The Imperial Capital of the Empire of Aifei, Solara City.

Time rewound to that night before I committed murder. At 4 AM, I strolled down the Imperial Capital’s Central Avenue with my drunken buddies, fresh from a tavern crawl and heading for barbecue to sober up.

One end of the grand avenue led to the Imperial Palace. The other end housed the Breath of the Sun Church—the empire’s most influential institution. Eight pillars of white jade encircled the cathedral, towering far above its spires even without counting their height. Atop them blazed the Church’s miracle: an artificial sun forged entirely from Divine Power. It bathed the capital and surrounding lands in perpetual warmth and light, its intensity adjustable by the Church’s caretakers. Even under night’s veil, soft radiance illuminated every bustling street and alley. Crowds thronged the avenues as densely as at noon, making one wonder if they were cultivators—those legendary Eastern mystics.

Long ago, before ascending as the Breath of the Sun, Lord Deseri had just solidified his Divine Essence here. He poured immense effort into this divine spectacle—a daily convenience that could also transform into a tactical Divine Artifact during war, its boundless fury devouring all enemies.

Its only flaw? The Imperial Capital lost true night. When dusk fell, a dimmed sun-ball still hung in the sky. Thankfully, curtains blocked the light for sleep, fueling the city’s vibrant nightlife. Solara earned its fame as one of the world’s sleepless cities.

What a perfect miracle for conversion. Rural peasants, awed by this artificial sun, would surely prostrate themselves before the Breath of the Sun’s divine might, surrendering their faith instantly.

But that was old news. Locals now took the spectacle for granted. Those who’d convert already had; the rest wouldn’t switch beliefs without reason.

Other churches operated here too—branches of deities neutral or allied with the Breath of the Sun. Some served gods far mightier than Deseri, like the Mechanical Spirit Realm beside us.

A god of technology—or rather, a machine-made deity. Mad scientists and alchemists, convinced they could unravel the world’s truths and create godlike miracles, pooled their genius. Though birthing a new god wasn’t their original aim, they joyfully accepted his invitation to become his first Holy Clerics. He promised labs, equipment, and endless funding.

Those old monsters likely now dwell in the Mechanical Spirit Realm’s Divine Realm, chasing their brilliant, insane research. If any remained on earth? Terrifying thought.

His temple bristled with steel and electricity—sharp angles, gray and black tones. Ugly to my eyes, but the pretty girls milling outside earned it points. They sold novelties: music boxes that played automatically, skin-hydrating films, anti-molestation shock charms. Noble heiresses and wealthy daughters loved shopping here.

"Des, check out that hottie!"

"Nah, look at that lady—countess at least. Those curves!"

"You’ve got trashy taste. See that little sister? Petite and pliable. Absolute perfection."

My booze-fueled friends debated hitting on them.

A broad-shouldered guy behind us sighed. "Forget those women. Brothers should just drink together."

Saches—the only decent one in our crew. A fallen noble aiming to become a Knight and restore his family’s glory. Like me, he had zero talent. Yet he trained relentlessly, making him the strongest among us by far.

A true Knight shouldn’t hang with our lot. He lived by chivalric virtues. But virtues don’t pay debts. His wastrel relatives had saddled him with crushing loans. I’d once found him cornered in an alley, face flushed as he pleaded poverty to thugs. Who’d believe him?

I don’t know why, but I bailed him out—maybe Father Sir’s goodness still lingered in me. He became my loyal friend and bodyguard.

He still believed he’d become a Knight. *Ha.* That stubborn fool. No talent. No mentor. No noble patron to endorse him. And his body? Required expensive herbs for purification, specialized training grounds... How could he afford it?

I’d tried helping—bought him a Battle Aura seed at auction. He refused it stiffly: "I owe you too much already. I’ll never repay this." As if I cared. Honestly, he’d never repay what he owed now. With his talent? He’d never cultivate Battle Aura alone.

"Saches, loosen up! Who do *you* like? Tell me—I’ll make it happen!" I slurred, drunker than I realized.

"Yeah! Des can handle anything! Don’t be a buzzkill. Let’s all go—loser buys three bottles!" The others egged him on.

"I... I... Ugh. I train tomorrow, Wald. Let me walk you home. You need rest." His face burned redder than mine, though he hadn’t touched a drop.

"No rest! I’m not done having fun! You leave? Fine! Go! I don’t need you—"

Seeing persuasion fail, Saches walked off alone.

Finally rid of the wet blanket, I stumbled toward a cute half-elf girl ahead.

"Miss, out alone so late? Dangerous streets~" I was too drunk to notice her moon-elf blood—night was her natural hour.

She stared at me like I was trash, silent as she turned to leave.

I grabbed her wrist, stroking her arm with a sleazy tone. "Don’t run, little sister. Play with big brother, hmm? Hahaha."

"Stop! Let go!" She struggled, but as a commoner, she had no strength.

I was a failure, but I’d undergone the Church’s initiation—a low-tier Holy Cleric. I’d half-heartedly trained, swallowed rare tonics, and remained useless at everything. Yet against this frail girl? Even armed with a knife, she couldn’t escape me.

Bystanders glared, ready to intervene—until my buddies formed a wall around us. Others tugged at would-be heroes, pointing to my noble crest. "Mind your own business." No one risked trouble for a stranger.

Panic flashed in the half-elf’s eyes. Trapped by six burly men, she slapped me hard across the face.

*SLAP!*

I froze. "You—you dare hit me? Even Father Sir never struck me!"

My vision reddened. She raised her hand again—but this time, I caught her other wrist. Desperate, she bit down hard on my hand.

"*Hss!*" Agony shot through me. Her frantic bite shattered my last shred of control. I only wanted to break free.

Pure light gathered in my palm, extending forward—a rare offensive Divine Art I’d learned after initiation.

*Gleaming Shortblade*: a low-tier Light magic. No chant needed. A blade of light flashed from my hand and vanished. Most Holy Clerics called it useless. Church assassins called it divine.

A soft glow kissed the half-elf’s neck—gentle as moonlight’s caress. Unnoticed, almost poetic.

Her jaw loosened. Blood splattered my clothes. Her eyes glazed over. Lips parted as if to speak—but no sound came.

"*Ahhh! He killed her!*"

"*Call the Knights!*"

"*Des, run!*"

Screams drowned the street. Chaos erupted. My friends tried dragging me away, then fled when I wouldn’t move.

And me? Until the Knights arrived... I had no idea what I was doing.