I—once upon a time—had ideals too.

From a very young age, I knew my Father Sir was an extraordinary man. Back then, he was merely a novice cleric who had just joined the ranks. In the Breath of the Sun Church, whose influence spanned continents, such men numbered in the thousands.

Yet I overheard his mentor tell him: "Bol, your faith burns so purely, your talent shines so brightly—you grasp Divine Arts faster than I ever did. One day, you’ll become the backbone of this Church. Push harder, and even the Papacy might not be beyond your reach."

"You jest again, Mentor," Father Sir replied. "I have no desire for bishoprics or papal thrones. If I harbor any ambition at all, it’s to one day ascend to the Divine Realm and serve our great Lord—Lord Deseli of the Breath of the Sun."

I heard nearly identical versions of this exchange from at least ten different mentors or colleagues of Father Sir.

By the time I turned eight, Father Sir had already fought in countless battles.

Sometimes, he marched to the frontlines as a military cleric for the Empire of Aifei.

Sometimes, he spread the faith as the Divine Being’s apostle, carving new territories for the Church.

Sometimes, he stood at the Abyss’s edge as a human, repelling Demon invasions.

Sometimes, he ventured into mountains and forests as an adventurer, honing combat skills with his companions.

I often wondered: was killing truly such a grave matter? My most revered Father Sir had slain countless beings. Beyond Demons, Monstrous Beasts, Undead, and subhumans—creatures whose humanity was debatable—he’d cut down heretics from rival churches, thieves, and enemy soldiers beyond counting.

During that period, visitors flooded our home. Among them were military comrades, clerics seeking tactical advice, clients with commissions, fellow adventurers, and patients begging for healing. Only after his merits earned him high office in the Church did the crowds thin.

Around my tenth year, Father Sir finally led a campaign against another Church devoted to a Light Deity whose domain overlapped with Lord Deseli’s. Brimming with confidence, he took me along. We marched to victory after victory, our enemies trembling at the mere rumor of his approach.

His subordinates urged: "Lord Bol, let us guard your son. Focus on command—we’ll lay down our lives before he suffers a scratch."

"Hah! I trust your strength," he boomed, "but I trust my own more. Wald, stay behind me. Watch how your father commands—this may serve you someday. Even if their Supreme Bishop stood before us, he couldn’t harm a single hair on your head."

Thanks to meticulous preparation, a surprise assault, and exceptional talent, our forces crushed the enemy on every front. Their ranks shattered swiftly. Mass deaths and apostasies drained the rival deity’s faith, tilting the balance of power. At last, Lord Deseli executed a textbook godslaying—claiming vast Divine Power and expanding His divine portfolio.

The Divine Being, immensely pleased, rewarded His followers. Divine Artifacts, blessings, and surges of Divine Power flowed to those who’d earned them. And Father Sir? He became the youngest Supreme Bishop in Church history—the next youngest among the twelve was over forty years his senior.

That day, I set my life’s ambition: to follow my father’s path. At minimum, I’d become a bishop. I’d fight for the Church.

My Father Sir was so powerful, so wise. Even his peers called him the Divine Being’s living avatar on earth. Such a perfect man—could he possibly have flaws?

Heh. I knew one glaring weakness: he was terrible at raising sons.

A workaholic lost in Church affairs, he spent fewer than four hours a day at home. He rarely shared meals or slept under our roof. He seldom taught me personally, likely burdened by guilt over my lack of fatherly love. So he never refused my requests. Money solved everything I asked for—and this ascetic never lacked coin. He gave freely.

At home, I lived like a little emperor. Maids dressed and fed me.

Outside, fair-weather friends flocked to my purse. Father Sir had always aided the poor. Seeing me mingle with dubious company, that fool actually believed I "honored the common folk by lowering myself to befriend them." Of course, the busy saint never checked their character.

Then there was my mother—infinitely kind, loving me to the point of spoiling. Whatever I did, she’d only gaze at me with unconditional forgiveness. *Sigh.* An indulgent mother raises a spoiled son.

At twelve, my initiation test revealed I lacked affinity for Light. Though I could cast basic Divine Arts after the ritual, progress was impossible. My dream of becoming a bishop died.

No matter—I’d be a Knight instead. But pampered since childhood, I had no discipline. I practiced sporadically. If *I* could become a Knight, what of those poor children grinding day and night to climb the ranks? By fourteen, I knew: knighthood was beyond me.

So by sixteen, I became utterly wasted. Days were spent indoors, playing chess and cards with maids. Nights belonged to "friends" and debauchery.