Morning in Grand Aurelis arrived like light too pure for a world built on lies.
The blue sky stretched above the cathedral towers like silk spread by the hands of angels. Sunlight reflected through stained glass windows and shattered into dancing colors across the marble floors.
From afar, the city looked peaceful.
Like a painting.
Like a world that had never known betrayal.
Yet within the cathedral walls—
a young man was still trying to understand how his world had collapsed in a single night.
Arga stood in the training yard.
The morning wind brushed gently through his hair.
His body was still covered in wounds. White bandages wrapped around his shoulders, stomach, and back like ribbons carelessly placed by the hands of time.
Several days had passed since the battle in the forest.
Yet its shadow still clung to his mind like the silhouette of a tree that never truly disappears as the sun moves.
The training sword in his hand felt heavy.
Heavier than usual.
He swung it once.
Swish.
A basic strike.
He swung again.
Swish.
The second motion.
But his mind wasn't here.
He saw Kafka's face.
His friend's face.
The face of the boy who once shared dry bread with him in the orphanage.
The face that now, in his memories, was covered in blood and madness.
"Why…" Arga murmured quietly.
His sword stopped mid-air.
"Why did you do that, Kafka…?"
The wind passed by like an answer that would never come.
Because he's a demon!
That voice had been echoing more often lately.
Ignoring it, Arga tried to remember their childhood.
The small orphanage at the edge of the city.
Wooden walls that creaked every night.
The laughter of children who had nothing except each other.
Kafka always used to sit near the window.
Quiet.
Yet he would always smile faintly whenever Arga asked him to play.
They often fought with wooden sticks.
Pretending to be heroes.
Pretending to protect the world.
Arga would laugh and say,
"If monsters ever attack the world, we'll be the ones who save it!"
And Kafka would usually just respond with a small smile.
But now,
those memories felt like stories from someone else's life.
The sword slipped from Arga's hand.
Clang.
He let out a long breath.
Then walked out of the training yard.
His steps were slow.
Like someone who still wasn't sure if the world beneath his feet was real.
The cathedral corridors were filled with soft light.
Servants hurried past.
Paladins stood guard like living statues.
Arga passed them all without truly seeing them.
He had only one destination.
The infirmary.
When he opened the door,
the scent of herbal medicine greeted him immediately.
Inside the room,
a girl lay on the bed.
Bandages wrapped around parts of her body.
Sword wounds were clearly visible on her shoulder and arm.
Wounds that looked like the work of an extremely precise sword technique.
A technique Arga knew well.
Kafka's technique.
Arga walked closer.
Then sat beside the bed.
"Elara…"
His voice was barely a whisper.
Elara remained unconscious.
Her face was pale.
Yet still beautiful like a statue carved by a god.
Arga lowered his head.
"I'm sorry…"
His fists tightened.
"I couldn't stop him."
The memory of the battle resurfaced.
Kafka.
His sword.
Eyes filled with something Arga didn't recognize.
And blood.
So much blood.
Arga looked at his own hands.
Hands that once shared food with Kafka.
Now they felt like the hands of someone who failed to save his best friend.
"If only I were stronger…"
He stopped speaking.
Because the door suddenly opened.
A church servant stood there.
He bowed respectfully.
"Sir Arga."
Arga turned.
"His Excellency Bishop Magnus is requesting your presence."
Arga frowned slightly.
"Now?"
The servant nodded.
"In the Coronation Hall."
Arga slowly stood up.
He looked at Elara one more time.
"Rest well."
His voice was soft.
"I'll come back."
He did not know that the girl he trusted—
was not truly asleep.
The Coronation Hall of Grand Aurelis was vast enough to swallow the sound of the world.
White marble pillars rose like a forest of stone touching the ceiling.
A long red carpet split the hall like a river of blood flowing toward the altar.
Today,
the hall was full.
Nobles sat on both sides like peacocks adorned with golden crowns.
Common citizens filled the upper balconies.
They had all come for one reason.
To see the last hero.
When the massive doors opened,
every head turned.
Arga stepped inside.
His footsteps echoed across the marble floor.
Each step sounded like a bell tolling for something that could never be taken back.
Whispers began spreading through the crowd.
"That's him…"
"The last hero…"
"The others died…"
"The other one became a demon…"
Those words floated in the air like black birds.
Arga tried not to hear them.
But they still reached his ears.
He walked to the end of the red carpet.
There,
Bishop Magnus stood.
His white robes flowed like a waterfall of light.
His holy staff glowed softly.
His blind eyes faced directly toward Arga.
Yet somehow,
it felt as though the old man could see more clearly than anyone else in the room.
Magnus raised his hand.
The crowd instantly fell silent.
Then his voice echoed through the hall like a prayer spoken by the sky.
"People of Grand Aurelis…"
He paused.
"Today is a day filled with wounds."
His words flowed gently.
Yet every sentence felt like a blade polished with gold.
"We have lost many heroes."
"Many souls summoned from another world have fallen protecting this kingdom."
Some people in the crowd lowered their heads.
"But within darkness…"
Magnus continued.
"There is always a light that remains."
He raised his hand toward Arga.
"A young man who did not surrender."
"A young man who stood against betrayal."
"A young man who remained loyal to the light."
Arga stiffened.
Kafka's name was never spoken.
But everyone knew who he meant.
Magnus stepped closer.
"Arga."
His voice softened.
"Step forward."
Arga walked ahead.
His heart pounded like a war drum.
Magnus took a necklace from the altar.
It was not gold.
But shining silver.
The symbol of Grand Aurelis' heroes.
Magnus raised it high.
"From this day onward…"
His voice echoed across the hall.
"This kingdom has one remaining hero."
He placed the necklace around Arga's neck.
"With the blessing of the church and the people…"
Magnus spoke quietly—
yet his voice felt like the law of the world itself.
"I crown you as the Hero of Grand Aurelis."
The necklace touched Arga's neck.
And the entire hall erupted in cheers.
Applause thundered like a storm.
People stood.
Some cried.
Some shouted.
"Hero!"
"Hero!"
"Hero!"
Arga stood in the center of it all.
The necklace felt heavy.
Heavier than any sword he had ever lifted.
In his mind,
Kafka's face appeared again.
His friend.
His enemy.
Or perhaps…
something far more complicated.
Meanwhile,
at the altar,
Magnus smiled faintly.
A smile so subtle no one noticed it.
No one—
except the shadow behind his robes.
A shadow that seemed almost alive.
The voice echoed again from the cracks within Arga's skull.
Look at you… you're the center of the world now.
The cheers of the people still echoed through the coronation hall like waves crashing endlessly against a shore.
Arga's name was called again and again by the crowd.
"Hero!"
"Hero of Grand Aurelis!"
Their voices struck the cathedral walls like a raging storm.
Arga stood in the middle of it all, the silver crown resting upon his head like a small moon fallen to earth. The metal gleamed beautifully—yet to him it felt like an iron ring far heavier than it should be.
He didn't know whether this was honor…
or a burden.
At the far end of the hall,
Bishop Magnus stood calmly like a statue that had witnessed too many ages.
His smile was small.
Too small to be called joy.
Yet wide enough to show that something was going exactly according to plan.
He raised his holy staff.
The cheering faded instantly, like a storm forced into silence.
"People of Grand Aurelis," Magnus's voice echoed like a prayer struck by cathedral bells.
"Our hero has been born."
Arga lowered his head slightly.
But Magnus wasn't finished.
He raised his left hand.
"However… a Hero never walks alone."
Two figures appeared from the side entrance.
Their footsteps echoed across the marble floor like two notes in a war hymn.
The first figure—
a tall man with long red hair tied low behind his back.
His face was hard like stone weathered by endless storms.
Old paladin armor still clung to his body.
But its color had faded.
Like memories of war that never truly ended.
He stopped a few steps from Arga.
Then knelt.
"Sir Darius Valen," Magnus said calmly.
"A Paladin who survived the generation from twenty-five years ago."
Whispers spread among the nobles.
That name was not ordinary.
Darius was one of the few Paladins said to have survived the war against the Demon King Eldric—at least according to the history people believed.
Darius lifted his head.
His gaze was sharp like a freshly forged blade.
"I swear," he said in a deep voice, "to protect the Hero of Grand Aurelis with my life."
Magnus nodded.
Then raised his hand again.
The second figure stepped forward.
A young woman with short silver hair and eyes like a hunting eagle.
A long black bow rested on her back.
But two small axes hung from her waist.
Her steps were light.
Yet the aura around her felt like a fire ready to explode.
"Sir Lyra Vexis," Magnus introduced.
"One of the current generation's S-Rank knights."
Lyra smiled faintly.
A smile closer to a predator than a knight.
She knelt beside Darius.
"I swear to pierce every enemy that threatens the Hero," she said casually.
Two Paladins.
One from the past.
One from the present.
Both kneeling before Arga.
The hall fell silent again.
Magnus continued in a louder voice.
"The title Hero of Grand Aurelis is no ordinary title."
He slowly walked before the altar.
"In the long history of this world… only one person held it before Arga."
The nobles stiffened.
That story was like a legend rarely spoken aloud.
Magnus raised his face.
"A hero who once drove the Demon King from this world."
The crowd held its breath.
That name had long vanished from history.
Like a letter erased from the pages of time.
Yet the legend remained.
Magnus spoke with a deep voice.
"Now Arga will carry the same duty."
He looked at the young man.
"To reunite Aethernox, now fractured by war."
"And to destroy the Demon King in Jottunheim."
The hall erupted once more.
"Hero!"
"Hero!"
But Magnus still wasn't finished.
He raised his staff again.
"From this day forward… Grand Aurelis will reopen the Paladin Trials."
Whispers exploded among the nobles.
"The trials will select seven new Paladins."
"The companions of the Hero."
"The swords and shields of the world's future."
He paused.
"This trial will be supported by the Yue Empire."
That name made several people tense.
Magnus looked toward Arga.
"If the Hero succeeds in slaying the Demon King in Jottunheim…"
He smiled faintly.
"He will not only be the Hero of Grand Aurelis."
"But…"
His voice echoed like fate written across the sky.
"The Hero of Aethernox."
Meanwhile, on the other side of the world…
The sky of Jottunheim looked like an old wound that had never truly healed.
Red cracks across the horizon pulsed like the heartbeat of a buried giant behind black clouds. The wind howled wildly, carrying the scent of iron and eternal blood.
In the middle of that wasteland of bones and black stone,
Eldric Vaelorian stood casually.
A cigarette still hung from the corner of his mouth.
Before him stood two figures like fallen angels.
White wings.
Beautiful faces.
Bodies that looked holy.
Yet their aura was rotten like corpses hidden beneath flowers.
Vorzeth — Greed.
Belphegorion — Sloth.
Both stared at Eldric with hollow eyes like holes that devoured light.
Eldric sighed deeply.
"Seriously…"
He scratched his head.
"You're still using those angel forms?"
He spat on the ground.
"It's been fifty years. Couldn't even bother upgrading your appearance? You guys seriously have zero fashion sense."
He chuckled.
"Oh right, you're naked. Hahaha. Your boss must be really stingy if he can't even afford clothes for his servants."
Kafka stood several dozen meters behind him, his heart pounding violently.
The energy radiating from the two beings in front of him defied reason. The pressure alone felt like it was binding the air itself.
The sky grew darker.
The air thinner.
And while the coronation celebration roared with glory.
in another place,
a bloodbath was about to begin.
~To Be Continued ~