[Eslyn City: The Holy Sanctuary]

Eslyn City stood as a beacon of hope and faith, the heart of the human kingdom’s spiritual strength.

It wasn’t just a city; it was the sacred cradle of the gods, their presence etched into its towering temples and carved statues.

Known as the Holy City, it was governed not by nobles but by the revered Pope, a man said to carry the voice of the divine.

Its defenders weren’t ordinary soldiers but paladins—warriors clad in shining armor, blessed by divine power.

Their faith was their shield, and their swords gleamed with the radiance of the gods.

Amid this sanctity, the city's most important figure, the Saintess, lay in a secluded chamber within the grand temple.

Her chamber was adorned with the soft glow of holy light, the air heavy with the scent of sacred incense.

On a bed draped in pure white linens embroidered with golden threads, the Saintess lay motionless.

Her face, serene even in unconsciousness, was framed by cascading golden hair.

It had been days since she had fallen into this mysterious state, moments after receiving an oracle about the Demon King.

The room was silent except for the soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing.

A lone maid sat beside her, watching with worried eyes.

The flicker of the holy flame from the corner altar reflected her unease.

Then, faintly, the Saintess’s delicate fingers twitched.

Her breathing quickened, and her eyes fluttered open, revealing a pair of luminous emerald orbs.

“Saintess! You’re awake!” the maid gasped, her voice breaking with relief as she rushed to her side.

“What… happened?” the Saintess murmured, her voice weak but soft, like a gentle breeze.

“Please wait, my Lady. I’ll fetch His Holiness at once!” Without waiting for an answer, the maid dashed out of the chamber, her footsteps echoing down the marble halls.

Moments later, the heavy chamber doors swung open, and an old man stepped in.

His presence was commanding, yet gentle—a figure draped in flowing robes of gold and white, emanating an aura of divine light.

This was the Pope, the spiritual guide of the kingdom and the keeper of the gods’ will.

“Holy Father,” the Saintess whispered, attempting to rise from her bed despite her frailty.

“Do not strain yourself, my child,” the Pope said softly, raising a hand to halt her.

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His voice was filled with warmth and concern, his eyes kind yet burdened with the weight of the world.

“How are you feeling, my dear? Are you well?” he asked, stepping closer to her bedside.

The Saintess nodded weakly, her brows furrowed. “I am… fine. But please, tell me—what has happened?”

The Pope’s expression grew grim, the lines on his face deepening as he took a breath.

“The Demon King has begun his march of destruction. Villages and cities have fallen in his wake, their cries for mercy unanswered.”

The Saintess’s heart sank, her hands clutching the blanket tightly.

“No… this cannot be,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

The Pope hesitated, his voice heavy with sorrow as he continued.

“Now, the Demon King’s forces are heading for Eslyn itself.”

The Saintess’s eyes widened in shock, her breath hitching.

“Eslyn? Here? How could this happen?”

“Fear not, my child,” the Pope said, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Duke Driesell and his army stand guard at the temple’s gates. The paladins are also ready, their faith unwavering. The gods are with us.”

Despite his reassuring words, the Saintess could sense the gravity of the situation.

Her chest tightened as a deep foreboding settled over her.

Her trembling hands clasped together in prayer as she closed her eyes.

“Holy Father,” she began, her voice steady despite her fear, “please allow me to assist. I cannot sit idly while our people suffer.”

The Pope regarded her with a mixture of pride and sadness.

“You bear a heavy burden, my child. The light of the gods shines through you, but you must not exhaust yourself recklessly. Your strength may yet be needed when the darkest hour falls.”

The Saintess nodded, though the worry in her heart did not fade.

She looked toward the chamber’s window, where the sky outside was a dull gray, heavy with the promise of an impending storm.

“What about the hero, Holy Father?” she asked, her voice tinged with worry and hope.

The Pope smiled faintly, gesturing with his hand.

“Come with me, my child. I will show you.”

The two walked in silence through the grand marble halls of the temple.

Sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the floor.

Despite the beauty of the surroundings, an air of tension hung heavy.

They soon arrived at an open field at the heart of the temple grounds.

The area was serene, surrounded by towering statues of the gods, their faces carved with expressions of wisdom and power.

In the center of the field, a young man sat cross-legged on the ground, his eyes closed in deep meditation.

He was dressed in simple, unadorned garments, his golden hair catching the light and giving him an almost ethereal glow.

Despite his calm demeanor, his presence radiated strength and potential.

“That is the hero,” the Pope said softly.

“He is still undergoing his trial.”

The Saintess clasped her hands together, her eyes fixed on the young man.

“I pray he succeeds soon. We need him now more than ever.”

The Pope nodded solemnly.

The Hero’s Trial is a sacred process..

It is the path through which hero prepares to face the Demon King.

The gods themselves test him, measuring his resolve, courage, and purity of heart.

Only by overcoming their challenges can he receive their blessings.

There are two ways the trial can be conducted.

The first is through an earthly journey—an adventure fraught with perils, where the hero must prove himself by overcoming real-world obstacles.

But this path risks his life.

Thus, the second method was chosen.

In an imaginary plane created by the gods, the hero faces their trials.

While his body remains here, his mind and soul are tested.

The only condition is that he must not be disturbed during the process.

That is why the paladins guard him so vigilantly.

The Saintess looked past the hero to the statues of the gods.

Behind each statue was an orb of light.

Some glowed brightly, indicating blessings already bestowed, while others remained dim, waiting for the hero to earn them.

As they stood in quiet observation, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind them.

A tall, broad-shouldered man clad in gleaming armor approached.

His presence was commanding, his every movement exuding strength and confidence.

It was Duke Driesell.

His face was stern, his sharp blue eyes scanning the field as he approached the Pope and the Saintess.

“Your Holiness,” the Duke began, his voice deep and steady, “is everything ready?”

The Pope turned to him with a nod.

“Yes, Duke. All the paladins and priests are prepared, and the citizens have been evacuated to safety.”

Driesell crossed his arms, his gaze lingering on the meditating hero.

“Good. The battle will begin soon. Rest assured, I will protect the temple and everyone within it.”

The Pope placed a hand on the Duke’s armored shoulder. “We trust you, Duke Driesell. May the gods guide your sword.”

At that moment, the haunting sound of a distant horn shattered the stillness.

Its deep, resonant tone carried a foreboding message: the enemy had arrived.

The Duke’s expression hardened, and he turned toward the temple gates.

“They’re here,” he said grimly.

Without another word, he strode away, his cape billowing behind him.

The Saintess watched him go, her heart heavy with both fear and hope.

Turning back to the Pope, she whispered, “Holy Father, will we truly be able to hold them back?”

The Pope gave her a reassuring smile, though his eyes betrayed his concern.

"Have faith, my child. The gods are watching over us. And soon, everything will be okay.”

As the Duke’s voice rang out beyond the temple, rallying the paladins to their positions, the Saintess knelt before the statue of the chief deity.

Closing her eyes, she prayed fervently for strength, for protection, and for the hero’s success.

Outside, the sound of marching footsteps grew louder, the clash of weapons and distant war cries signaling the storm of battle.

The fate of Eslyn hung in the balance, and the world awaited the hero’s awakening.