The church of Saint Sharon Michael stood beneath a moonless sky, its ancient stones cold and silent, its stained glass windows dark as empty eyes. The world outside had surrendered to sleep hours ago.
The children in the orphanage had been tucked into their beds, their small bodies curled beneath thin blankets, their dreams filled with the simple hopes of those who had nothing and wanted everything.
The sisters had retreated to their quarters, their whispered prayers fading into the stillness. The priest, old and tired, had fallen asleep in his study, his Bible open on his desk, his spectacles resting on the open pages.
But one room remained awake.
The Saint Room.
A single candle burned on the wooden desk, its flame small and steady, casting long shadows that danced across the walls.
The room was small, humble, furnished only with a bed, a desk, and a kneeling bench where Sister Mary spent her hours in prayer. But tonight she was not praying. She sat at her desk, her hands folded before her, her face pale in the candlelight. The white cloth that usually bound her eyes lay beside her, discarded, and her green eyes, dark as forest shadows at the edges, bright as spring leaves at the center, were open.
She had not slept. She could not sleep.
Erza.
The name circled in her mind like a bird trapped in a cage, beating its wings against the bars, unable to escape. It was a coincidence. It had to be a coincidence. There were many women named Erza in the world. Many women with silver hair and cold eyes and a presence that made the air itself feel heavy. It did not have to be that Erza. It did not have to be the Queen of Atlantis. It did not have to be the monster who had stared into the eyes of gods and made them look away.
She laughed, a soft, hollow sound that seemed too loud in the silence of the room.
"Obviously," she whispered, the words meant to comfort herself. "Why would such a powerful being come to this world? Why would she marry my Yuuta? I am being foolish. I am worrying over nothing."
She pressed her hands flat against the desk, as if she could push the fear out of her body through her palms. Her breathing was slow, deliberate, the breathing of someone who had spent centuries learning to control her body, her mind, her heart. She was an High being. She was not supposed to be afraid of a name.
But she was. She was afraid.
The magical sphere on her table began to glow.
It was small, no larger than her fist, made of crystal that seemed to hold its own light. It sat in a silver cradle, untouched for months, silent since the last time her queen had called. Now it pulsed gently, a rhythm that matched her heartbeat, a rhythm that meant someone was reaching for her across the vast darkness between worlds.
Sister Mary's breath caught. Her hands trembled. She had been expecting this call. Dreading it. Knowing that sooner or later, her queen would want news of her son.
She rose from her chair. Her knees were weak. Her hands were cold. She walked to the sphere and placed her palms on either side of it, feeling the warmth of its light against her skin. She bowed her head. She closed her eyes.
"May the Queen live forever," she said.
The sphere brightened. Light filled the room, golden and warm, chasing the shadows into the corners. A figure appeared within the crystal, tall, regal, her hair the color of honey in sunlight, her eyes the color of amber and fire. She wore a crown of silver leaves upon her brow, and her robes were white and green, the colors of the Sylvarion Kingdom, the colors of the Nature who had ruled the forests since before humans learned to walk.
She was the Queen of the Sylvarion Kingdom. The ruler of the High being who had sent Sister Mary to Earth. The mother of the child Sister Mary had raised.
And she was worried.
"Velthiriel Sylvarion," the Queen said, her voice sharp with frustration and something that might have been fear. "You have not contacted me. Not once. Do you have any idea how worried I have been?"
Sister Mary bowed lower, her forehead nearly touching the desk. "I beg for forgiveness, my Queen. I have been busy with my work here at the church. The children need me and the sisters depend on me. I cannot simply."
"Your work?" The Queen's voice rose, cutting through Sister Mary's excuses like a blade. "You have one task, Velthiriel. One task. Watch over my son. Keep him safe. Report to me." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer, sadder. "That is all I asked of you. And you could not even do that?"
Sister Mary raised her head. The Queen's face was visible now in the crystal, and she looked older than Sister Mary remembered. There were lines around her eyes that had not been there before, shadows beneath them that spoke of sleepless nights and endless worry.
"I am sorry, my Queen," Sister Mary said. "I did not mean to cause you distress."
The Queen waved her hand, a gesture of impatience. "Enough. Tell me of my son. How is he? Has he been eating properly? Has he gained weight? Has he been in any fights? Do I need to send an army? Do I need to." She stopped, her voice catching. "Do I need to come there myself?"
Sister Mary shook her head. "No, my Queen. Yuuta is well. He is healthy. He is." She paused, searching for the right word. "He is happy."
The Queen's face softened. The hard lines of royalty gave way to something gentler, something that looked almost like hope.
"Happy," she repeated. "My Beloved son is happy."
"Yes, my Queen. He has found." Sister Mary hesitated. She thought of Yuuta in his small apartment, cooking breakfast for his wife and daughter. She thought of the way he smiled when Elena called him Papa. She thought of the way he looked at Erza, even when she was threatening to kill him. "He has found the reason...."
The Queen was silent for a long moment. Her amber eyes glistened.
"The reason to live," she whispered. "Are you sure."
"Yes, my Queen."
The Queen pressed her hand against her chest, as if she could feel her heart beating through her robes. "I have been so worried, Velthiriel. I have been thinking... perhaps I should bring him back. To the Sylvarion Kingdom. Here, at least, he could live like a prince. He would want for nothing. He would be safe."
Sister Mary's voice was careful, measured. "My Queen, have you forgotten what the goddess said? If he returns to the Nova world, his sealed memories will reopen. And if that happens..." She paused. "The Great War will rise again."
The Queen's face hardened. "I have forgotten nothing. I remember every word the goddess spoke. Every warning. Every threat. But he is my son, Velthiriel. My blood but not my flesh but still How can I not worry about him?"
Sister Mary's voice was gentle. "My Queen, he is happy here, He is healthy. He is no longer the broken child we sent away. He has adapted to the human world. The wounds of his past no longer torment him."
The Queen sighed. It was a long, weary sound, the sound of someone who had been carrying a burden for too long.
"I know," she said. "I know. But Sophia..." She closed her eyes. "Sophia asks about him every day. She asks where her brother went. She asks when he is coming home. She asks if he remembers her. I cannot tell her the truth. I cannot tell her that we sent him away. What if she finds out?"
Sister Mary did not answer. There was nothing she could say. The truth was a wound that would not heal, and no words could make it better.
"We had to do it," the Queen said, more to herself than to Sister Mary. "For the sake of the world."
"Yes, my Queen. For the sake of the world."
The Queen was silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was different, quieter, more vulnerable.
"Does he still ask about his parents?"
Sister Mary nodded. "Yes, my Queen. He still wants to know. He still hopes that someday, someone will tell him the truth."
"And what do you tell him?"
"I tell him that when he graduates, I will tell him everything."
The Queen's eyes widened. "You cannot do that, Velthiriel. You know it is forbidden. The Sylvarion Kingdom has decreed that his past must remain sealed. If you reveal the truth, you will be executed." She paused. "For the prince's safety."
Sister Mary's voice was steady. "I know, my Queen. But there was a time when he stood at the edge of despair. He was alone. He was broken. He was ready to end his own life." She paused, her own voice catching. "He needed a reason to keep going. I gave him one."
The Queen stared at her. Her lips parted, closed, parted again. No sound came out.
"I gave him hope," Sister Mary said. "I told him that his parents were out there somewhere. That they loved him. That they had not abandoned him. That someday, when he was ready, they would come for him." She looked down at her hands. "It was a lie. But it kept him alive."
The Queen turned away. Her image flickered in the crystal, and for a moment, Sister Mary thought she had ended the call. But then she turned back, and her face was wet with tears.
"What in the heavens is happening?" she whispered. "What have we done?"
Sister Mary did not answer. There was no answer.
The Queen took a deep breath. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. When she spoke again, her voice was steady, but the sorrow remained.
"I will contact you later, Velthiriel. Watch over my son. Protect him."
"Wait, my Queen," Sister Mary said. "There is something I need to ask you."
The Queen's eyes sharpened. "What is it?"
Sister Mary hesitated. Her hands were shaking. Her heart was pounding. She did not want to ask. She did not want to know. But she had to.
"What do you know of the Queen of Atlantis?" she asked. "Is she... is she here? In the Nova world?"
The Queen went still. Her face went pale. Her hands, resting on the arms of her throne, tightened until her knuckles were white.
"I have heard that the Queen of Atlantis is absent from her kingdom," she said slowly. "The nightmare creatures have begun to attack in her absence. Her people are frightened. Her borders are weakening." She paused. "But that creature..." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "She does not fear even the gods. She looked into their eyes and did not blink. She is not someone to be provoked, Velthiriel. It is better that we remain silent. That we stay out of her way."
Sister Mary's knees buckled. She caught herself on the edge of the desk, her hands shaking, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"No," she whispered. "No, no, no."
The Queen leaned forward, her face filling the crystal. "What is it, Velthiriel? What have you done?"
Sister Mary looked up. Her green eyes were wide, her face pale as death.
"She is here, my Queen. The Queen of Atlantis. She is on Earth. She is..." She swallowed. "She is married to Yuuta."
The Queen stared at her. Her mouth opened. No sound came out.
The crystal flickered.
The light dimmed.
And then the Queen was gone.
__________
Next Morning.
The next morning came in through the kitchen window, soft and golden, carrying the scent of toast and butter and the quiet hum of the city waking up.
Yuuta stood at the stove, a pan in his hand, his movements automatic, flip, catch, flip, catch, the rhythm of a thousand mornings repeated until it became instinct. The toast was browning nicely, the butter sizzling at the edges, the kitchen filling with the warm, familiar smell of breakfast.
But his mind was elsewhere.
Not on the toast. Not on the pan. Not on the simple, grounding task of cooking.
His mind was on the practical exam. On the ingredients he would be given. On the judges who would watch him, measure him, decide if he was worthy.
His mind was on Erza and Elena.
This was the first time, the first time in his entire life, that someone would be coming to see him. Not to judge him. Not to evaluate him. Not to watch from a distance with cold, clinical eyes.
To see him.
To watch him cook.
To be proud of him.
The thought sat in his chest like something warm and fragile, something he was afraid to touch.
His mind drifted.
Memory surfaced, unbidden, soft as morning light.
Parent meetings.
He thought about all the years he had spent alone. The orphanage, with its cold beds and colder silences.
The other children who would not play with him, who whispered behind his back, who threw holy water on him while he slept.
The sisters who looked at him like he was something that should not exist, who crossed themselves when he walked past, who prayed for his soul like he was already damned.
He had gone to parent-teacher conferences alone, had sat in chairs meant for mothers and fathers who never came, had signed his own permission slips and checked his own homework and told himself that it did not matter.
Yuuta had always sat alone, During Festival or Meeting.
The chair beside him empty. The space beside him cold. The other parents glancing at him with looks he had learned to read, pity, curiosity, discomfort, before looking away.
Where are his parents?
Doesn't he have anyone?
Poor child.
He had wondered, sometimes, what his parents looked like.
Why they had left him.
If they had ever thought about him, if they had ever regretted it, if they had ever wondered what kind of person he would become. He had never found answers. He had stopped looking.
He had stopped hoping. He had learned to live with the silence, to fill it with his own voice, to talk to his car and his walls and the empty apartment that had been his home for years.
Now he had a family.
Not the family he had imagined as a child, with soft hands and warm voices and faces that looked like his. Something stranger. Something more complicated. Something he had never asked for and did not deserve.
But his.
They were coming to watch him. Erza, with her cold eyes and colder threats, who had promised to kill him and meant it. Elena, with her bright laughter and her small hands and her absolute, unquestioning faith that he was good.
They were coming.
And he was terrified.
He was happy.
He was everything all at once, and the feelings tangled in his chest until he could not tell one from the other, could not breathe, could not think.
THWACK.
Erza's fist connected with the back of his head.
"Ouch! Why did you hit me?...Your Highness."
Erza was standing behind him, her arms crossed, her face cold, her eyes fixed on the smoke rising from the pan. She did not look at him. She did not need to.
"The toast is burning," she said. "Are you planning to burn down the apartment with all of us inside?"
He looked at the pan. The toast was black, smoking, ruined. He grabbed it with the tongs, dropped it on the counter, turned off the stove. His face was red. His hands were shaking. He was embarrassed, and nervous, and happy, and terrified, all at once.
"I am sorry," he said. "I was just spacing out for a moment."
"Spacing out?" Erza's eyebrow arched. "What could possibly make you space out while cooking?"
He looked at the ruined toast, at the smoke still rising from the pan, at the woman who was standing in his kitchen with her arms crossed and her face cold and her eyes fixed on him. He thought about the day ahead. About Sister Mary. About the family that was coming to see him.
"It has been a while," he said, "since I felt happiness. My family is coming to watch me."
The words hung in the air. Yuuta paused, realizing what he had said. He had called them family. Erza and Elena. He had called them his family.
Erza's face turned red. It was not the red of anger or the red of embarrassment. It was something else, something she did not have a name for, something that made her heart beat faster and her hands curl into fists at her sides.
Family, she thought. He called me his family.
She opened her mouth to speak, to deny it, to push him away, to remind him that he was living in her mercy, that she was going to kill him, that he meant nothing to her. The words came out stumbling, tangled, wrong.
"You, what do you, who said, do not forget that you are living in my mercy! Do not ever forget that!"
Yuuta smiled. It was not his usual smile, the one he wore when he was nervous or scared or trying to hide what he was feeling. It was a real smile, warm and tired and grateful all at once.
"Yes, my queen," he said. "I remember. How could I forget?"
Erza turned and walked out of the kitchen. Her face was burning. Her heart was pounding. She did not look back.
Yuuta watched her go. He stood in the kitchen, the smoke still curling toward the ceiling, the ruined toast still sitting on the counter, and he sighed.
"I wonder," he said to himself, "will she ever cry for me? If I die by her hand... will she even care?" He paused. "No. She would not. She would forget me.She would move on. She would not even remember my name."
He picked up the pan and began to scrape the burned toast into the trash.
In the living room, Erza sat on the sofa, her back straight, her hands in her lap, her face turned toward the window where the morning light was beginning to warm the walls.
She was biting her nail, a habit she had picked up from him, a habit she hated, a habit she could not seem to break.
Family, she thought.
He called me his family.
He stood in the kitchen, burned the toast, and called me his family. And I felt... I felt
She did not know what she felt. She did not want to know.
She had spent centuries building walls around her heart, centuries convincing herself that she did not need anyone, that she was better off alone, that love was a weakness and weakness was death. And now this mortal, this foolish, ridiculous, impossible mortal, was standing in her kitchen, burning toast, and calling her his family.
She looked down.
A drawing was lying on the sofa beside her, left there from the night before, forgotten until now.
It was Elena's drawing, done in crayon, the colors bright and uneven, the lines unsteady but full of life.
She picked it up.
The drawing showed three figures standing in front of a castle.
The one in the middle was her, she could tell by the silver hair, the long dress, the crown she had drawn on her head.
On her left was Yuuta, his red eyes wide, his smile too big for his face.
On her right was Elena, her wings spread, her tail curled, her arms wrapped around her mother's waist. Behind them, a castle rose against a blue sky, and above it, in wobbly letters, Elena had written: HOME.
Erza stared at the drawing.
Her hand trembled.
Her eyes burned.
She looked at the three figures holding hands, at the castle behind them, at the word written above it in a child's careful hand.
Home.
She thought about the past weeks.
The meals Yuuta had cooked, the dances they had learned, the hands they had held. The way he had searched all night for her ring, the way he had given it back to her and asked for nothing in return.
The way he looked at Elena, like she was the sun, like she was the moon, like she was everything he had ever wanted and never thought he would have.
She thought about the promise she had made. The promise to kill him. The promise to make him pay for what he had done, for the years she had spent alone, for the daughter she had raised by herself.
She thought about the ring on her finger, the ring that had changed, the ring that had chosen him, the ring that would not come off until one of them died.
Do I really need to kill him? she thought. Just because he happened to sleep with me? Just because he made a mistake when he was young and foolish and did not know what he was doing?
She closed her eyes.
I am the Blade of Atlantis. The most ruthless being in any world. I do not forgive. I do not forget. I do not
She looked at the drawing again.
Home.
Her hand trembled.
Will I ever bring myself to forgive him?
She did not know.
For the first time in centuries, the Queen of Atlantis did not know what she would do.
She sat on the sofa, holding her daughter's drawing, and watched the morning light grow brighter through the window.
Sentinel Dock
The meeting room was silent except for the soft crackle of light and the distant sound of something dripping somewhere in the darkness beyond the walls.
The eight gang leaders sat around the table, their faces pale in the flickering light, their hands resting on the expensive wood in front of them.
They had been sitting here for hours, talking, arguing, planning.
They had not moved.
They had not eaten.
They had not done anything except think about the man with the red eyes and the sin they had been ordered to take.
The sin extraction. It was not a simple thing.
It was not something that could be done with a knife or a gun or any of the tools that men used to kill each other in the ordinary world.
It required preparation.
It required precision.
It required something that had been lost for a very long time, something that the Demon King had given them, something that they were afraid to use.
From the beginning, when humanity first ate the fruit of knowledge, when they first learned the difference between good and evil, they had been marked.
Every sin they committed left a stain on their souls, a mark that could not be washed away, a debt that could not be paid.
Murder.
Betrayal.
Lust.
Greed.
Each one added to the weight they carried, the weight that would be measured at the end of their lives, the weight that would determine where they would spend eternity.
The energy of sin was not holy.
It was not pure. But it was still energy.
It could be collected, stored, used.
The demons needed it the way humans needed food, the way plants needed sunlight, the way the world needed something to keep it turning.
It was the fuel that allowed them to evolve, to grow, to become something more than what they were.
The Demon King had been collecting sin for centuries, feeding on the misery of humanity, growing stronger with every war crime, every betrayal, every drop of blood spilled in his name.
The gang leaders knew this.
They had been serving the Demon King for years, delivering sin in the form of contracts and sacrifices and the slow, steady accumulation of human suffering.
They had never been asked to extract sin directly from a living person. They had never been given a target like this.
And they were afraid.
Not of the man. Not of the red eyes or the violence they had seen in the footage or the rumors that had begun to spread through the underworld.
They were afraid of the thing that lived in his apartment.
The thing that had made their low-ranking demons refuse to approach, refuse to enter, refuse to even look at the building. The thing that was blocking them, pushing them back, making their skin crawl and their hair stand on end.
One of the men spoke.
He was older than the others, his hair gray, his face lined, his eyes the color of old blood. He had been serving the Demon King longer than any of them, had seen things that would make the younger men weep, had done things that would make them run.
"We cannot get to him at home," he said. "The thing in that apartment is too strong, Protected some unkown Power, Our demons is Refused to go near it. They would rather be destroyed than face whatever is in there."
Another man nodded.
He was younger, eager, the kind of man who had joined because he wanted power and had found something else instead.
"I heard he attends some college," he said. "Some culinary school near Luna City, I believe it's John Bosco Culinary College."
The men looked at each other.
A plan began to form in their minds, slow and careful and cold.
"If we cannot reach him at home," the older man said, "we will reach him at school. We will find him when he is alone, when he is vulnerable, when the thing that protects him is not there."
Another man, fat and sweating, leaned forward. His voice was eager, hungry.
"We should employ a sniper," he said, his tone measured and deliberate as he laid out the plan. "Position him within range of the building, somewhere elevated, with a clear line of sight. One precise shot, and the matter is settled."
He paused briefly, letting the simplicity of it sink in.
"After that," he continued, "we move in, secure the Sin, and deliver it to the Demon King without delay."
The men nodded.
They looked at the photograph on the table, the young man with the red eyes, the man who had killed their servant, the man who carried the greatest sin in the world.
They looked at him, and they smiled.
"Today," one of them said, "we will receive the Demon King's blessing."
They rose from the table. They filed out of the room, past the skeletons, past the paintings, past the guards with their dead skin and their sharp teeth. They walked into the morning light, into the city, toward the college where a young man with red eyes was cooking breakfast and did not know they were coming.
To be continued...