The dim light of the church's candles flickered against the blood-smeared armor of Aveline as she knelt before the grand statue of Auron, her axe resting at her side. Her hands clasped tightly, trembling, as she whispered her prayer to the Skyfather.
"I seek your guidance, Lord Auron," she murmured. "I want peace for this world. I don't want to shed more blood."
The words echoed faintly in the hollow silence of the church.
A chuckle cut through the quiet. It came from one of the pews. Aveline’s eyes opened, and she turned to see a cloaked figure lounging casually on a bench, her face obscured in the shadows of her hood.
“Praying for world peace while drenched in blood,” the woman said, her tone dripping with amusement. “How poetic.”
Aveline rose, her expression stern, though the exhaustion in her eyes betrayed her. “Is there something wrong with praying for peace?” she asked evenly, brushing aside the dried blood on her gauntlet.
“Of course not,” the woman replied, leaning forward slightly. “But if that’s all you do, peace will forever remain a prayer. Empty words, never reality.”
Aveline frowned, her voice rising just enough to match the woman’s tone. “I am doing something. I’ve worked tirelessly for it—fighting against the darkness that threatens this world.”
The cloaked woman tilted her head, the flicker of a smirk visible beneath the shadow of her hood. “By becoming the Herald? By slaughtering every demonic practitioner you encounter?” She leaned back, resting her arms on the pew. “And what happens when you kill one? Two more rise to take their place. You’re cutting weeds, not planting peace.”
Aveline stepped forward, her armor clinking faintly in the still air. “Then tell me. How do I break the cycle of hate?”
The woman’s smirk faded, replaced by an almost wistful expression. “Find the source,” she said softly. “Pull it out by the root, or... change it. Hatred has a beginning, Herald. It does not appear from nowhere. Would you like to know where it all stems from?”
Aveline hesitated. “And if I know this source?” she asked warily. “What happens then?”
“That,” the cloaked woman said, rising to her feet, “is entirely up to you.”
Aveline’s eyes narrowed as the woman reached for her hood, pulling it back to reveal a stunningly beautiful face framed by soft brunette curls. Her features were sharp, her smile enigmatic, but her emerald eyes captured the intense glow of ambition.
“I am Saria Kaelthara,” the woman said. “The question is, Herald, will you face the evil of this world if I give you a chance?”
Aveline stared at her, her breath caught between suspicion and curiosity. The faint echoes of her prayer lingered in the church, unanswered by Auron—but perhaps this was an answer of a different kind.
---
Aveline’s mind churned with memories as she fled the town’s gate, her heart heavier than the armor she wore. The image of Saria’s face haunted her. She remembered their first encounter vividly, the way Saria had worked tirelessly to persuade her to join her cause.
Saria’s words had resonated then, offering hope for something greater. Together, they were supposed to break the cycle of hatred, to reshape the world into something better. Aveline had started to see Saria not as an adversary, not as a business partner, but as a friend.
Now, that hope felt like a cruel joke.
Aveline’s steps faltered, her vision blurring with tears. Betrayal stabbed deeper than any blade, and the pain refused to abate. She clutched her axe tightly, her knuckles whitening as the tears streamed unchecked down her face.
As she reached the edge of the forest, the sorrow gave way to resolve. She wiped her face with her bloodstained gauntlet, smearing the grief across her cheek, and lifted her head. Despair would not claim her. If she failed now, she could still succeed later.
Her thoughts shifted to Eryndor. Their clash had been brief but enlightening. His movements, his words—they carried the weight of honor. Aveline believed he wasn’t beyond reach. If anyone could spark change within the cult, it was someone like him.
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As for Saria... Saria was lost. Aveline’s grip on her axe tightened, her expression hardening. She couldn’t leave Saria unchecked, not after what she had done. Aveline swore to herself that she would be the one to stop her, to bring justice for the lives consumed by her flames.
First, she needed reinforcements. The Herald army, stationed near the Verdant Shroud's edge since the beginning of the deathmatch, was waiting in case disaster struck. Aveline’s pace quickened, determination fueling her every step. The world had not yet broken her. There was still work to do, still hope to cling to, and still battles to fight.
Aveline’s stride came to an abrupt halt as a chilling laughter echoed behind her. The sound sent a shiver up her spine, and she spun around to see a figure flying toward her. It was Arayn, his body moving as if gravity itself bowed to him.
Her brow furrowed. Natural flight was a feat reserved for master-class practitioners—those above level 61—or those who knew flying magic. She wondered if Arayn had learned a flying magic.
“Stay back!” Aveline demanded, gripping her axe tightly as she planted her feet firmly on the ground. “What do you want?”
Arayn halted midair, hovering effortlessly as a smirk spread across his face. “What do I want? I want you to call your reinforcements.”
Aveline’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“It's okay to play fool and delay. You can also accompany me here. I excuse your presence because you intrigue me,” Arayn replied. He descended slightly, his piercing gaze locked on her. “How did you become close with Eryndor? He, for all his self-righteousness, is an egoist. He loves asserting his ideals onto others. I am fascinated that he can earn your respect. That makes me curious about you. Why would a Herald of the Skyfather stoop so low as to work alongside that worm, Saria?”
Aveline’s grip on her axe tightened. She refused to answer, raising her weapon instead. Without hesitation, she swung it with all her might, releasing a slicing arc of mana that streaked through the air toward him.
Arayn’s smirk widened as he ascended higher, evading the attack with ease. The slash dissipated harmlessly below him, leaving the trees swaying from the force. He looked down at her, his eyes glinting with amusement.
“How impudent. It seems,” he said, his voice carrying an almost playful tone, “that I’ll have to teach you a lesson.”
Arayn raised his hand, summoning [Cursed Fangs] into existence above him. They hovered, ready to strike. But before he could unleash them, a radiant light engulfed the area. A surge of holy energy swept through, obliterating the fangs in an instant.
The tiny fangs under his feet vanished as well, and he gradually fell from the air. Despite this, Arayn remained calm. He twisted slightly in midair, landing lightly on the ground.
His attention shifted beyond Aveline, settling on two figures who had emerged from the treeline. They wore armor emblazoned with the Heralds of the Skyfather insignia.
Arayn tilted his head slightly, his expression one of intrigue. “My system can’t discern their levels,” he remarked, his voice even. “To dissipate my magic so effortlessly... It’s clear these aren’t ordinary knights.” He studied their postures, noting their presence. “They’re not just expert-class practitioners—they’ve advanced further. These two are elite-class.”
Among practitioners, reaching expert-class meant evolving one’s initial class and surpassing level 21, gaining a new depth of power. But elite-class was a new tier of mastery and strength, attained upon reaching level 41 and completing a third class evolution. Those who reached this level were forces to be reckoned with, their abilities capable of overwhelming even dozens of expert-class opponents.
More Heralds emerged from the forest, their presence growing like a tide. The field soon filled with countless soldiers clad in armor, their numbers easily surpassing one thousand. They formed ranks around Aveline and the two knights.
Arayn’s lips curved into a wide grin, his expression alight with an unsettling glee, as if he were gazing at a feast laid before him. His eyes darted to the soldiers’ armor, noticing a distinct color—deep azure with silver streaks etched in the design. The markings signified their rank as Stormguard Soldiers, a force known to comprise of expert-class practitioners.
Shifting his gaze, Arayn’s attention returned to the two knights flanking Aveline. As he watched, the faint shimmer of concealment magic faded from their armor, revealing patterns of crimson and gold. These markings denoted their rank as Stormguard Captains, warriors who had ascended to elite class.
Arayn’s grin widened, a flicker of admiration in his voice as he spoke. “Impressive. You’ve brought the Stormguard to this little town, and not just the rank and file. Two captains as well.” He swept a hand in a theatrical gesture. “It seems your faith has spared no effort. I must say, I’m flattered by your seriousness.”
He took a step forward. “Tell me,” he called out, his voice carrying over the gathered soldiers, “is this a declaration of war?”
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken tension. Yet Arayn’s expression remained unchanged, his excitement undiminished. To him, this was entertainment.
The soldiers stomped their feet in unison, their voices rising in perfect harmony. "We have received your emergency call, Saintess!"
Arayn stood calmly, his gaze settling on Aveline. His lips curved slightly as he addressed her. "Aveline Stormrend," he said, drawing her full name out slowly, savoring it. "Daughter of Duke Garrick Stormrend. Young Saintess of the Heralds of the Skyfather. The Ewe Lamb of Auron. The one capable of commanding the formidable Stormguard army."
Aveline managed her breath, her chest rising and falling as she regained control. Her voice rang clear and unwavering as she spoke. "In Duskwatch Town, a blasphemous ritual is unfolding. The Crimson Sun Cult is slaughtering civilians indiscriminately to crown a new successor." She raised her hand, pointing at Arayn. "He is one of the successor candidates. The son of the High Sovereign of the Crimson Sun Cult."
Aveline turned to her soldiers, her tone resolute as she commanded, "Save the town. Capture all the candidates. We end this madness now!"
The army roared their approval, their morale surging as they responded in unison. Their battle cries echoed through the field.