used to its shape, like a second shadow.
...
...
Under Nightfall,
the bright moon hung high like a silver coin.
The river was a mirror, casting back a white sea of stars that didn’t belong to the night.
Pinpricks flared like quiet fireworks, rising slow, drawing near with a chill of steel.
Count them closely—no more, no less—exactly seventeen.
Seventeen, within the Church of the Divine, is a number of Misfortune.
And those seventeen points of light were the Church of the Divine’s instrument of holy culling—the Sanctum Knights.
“My—trial?”
Master Bai’s words left Aerin stunned. She pulled her gaze from that white star-sea, looked to Ye Weibai, and stammered, “B-but, Master Bai—they’re—”
“Does what they are matter?” Ye Weibai cut in, his voice calm as frost.
The girl’s mouth hung open; Master Bai’s serene face made her lose all words.
A trial means a fight, right? But they’re the terror that makes ocean-raiders shiver.
Never mind they can press a [Saint]-class head-on; the Church of the Divine alone drains the will to resist.
The Church is the Deity’s dwelling. And this World has only one Deity—
the one who gave the first [Hero King] a sword and a shield.
The Deity fell later, yet his teaching and guidance remained, like embers under ash.
Those who inherited that guidance and power formed an order—the Church of the Divine. That’s their simple origin.
Across the World, “the Church” stands for Justice, Light, and Truth.
In the countless clashes between [Hero King] and [Demon King], the Church of the Divine was the axis of the scale.
On the continent, the Church holds no empire, yet its radiance is everywhere; each imperial capital bears its mark, like sun on stone.
And she was to fight such a sacred Church?
Aerin’s fingers tightened around the silver longsword at her waist, like frost gripping a blade.
Her belly throbbed—she’d taken the Black Iron Knight’s punch straight on. The ache pulsed like a bruise under snow.
“You’re afraid, aren’t you.” Ye Weibai’s insight cut like a thin knife.
Aerin’s lips parted. She wanted to say she wasn’t, but the words froze.
Master Bai’s eyes saw through to the heart—how could she not be?
Those Sanctum Knights kill without a blink and weigh lives like chaff in the wind.
“It’s fine. Fear doesn’t disqualify you.” Ye Weibai shook his head.
Meeting the girl’s relieved gaze, he said softly, “Something will force you to move.”
“Some—thing?” Aerin blinked, confusion rippling like a pebble in water.
“That’s what you gained when you prayed to me for strength. It’s inside you.”
He paused, then let two syllables fall, heavy as iron. “—Fear.”
Aerin flinched. She reached for words.
Sudden white light from afar washed her face, cold as moon-snow.
Seventeen Sanctum Knights vaulted from their solitary skiffs.
They wore heavy, clumsy armor, yet touched down feather-light, like down on sand.
Between weight and grace, that subtle clash sang of mastery; Aerin’s spine chilled like iced glass.
The moment they landed, they set their formation along the riverbank, neat as chess on slate.
Their motions were quick and spare; on soft dunes they moved as on dry ground, silent as fog.
They raised not even a grain; in that hush, a breath of dread rippled out.
The blaze came when, ranks set, all seventeen drew longswords wreathed in white fire.
Humm—
Seventeen blades leaving scabbards hummed across the beach; pebbles quivered like teeth.
In that instant the sound knifed into Aerin’s ears; her face went pale, her heart dropped.
She’d never truly seen a Sanctum Knight’s method. Still, instinct told her the truth—
she’d been locked.
The Knights hadn’t come for the Witchwood Forest behind her. Their aim was—herself.
The thought formed like a spark, and in her sight the distant Knights vanished.
No—not vanished. They were too fast.
In the dark they smeared into pallid phantoms, ghosts sweeping in without a sound.
Fear hit first. Aerin turned to seek help—and saw nothing.
Her blood drained; Master Bai was gone. He’d slipped away like a shadow at dawn.
“Master Bai!” Aerin cried, voice breaking like thin ice.
A voice sounded in her mind—Ye Weibai’s, cool as night water. “I won’t make a move.”
“But—” Her face blanched like snow.
Before the protest rose, heat and frost wrapped her, breath like a storm around her skin.
She snapped her gaze forward— a bolt of white lightning lunged straight at her.
That was—a Sanctum Knight.
...
...
Rumor is a creature of air.
It’s unseen, shapeless; once it gathers, it surges like tidewater, unstoppable, killing without a mark.
Sometime, whispers began in the Empire.
This cycle’s [Hero King] candidate—Aerin—likely won’t inherit the name [Hero King].
The notion had existed long ago, fanned by those who love chaos,
and by Aerin’s poor talent, disappointing the crowd again and again, like rain that never comes.
Lately, under deliberate and stray embellishment, the saying swelled and swelled.
Rumor is like “atmosphere”—it rolls like a snowball, grows and grows,
and in the end needs only one trigger to collapse—turning rumor into “truth.”
Recently, a secret, unbelievable whisper took root and spread,
the kind that pricks the tongue yet begs to be savored.
“Did you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“This cycle’s [Hero King] is weak because—”
“Because…?”
“She’s been bewitched by the [Demon King].”
The [Demon King] bewitched the [Hero King]?!
That claim strikes straight at the heart.
Anyone who first voiced it would be called raving, dragged with stones into the sea,
or burned by the Church of the Divine’s holy fire.
But—rumors are rumors because they need no proof.
Spread far enough, wide enough, long enough, and a rumor becomes its own evidence.
Besides, the crowd doesn’t want proof. They want belief—
they believe what serves them.
As with judgment: people weigh others not by deeds, but by their own likes and distance.
So—do they like Aerin, or do they hate her?
Some loved her, once—but that was long ago.
As Aerin disappointed them again and again, their warmth cooled to ash,
and cooled love warps into dislike—even if that love was their projection, never her burden.
The World is like this.
So, when such a shoddy rumor appeared, it wasn’t snuffed out.
It grew like weeds, it raced like wildfire under dry wind.
Its speed shocked all.
On one hand, it touched [Hero King] and [Demon King].
On the other, another rumor had begun to blaze—
the [Demon King] has been born.
