The Temple of the Ancient is where the demon nuns gather to pray and seek forgiveness. Its origins are shrouded in mystery—no one remembers when it was built or who constructed it.
Some speculate it may have been commissioned by a king who envisioned salvation through a God that would bless his people and ensure his legacy, remembered before every meal and every dusk. Others suggest it was built by a king seeking control, using religion to pacify his people when their anger became too much to bear.
Perhaps it was the work of pure-hearted women, striving to create a haven where their families and friends could secure a place in heaven after enduring a harsh life. They toiled to build a grand space where the weary could gather in unity. Or maybe it was born from the delusions of lunatics, convinced they could commune with God and perform miracles—mere coincidences mistaken for divine intervention.
Maybe all these theories hold some truth, or perhaps none of them do. Regardless, the Temple of the Ancient has withstood the trials of time. It remains standing, preserved by the dedication of its nuns and the occasional priests who have cared for it, keeping it clean, safe, and sacred for anyone seeking solace.
In the demon kingdom, this temple is a solitary marvel located in the capital. A vast structure, its interior is lined with rows of carved stools, inviting visitors to sit in tranquil contemplation while offering their prayers.
At the far end of the temple stands a modest table where the head of the nuns, affectionately called Nuna by the girls, delivers lessons at the end of each month.
The nuns are marked by a distinctive scar over their right eye, always kept closed—a traditional symbol of their devotion. According to ancient scriptures:
"One eye shall see the corruption, and the other the purity. One sees sin, the other virtue. One perceives the ugliness in nature, while the other beholds its beauty. A nun of the temple does not need two eyes; she sees only one—the world as God created it: pure, beautiful, and whole."
The nuns are organized into three ranks, each marked by their robes. New students wear white, symbolizing their status as novices, a phase they remain in until they graduate. Fully trained nuns wear black robes, signifying their role as mentors and caretakers. These experienced nuns guide the novices, manage the temple's daily affairs, and ensure its sacred traditions endure.
The priesthood within the temple was far simpler in structure compared to the nuns. Priests had a single rank and wore black robes and brown pants, embodying a dual nature: they were a force of strength when needed and compassionate souls to all who sought their aid.
If a nun ever required assistance—an occurrence rare for various reasons—a priest was obligated to step in. Their service was seen as part of their own pursuit of salvation, just like everyone else in the temple.
At the pinnacle of the temple’s hierarchy stood the third rank, reserved for only one person—the head of the nuns, the Nuna, Verenya Barelin. A name etched into demon history, even the irreligious knew of her wisdom and resilience, particularly from the kingdom’s dark era.
Clad in dark robes adorned with diamond-blue patterns along the shoulders and sides, Verenya was a striking figure. Her long white hair framed a face both beautiful and commanding. Her height rivalled that of the guards and knights, and her scars told a story of suffering and survival.
The traditional scar over her right eye marked her devotion to the temple, but the jagged scar on her left eye marked something far darker. Blind, yet her wisdom and efficiency were unparalleled, earning her reverence in an era defined by chaos.
Verenya was not only a spiritual leader but also a shrewd merchant. She managed the temple’s finances with precision, ensuring its survival and stability.
Her legacy, however, was forever tied to her encounter with Karaban Vesyoni, a demon of legendary cruelty. She was the only person known to meet him at his peak and live to tell the tale—though not without paying a terrible price.
The memory of that day remained vivid in her mind. Karaban, drenched in blood, stood before her with a cold, unyielding gaze. His words, like the edge of his blade, were sharp and unforgiving. "Nun, if you leave the temple or any of your sisters, I will burn you alive."
A young Verenya, trembling with fear, could not look away from the lifeless body of the former Nuna, whose brutalized corpse lay as a warning to all. Karaban’s voice snapped her back to reality. "Look at me."
Verenya hesitated, her body trembling uncontrollably. When she finally raised her head, the next moments were a blur of pain and agony. With swift cruelty, Karaban sliced through her left eye, leaving her writhing in anguish as blood poured down her face. His cold words followed, searing into her memory. "This is how you’ll remember my words. Now leave."
The nuns rushed to Verenya’s side as she clutched her wounded face, her vision gone forever. The cursed visage of Karaban Vesyoni was the last thing she ever saw, a haunting image of the monster who embodied the darkness of that era.
Suddenly, a nun burst into the office, snapping Verenya out of her work and thoughts at the same time. Verenya looked up at the nun, who was sweating and panting heavily. The nun, Yenever, struggled to catch her breath as she exclaimed, "Nuna! They took Castalia!"
Verenya rose calmly, filled a cup of water, and handed it to Yenever. The nun drank slowly, her breaths gradually steadying. Verenya helped her sit on a chair and gently asked, "What happened?"
In the demon kingdom, calling it a land "filled with demons" would be an incomplete and inaccurate description. While demons formed a significant part of the population, the kingdom was also home to dwarves, elves, devils, and even humans. These weren’t mere visitors or passing travellers—they were as much citizens and locals as the demons themselves.
Centuries ago, an unnamed adventurer ventured into the demon kingdom, carrying with him only the beliefs instilled by his society. He lived among the kingdom's diverse people, learning their ways, forming friendships, and eventually meeting the love of his life. Together, they were blessed with children. He lived a long, fulfilling life and passed away surrounded by his children and his still-youthful wife.
His children, born as half-demon, half-human, grew up to become honorable individuals. They married, had children of their own, and carried on their father’s legacy. Though this happened thousands of years ago, and the adventurer’s wife, children, and grandchildren are long gone, their lineage continues to this day.
Over the centuries, humans married other humans, preserving their bloodlines. A wandering ghoul spent her life travelling to be with the demon she loved. A devil and a demon cast aside their ancient grudges to marry and build a life together. A ghoul fell for a beautiful devil, while a demon found love with an elven warrior. Stories like these happened often, weaving the diverse tapestry that made up the demon kingdom. Every race, whether or not they had demon blood, became a part of this kingdom's identity, coexisting as its citizens.
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Some individuals inherited the longevity of their demon ancestors, while others lived shorter lives. It was a natural balance that rarely troubled anyone. Elves, demons, devils, and dragons could live up to 2,000 years. Ghouls might reach 170, humans to 100, and dwarves up to 300. Those with mixed blood, depending on their lineage, often lived longer, though not always. For instance, a devil, elf, and dragon hybrid wouldn’t necessarily surpass the lifespan of their parents.
Yet, if you were to ask an elderly person, regardless of their race, with grey hair and a weary face, how their life had been, their answer would likely be the same. "My life was lovely. I only wish I could live a little longer."
That's why the nuns and priests are so devoted to God. No matter how long one lives, there’s always a desire for more time—no one truly wants to leave. Yet, the challenges of life and its fleeting nature weren’t the only concerns of the temple.
During the dark age of Karaban Vesyoni, he forbade the nuns from leaving the Ancient Temple, a restriction that lasted until Taffer came to power. Under Taffer’s rule, the nuns were granted freedom—they could leave the temple, buy and sell goods, and even preach about God and His miracles.
In Yoranios Gyovani’s reign, he paid little attention to the temple or its nuns due to his open hatred of God. Yet, despite his indifference, the nuns thrived as much as anyone else. However, things changed under Jane's rule. She enacted a law prohibiting the nuns from preaching about God, a decree that did not sit well with Verenya and became the issue Yenever brought to her.
"They arrested her for preaching? Why did she do that?" Verenya asked, shaking her head. "You all know the law—you can’t act as you please without facing the consequences."
A group of nuns stood outside the office door, eavesdropping anxiously, worried about Castalia's fate. Verenya sighed before calling out, "Girls, come in, please."
The nuns exchanged surprised looks before opening the door and stepping inside. Verenya addressed them calmly, "Castalia will return. Go back to your duties and calm yourselves. Tomorrow, we’ll go on a journey together. We’ll rest and have some fun, alright?"
The nuns smiled and nodded, though concern still lingered in their eyes. Verenya added, "Spread the word to the novices and priests. Tell them to prepare."
The nuns nodded again and left the office, leaving Verenya and Yenever alone.
"What are we going to do?" Yenever asked, her voice filled with worry.
Verenya paused in thought before responding, "Where is Gorgery? Why isn’t he here yet?"
"He stayed there," Yenever replied. "He said he wouldn’t leave Castalia’s side."
"Good kid," Verenya said with a faint smile. "I’ll handle this. Leave it to me. But, Yenever, you’ll stay by my side. I’m going to teach you everything about managing my position. Understood?"
Yenever nodded, her determination evident. Verenya walked behind her desk toward the window, opened it, and whistled. Moments later, an owl swooped in, landing gracefully on the desk. As Verenya began writing a letter, the owl pulled out a cigarette from its feathers and attempted to light it.
"This is a temple," Verenya said sharply, without looking up.
The owl froze, nodded, and tucked the cigarette back into its feathers, standing silently as she continued writing. Yenever watched over her shoulder, reading the letter as it took shape.
At the capital's prison, in the section for newcomers and unconvicted criminals, Castalia sat alone in a small, sparsely guarded cell. It was a quiet space, separated from the rest of the prison.
Inside, Castalia knelt in prayer, her eyes closed and her soft whispers filling the room. Her calm, soothing voice had an unexpected effect—even the three guards sitting at a nearby table stopped their swearing and idle gossip.
Castalia was a demon ghoul with a strikingly beautiful face. Long black hair lay hidden beneath her hood, and her slender figure seemed delicate despite her ghoul lineage. Her green eyes and small ears gave her a unique, almost ethereal appearance, though she was unmistakably a ghoul.
Outside the prison, Gregory, the priest accompanying her, stood near the entrance to the section where she was held. Tall and broad-shouldered, Gregory had a thick beard and short brown hair. His piercing red eyes stood out beneath his large hood, though his face remained calm. Dressed in a simple priest’s robe, he carried a small axe at his side. Arms crossed, he stood silently as the two guards at the door glanced his way.
One of the guards nudged the other and muttered while looking at the sky, "It’s going to rain soon."
The other guard nodded, opening the door but pausing to address Gregory. "It’s going to rain. Go back to your temple or wherever you belong."
Gregory’s deep voice finally broke the silence. "A priest should never leave a nun’s side. I won’t abandon her."
The guard looked at Gregory, then at the shifting clouds above, before exhaling sharply. "Fine. Come on in. We’ll put you in the cell with her."
Gregory inclined his head slightly. "God bless your soul," he said, stepping forward.
After reporting the situation to the prison captain, the guard locked the cell and said, "It’s getting cold. We’ll heat the place and bring you something to drink, alright?"
Gregory nodded. "Thank you."
The guard smiled as he left. Gregory moved to the other side of the cell, distancing himself from the nun. He began whispering prayers, while the nun murmured softly to herself, seemingly indifferent to her surroundings.
Meanwhile, in the Ancient Temple’s office, Verenya finished writing a letter and handed it to the owl who glanced at the name on the letter and repeated, "Lord Nearf? Lord Nearf?" It paused, then exclaimed, "I don’t have permission! I don’t have permission!"
Verenya smiled calmly. "I know, but Lord Nearf is a friend of mine. He’ll help. Ask the guards for permission to meet him, but don’t give them the letter, alright?"
The owl nodded and tucked the letter into its feathers. Verenya handed it two silver coins, and with another nod, the owl flew off, calling, "To Lord Nearf! To Lord Nearf!"
Verenya turned to Yenever and said, "He will be your ally when I pass this role to you someday. Treat him with respect—he is royalty, but a kind soul, unlike some of his kin."
Yenever’s face clouded with sadness. "You still have a long life ahead. There’s no need to talk about this now."
Verenya smiled warmly, cupping Yenever’s face. "The witches’ attack opened my eyes, my daughter. Death can come at any time. God reminds us of this, though we often forget in times of peace."
She gazed out the window at the darkening sky, heavy with the promise of rain. "If I should die one day, you will know how to lead the temple. Remember, I am only the Nuna. Your sisters and brothers will support you, just as I have never felt alone."
Yenever kissed Verenya’s hands, her eyes heavy with emotion, and left the office quietly. Verenya stayed behind, sipping her tea as she stared out at the darkening sky.
As Verenya sat alone, silence filled the room. Her gaze grew distant, as if lost in memory. She whispered softly, her voice tinged with a solemn weight, "God killed you. That was when I understood—His justice is inescapable. May hell burn you slowly, Karaban Vesyoni."
The day slipped into night, but the rain continued relentlessly, soaking everything beneath the sky—the houses, the shops, the streets, and the gardens.
Despite the weather, the capital remained lively. Shops bustled with activity even in the late hours, merchants struck deals under lantern light, and bakers worked tirelessly in their kitchens. Guards and knights patrolled the rain-slick streets, and not even the downpour deterred the drunkards stumbling out of taverns, one foot steady, the other wavering.
At the temple, the evening meal had ended. The girls began cleaning up, helped by the priests, when a firm knock sounded on the temple door—three distinct strikes.
A young priest approached the door and cracked it open cautiously. His eyes widened in surprise at the sight of a group of knights standing outside. Startled, he pulled the door fully open and tilted his head slightly. "Hello. Welcome to the temple. How can I help you?"
In Verenya’s office, laughter and chatter filled the air. The nuns exchanged smiles and conversations while the younger ones played noisily, their laughter echoing through the room. Little boys joined in the games, and the priests stood in small groups, speaking warmly to one another.
This was Verenya’s joy. Every night after dinner, everyone would gather in her office, their shared company filling the room with the lively sounds of a family. The cheerful noise, chaotic yet comforting, brought her peace. To Verenya, a family was incomplete without its lively clamour.
As she waited for the others to finish cleaning so they could discuss the trip planned for tomorrow, the office door opened. The young priest stepped inside, his expression troubled. The conversations faded as all eyes turned to him—except for the children, still lost in their games.
Verenya rose to her feet, her tone steady. "I could sense you from this distance. What’s wrong, Alfordo?"
Alfordo hesitated, beads of sweat forming on his brow. Finally, he managed to say, "The queen is here."