Only a few miles away from the towering statue of the Lord of Prosperity, a massive white palace stood in unnatural splendor.
Its towering walls gleamed with an almost blinding purity.
Each one was lined with hundreds of intricate golden accents that shimmered beneath the light like pieces of a distant heaven.
The structure radiated an ethereal beauty—one so pristine, so untouched, that it felt completely alien when compared to the festering decay that plagued the rest of Senson Town.
It did not belong there.
Beyond the palace gates, deep within the legendary throne room, something even more surreal awaited.
A garden.
Rows upon rows of delicate pink roses flourished across the polished floor, their petals soft and vibrant.
Each patch was arranged with obsessive precision, bordered by white and gold walls chipped faintly at their edges.
It was breathtaking.
A loud, unrestrained yawn shattered the fragile elegance of the room.
At the far end of the garden, sprawled carelessly atop a shimmering bronze throne, lay a man.
The throne itself was a strange blend of beauty and excess—its armrests choked with twisting green vines and blooming flowers, as though nature had been forced to worship the one seated upon it.
The King of Senson spoke.
Tellewin: "Ah—another miserable morning in this godforsaken place. How delightful."
His voice dripped with mockery, each word laced with unconcealed disdain.
Tellewin shifted slightly, his long white hair cascading over his shoulders and flowing freely in the restless wind.
Each strand shimmered faintly, catching the light like scattered diamonds as it swayed against the rising breeze.
A light teal-green cloak billowed behind him, draped over scarred black armor that bore the weight of countless battles. Thick tufts of white lion fur lined its ends.
Along the cloak's edge, the grand sigil of the First Ones had been etched into the fabric… though it hung torn.
It had been disrespected by it's holder.
His crimson eyes gleamed lightly. Each pupil sharp, polished, and eerily beautiful.
They were like rubies carved too perfectly.
An old white jester mask rested over the upper half of his face, its edges cracked and its hollow expression frozen in a silent mockery of joy.
It concealed everything above his mouth, leaving only the faint curl of his smirk exposed to the outer world.
In his hand, he held a mirror. It was a small one.
Tellewin stared into it. Not at himself, but through it.
His gaze bored into the glass as if searching for something buried beneath its surface—something deeper than a reflection, something that refused to show itself no matter how long he looked.
His grip tightened.
Crack!
Without a word, he hurled the mirror aside.
It was now left to join the massive heap of broken glass already littering the floor beside his throne—a graveyard of reflections, each one fractured beyond recognition.
Tellewin: "Angela! Fetch me some better mirrors. These ones are pathetic. Too weak… too fragile to withstand my gaze."
He leaned back lazily, laying his head against the throne as if the matter bored him already.
Tellewin: "They break far too easily."
A woman stepped forward from the garden's end.
Angela Destinies—one of the fifteen Supreme Priests of the First Ones, personally hand-picked by the High Prosecutor himself.
Her presence was angelic.
Bright yellow curls poured down her shoulders, streaked with soft hues of orange and white that shimmered gently under the light.
A pristine white-and-gold mitre rested atop her head, aligned with the elegant robes that draped over her figure—layers of fine cloth adorned with brown patterns.
Her skin was pale and dotted with freckles, delicate and unblemished. Her light-blue eyes shimmered like distant stars drifting across the waves of a quiet ocean.
She looked divine. And yet, she was currently harboring an expression filled with disgust.
The mere sight of Tellewin made her want to gouge her eyes out. She was repulsed by the man, but she dared not show it.
Angela maintained her gentle smile.
Angela: "Oh, Tellewin... don't you think you're spending just a bit too much on such… insignificant things?
Perhaps you should be a little more open about how you spend your time. When will you make your next public appearance? The people are eager to see their Lord of Prosperity."
Tellewin slowly straightened atop his throne, resting his chin against his hands as he looked down at her. One of his brows arched in mild amusement.
He scoffed.
Tellewin: "Public appearance? Pfft—you expect me to go down there and speak to those… things? I don't even have the words to describe them."
His crimson eyes flickered faintly.
Tellewin: "No. I think not. Their blind worship is more than enough. I have no interest in hearing them actually speak."
Angela's expression remained composed—but beneath it, her stomach twisted in anger.
Angela: "Their devotion would only deepen with your presence, my Lord. Faith thrives on connection… not distance."
She stepped forward slightly, her voice calm but firm.
Angela: "Senson Town was built upon a religious foundation. It wouldn't be right for you to rule as their King, yet remain absent from that devotion.
It is difficult to understand why your even—"
Tellewin: "I'm not done soaking in my victory."
Angela: "What…?"
A slow grin spread across his face.
Tellewin rose from his throne, brushing bits of glass and dust from his cloak as he stepped forward.
Tellewin: "Do you have any idea how rare it is… for someone to win, Angela?
Power. Strength. Influence. Intelligence. You can gather all of it—stack it neatly in your hands… and still lose everything in a single moment."
His smile thinned.
Tellewin: "Because in the end… it was never truly about any of that. It was about luck, Angela."
He locked eyes with her.
Tellewin: "Filthy, disgusting, unfair luck. I was not a lucky man back then. I was a man of many losses. Too many.
So now that I've finally won, I believe I've earned the right to enjoy it."
He waved a hand dismissively, turning his everlasting gaze away from her.
Tellewin: "Do me a favor and quit whining like a child."
Angela's nails dug into her palms as she turned away, her jaw tightening as quiet curses slipped beneath her breath.
Tellewin: "And fetch me those mirrors while you're at it!"
BOOM.
The palace doors exploded inward. The impact echoed through the throne room as the hinges buckled against the force.
Angela stumbled back, eyes widening as a cluster of knights practically spilled into the chamber.
They frantically scrambled upright, urgency radiating from their every movement.
Knight One: "L-Lord Tellewin! They've arrived! The Shining Crusaders are here!"
Tellewin didn't even spare the knights a glance.
Instead, he calmly reached into his cloak and pulled out a worn pocket watch, its ticking uneven. He flipped it open, checking the time with a sigh.
Tellewin: "Already?
The Flowers of Kronos, yes? Theordiex's little pets. It seems the 'public appearance' you were so eager for… is about to become a reality after all, Angela."
Meanwhile—Back in the heart of Senson Town—August's father's desperate cries still echoed through the streets.
The townsfolk stared in stunned silence, their eyes locked onto the struggling knights as they tried to keep the frantic man from collapsing.
But it wasn't his grief that held their attention. It was the figures standing beside the guards.
The Shining Crusaders.
A sacred order of paladins who wandered the realm, enforcing the laws of Order and purging the chaos hidden beneath civilization's surface.
Followers of Theordiex—The Titan of Order.
At their head stood the Blade of Kriax—the Daughter of Order herself.
Levy Pharloom Kronos.
Levy stepped forward, her presence alone forcing space to open around her as two Crusaders moved in tandem, firmly pushing the town knights out of the way.
She lowered herself to one knee beside the trembling man, placing a steady, reassuring hand on his shoulder.
Her short, bright red curls fluttered softly in the air, each strand glistening like ripe strawberries below the sunlight.
Her scarlet eyes shone with an almost celestial glow, each pupil spiraling with a soft white orb that seemed to turn endlessly within her gaze.
Her silver armor gleamed brilliantly, shimmering with faint blue sparks that danced across its surface. She adjusted her round white glasses with calm precision, her other hand resting firmly against the hilt of her brown leather sheath.
Her crimson cape flowed behind her, tattered at the edges—decorated with dirt, torn emerald stems, and pale pink petals.
When she spoke, her voice was soft, but unshakable.
Levy: "I promise you… your daughter is alive, sir. But I need you to breathe. Slowly. What is your name?"
Gerald: "G-Gerald… Gerald Morginstein…"
Levy gave him a small nod.
Levy: "Alright, Gerald. Tell me what happened—"
She stopped. Her gaze shifted to something bubbling up behind him. Her expression hardened instantly.
A dark, foul patch of ink had begun spreading across the ground. It reeked of something unnatural.
It then exploded outward.
A burst of luminous energy shot skyward, tearing through the air as it vanished into the clouds above.
The Crusaders reacted instantly, drawing their weapons in a unified motion as they advanced toward the steaming crater.
Levy: "Wait! Stand down."
Gerald: "A-August!"
The smoke stirred, and someone could be faintly seen moving within it.
A small figure stumbled forward, coughing and shaking. It was a girl drenched in a slick black liquid that clung to her skin and clothes.
August.
Her eyes darted wildly before landing on Gerald.
August: "F-Father…?"
Her voice cracked. Her eyes filled with tears. A world of emotions swelled inside her—hope, relief, and something much heavier.
Guilt.
She began to take a step forward, but suddenly stopped. She spotted the Crusaders surrounding her, weapons raised.
Fear snapped through her body like lightning. She turned away and ran.
Shining Crusader: "Hey! Stop! Wait—!"
Levy cursed under her breath, pushing past her own men as she moved to pursue.
Bump.
August slammed into something solid. She winced, clutching her head as she staggered back, words spilling from her bruised lips.
August: "I-I'm sorry… I didn't mean—"
Her voice died instantly. Her heart lurched and croaked.
The world fell silent, and time itself seemed to stop.
Her throat went dry and her ears rang. Her vision blurred at the edges as her pupils shrank into pinpricks of pure terror.
Standing over her… was the First Captain himself.
Jerry Windfield.
His face was swallowed in shadow, completely obscured—save for those eyes. Those cold, starlit blue eyes.
A grotesque aura poured from his body, thick and suffocating, surging through the streets like a living thing.
It was monstrous.
Standing beside him, Hera Xyles exhaled a few puffs of smoke, her expression unreadable as she lazily lifted her clay pipe.
She didn't even bother to glance at the terrified child.
Jerry titled his head slightly.
Jerry: "Huh?"