Since it’s a secret mission, it could take even longer... I just hope the crusade doesn’t end in failure. Many have ended that way. He thought as he swung his blade. If it does end, I pray to the warrior god that I’m dead by then.
He swung again, and again, and again.
Soon, he entered a heightened state.
It was an exhilarating sensation when his body felt sharper, and clearer. Everything around him seemed crisper, more fluid, and faster. He could feel and even hear his heartbeat like a war drum, his breaths fast yet rhythmic. He was experiencing the thrill—the unity of himself and his blade.
This was something swordsmen aspired to do.
He turned, bringing his blade down on a creeping reacher. The blade sliced smoothly through the brownish-red tendrils, halving the plant. But he wasn’t finished. He spun, sweat scattering like crystal droplets as his blade struck the bark of a golden tree.
There was no resistance as if he was cutting through the air. But the echoing falling crack confirmed his cut. Normally, such force would require shard armor, but without it, it should have been harder—yet it felt even easier. Far easier—as if he had yet to even make contact with anything but the empty world.
He exhaled deeply, feeling a searing heat ignite in his stomach. It was intense but empowering like a smith blowing the flames as he forges a blade. Dunn felt his muscles tighten with each hot breath.
But he liked it... This heat was exhilarating.
He closed his eyes, temporarily blinding himself. He wanted his other senses attuned to his heightened state. But a part of him found the irony in it...
Here he was, training for strength while wishing for death. Wouldn’t being stronger make him even harder to kill?
Only the strong should earn the right to end my life.
The wind whooshed past his ears. As a well-trained legionnaire, Dunn possessed heightened senses, enabling him to pick up the rustling leaves, distant insects crawling, and the reachers’ tendrils searching for a cold source. He heard everything... Perhaps too well.
The thrill was intoxicating.
The blade felt hot in his hands, as if he’d grasped the sun itself, forged it into a sword, and wielded it. He hacked, sliced, and cut. He had no idea what he was striking, and, truthfully, he didn’t care. He was addicted to the thrill, each swing connecting perfectly and fluidly.
He was no swordsman, of course, but he’d taken pointers from people like the former Archon, the Legion Master, and occasionally observed others. He had always planned to emulate them, but after his battle with Adolla, he realized he severely lacked skill. Although he and Adolla had similar powers, Adolla was no swordsman, and yet his mastery over his shard armor was so refined that he could charge into battle alone without reproach.
When someone achieved that level of skill, they became free.
Dunn wanted that... But why? Why would a man seeking death crave more power?
It was a contradiction buried deep within him. Surviving the last battle had left him feeling stifled somehow. Perhaps with greater strength, he could attract a worthy foe—a being capable of ending his life.
He swung repeatedly. Time lost meaning. The fire in his stomach blazed like a furnace—so hot that he imagined it transforming into lava, ready to burn its way free. Yet he couldn’t stop.
He needed to experience the thrill more.
Then he sensed something nearby—something dangerous. A creature? A giant?
On instinct, he turned and slashed downward with all his might. Expecting the same smooth resistance, his entire body shuddered as his blade was blocked by another. The sound of metal clashing echoed.
A powerful voice commanded, “Stand down, Legionnaire Dunn!”
Dunn’s eyes snapped open, freezing at the sight before him.
The area around him was a wasteland of broken wood and sliced stone. It looked as if a crater had formed where he once stood—radiating outward like the aftermath of an explosion. But that wasn’t what left him shaken.
Standing before him was a woman. She was a bit shorter than him, with long dark hair concealed under a golden hood. She wore only a simple white cloth with golden threads draped down between her legs. The rest of her body was covered in intricate tattoos and inscriptions—simply looking at them made him feel a profound weakness wash over him. He staggered back.
The woman’s head was lowered, obscuring her face, but he knew one thing: she was...
“Scribed Maiden!” he exclaimed.
Beside the Scribed Maiden stood the towering Golden Knight, spear in hand. He had likely been the one to halt Dunn’s strike.
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Dunn dropped to his knees, punching his head to the ground. “Forgive me!” he shouted.
This was a Scribed Maiden—a woman who, outside the Chaplain, was one of the warrior god’s most devoted servants. Although each ministry had its own Scribed Maidens, those of the warrior god were held in particular reverence.
Pressing his head further into the ground, he mentally berated himself. Stupid. Stupid. How could he have lost himself in the thrill to the point of almost harming a Maiden? Forget about an honorable death in combat—if he had committed such blasphemy, he’d be lucky to be permitted to die at all.
Scribed Maidens were sacred, women inscribed with the words of the warrior god, channeling their souls to manifest great miracles into the world.
And he dared strike such a being?
"Keep calm, Dunn," the radiant sure said. "You are not in the wrong; it is ours for disturbing a man in his time." He lowered his head. "I apologize."
Dunn froze. Did the radiant sir apologize to him? He was too stunned for words.
After some time to collect himself, he heaved a silent breath. "Sir, What brings you to me." He also bowed to the quiet scribed maiden.
The Knight was silent for a moment, then said, "I see that you were practicing a breathing style from the swordsmen's towers."
I was? Dunn was unsure himself. Was that the heat that was boiling in the pit of his stomach? That was the breathing style?
Of course, he was long aware that swordsmen drew strength from the thrill and channeled it through special breathing styles, but how he could do that eluded him.
"Come with me," The Knight said, "We have things to discuss."
----------------------------------------
Jean was led to a garden at the back of the pavilion. She left the main building, carved into the side of the hill, and took a roundabout path to the rear, arriving at a beautifully adorned space filled with flowers before taking a seat.
The chairs were notably soft, surrounded by a bordered field of flowers ranging from roses to various pure roses, most of which were not native to the southern dominion. Jean sat on a wooden chair with a round table between herself and Solane.
Solane was instructing a Lost to pour her a drink. The red-hodded hunched man trembled with excitement each time Solane commanded him to keep his hand steady or avoid spilling. Yet, the Lost seemed lucid enough to deliberately spill a few drops each time, apparently enjoying the reprimands. Even at her age, Solane was still a Vixen, far more attractive than most her age—not to mention possessing the scentless power of charm.
This game of scolding and spilling continued until Solane finally grew exasperated and dismissed the Lost, who left looking somewhat dejected.
They sat beneath a black canopy, shielding themselves from the falling red dust that swirled down in wisps and occasionally in red tendrils.
This dust would have overtaken the world if not for the fact that grass and crops could absorb it as fertilizer. Farming was nearly effortless, as the dust nourished plants directly, making farm labor almost obsolete... well, except for the Beastmen’s fields.
Jean smiled as she picked up her porcelain cup, which held a dark, reddish tea. With no men around, they could enjoy the drink—without having to stop due to customs. Taking a sip, she relished the cold tea’s soothing effect.
She glanced down at the cup, noticing a pale blue seed-like object inside... an icestone, used to keep the drink chilled.
Aren’t these mostly found in the lost Eastern Dominion? Jean wondered. So how are they still in use here?
As if sensing her thoughts, Solane smiled, raising her cup to her red lips and taking a sip. “Sanguines have many uses in the empire,” she said. “Fortunately, a branch was developed with powers that mimic the icestone... Although, unlike the eternal ones from the eastern dominion, these melt after a while.”
“So it’s just regular ice, then,” Jean replied.
Solane chuckled softly. “Yes, it is just ice. But with the world being so hot, this is a luxury.”
“Doesn’t the western dominion also have icestones?”
“Yes, but they’re less natural than one might think. There, a particular ability is continually at work, creating these rare icestones,” Solane explained. “I imagine the continent would have burned up long ago if not for those occasional icy reprieves.”
“Maybe one of their ancient gods caused it.”
“Possibly.” Solane shrugged. “But it’s unlikely. The giants have only ever worshipped two gods—the first, whose name has been lost to history, and the second, the Dust or Dawn Bringer, who, according to records, died during the third or maybe fourth millennium.”
“When the eleven gods freed humanity from the other races?” Jean asked.
“Precisely… But that millennium saw so many events that some records contradict one another. We may never know the exact sequence. Still, none of the giant gods were associated with cold. This is evident in the Golden Giant branch, which predominantly wields powers of war and sunlight.”
Jean nodded, though her true interest lay in the events of the third millennium. “Madam Solane?” she asked. “The Mother has given me an... urgent mission that may require an understanding of the third millennium.”
Solane studied her, then smiled. “You know, you would have made a wonderful daughter.”
Jean froze, lowering her head. She had never known her parents, and perhaps this was why such words affected her deeply. Yes, she would have loved having someone like Solane as her mother.
“Although, your tendency to avoid learning might be a bit of a drawback,” Solane teased.
Jean looked up, laughing softly. “Yes, yes.”
“Alright.” Solane took another sip of her drink. “The third millennium is notable as the era when the Empire of Man was first established. However, some obscure research claims the current empire is identical to the one from that time.”
Jean was confused. Hadn’t the empire always been the empire? So what was this about another empire before? If there was one, who founded it? Surely it would be related to the Sovereign Ruler.
“Of course, that information could be inaccurate,” Solane continued. “The third millennium was a time when humanity was enslaved by various races and their gods. Then came the Mad King—some say he was human, others claim he was a demon. Either way, he led an army of men clad in rusted iron, waging war on all of humanity...”
"During the war, he collaborated with numerous other gods, one was said to be a wolf, and another was said to be the queen of the vampires. Of course, each of these beings had names, but that also has been long lost to history." Solane took another sip of her tea.
The Mad king worked with other gods? That would make sense since he was made. But then how about black? What role does he play during that time? Jean thought, but couldn't gleam any answer.
Solane eyed her and added, "Nonetheless, what we know after the war was that there was no longer any God walking the world. For some reason, after the war, the gods retreated back into their divine Kingdoms, and could only interfere through special means. Outside that, many Gods also died during that time...One was called the Flesh Ancestor."
Jean froze. Did Madam Solane just mention the Full title of a god? What happens now? Was she about to die?