The golden rays of morning filtered gently through the stained glass windows of Forwin’s central temple, casting slow-moving patterns of color across the polished marble like light bleeding through a divine prism. Each pane told a story—tales of miracles, of gods descending, of salvation earned and sins absolved. The colors stretched across the hallowed ground, dancing faintly over pillars of pale stone and intricate mosaics carved into the floors by hands long buried beneath centuries of devotion.

  The air held stillness. Sacred. Not empty, but full—with the memory of whispered prayers and the lingering scent of incense clinging to the edges of the morning.

  And within that quiet sanctum, before the towering statue of the Luminous Saint herself, Seraphel—arms outstretched in timeless benediction—knelt a single figure.

  Saintess Seraphina Ardyn.

  Clad in flowing white robes, she was a vision of purity shaped by ritual and reverence. Her hair, long and pale as snow untouched by sun, draped down her back in soft waves, a curtain of silken white that shimmered faintly beneath the stained-glass light. Her golden eyes, flecked with deeper hues like sunlight caught in amber, remained closed in solemn reflection.

  She did not move.

  She did not speak.

  She simply breathed—deep, calm, unwavering—lost in silent communion with a goddess who had never once answered aloud.

  Before her, the statue of Seraphel rose to nearly twice her height. It was carved from radiant stone so pale it seemed to glow on its own, and so finely detailed that each fold in the divine robes, each strand of hair, seemed as if it might stir in the breeze at any moment. The face of the Luminous Saint was serene, beautiful, and unreadable. A smile carved in gentle grace, eyes open yet distant, like they beheld a future none but the divine could see.

  This was not the first time Seraphina had knelt here. It would not be the last.

  Forwin worshipped many gods, in name. The Twelve Heavenly Lights—twelve divine beings said to govern the flow of the world through the ever-turning Akashic Record. But in practice? In ritual? In culture?

  Forwin followed Seraphel.

  And Seraphina, her chosen vessel, had led those prayers since the day the goddess marked her.

  Every morning, without fail.

  Not out of obligation.

  But because the world was shifting, and she needed guidance.

  Even if it never came.

  She finished her prayer with a soft exhale and slowly rose to her feet, the faint echo of her movements lost in the hush of the sacred chamber. As she turned to leave, the doors to the temple opened with a quiet creak, and a familiar figure stepped through the threshold.

  "Matthias," she greeted, offering a graceful nod.

  "Saintess," he replied with an incline of his head. His tone was warm, tinged with familiarity. "There is no need to be so formal with me."

  Matthias was her High Attendant—something between a secretary and a steward. He managed the flow of temple affairs, coordinated meetings with nobles and clergy alike, and ensured the endless demands of her station did not overwhelm her. He served not just with efficiency but with genuine care, ever mindful of the weight Seraphina bore as Saintess.

  She offered him a small, tired smile. "Habit, I suppose and old habits die hard."

  "Still, I prefer when you speak freely with me."She inclined her head again, more casual this time. "Have there been any messages? Word from the expedition into the Labyrinthine Tomb?"

  Matthias’s expression tightened, the easy rapport between them shifting into something more serious.

  "I am sorry, Saintess. There has still been no word."

  The corner of her mouth pulled into a thin line, and her golden eyes darkened in thought. Twelve days. That mission should have taken five at most.

  Then Matthias hesitated, shifting his weight slightly before continuing.

  "However… Commander Draeven is here. He arrived this morning. Rather suddenly."

  Seraphina blinked, caught off guard. "He came without sending word ahead?"

  "Not exactly," Matthias admitted, his voice cautious. "He did request a meeting yesterday—but at the time, you were occupied with the rites for the Feast of Light. Given the short notice, I told him you were not available."

  She raised an eyebrow. "And he still came anyway?"

  "Yes, Saintess. Just before I found you. I debated informing you sooner, but…" He trailed off briefly, then continued, more firmly, "It is not proper for anyone—even Commander Draeven—to demand your time without proper notice."

  His words were not sharp, but they carried the quiet conviction of someone protecting her dignity, not out of defiance, but out of respect for her station.

  Seraphina’s posture shifted. The soft warmth she carried in prayer gave way to a more composed, authoritative air.

  "I understand. And you were right to consider protocol, Matthias."

  He bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment.

  "But this is likely related to the scouting expedition," she continued. "So I will see him now."

  "Of course," Matthias said, already turning. "He’s waiting in the private common room."

  Without hesitation, Matthias gestured for her to follow, and together they moved through the quiet corridors of the temple toward the private common room where Commander Draeven awaited them.

  The echo of her footsteps trailed behind them as they moved through the polished stone halls of the temple. Sunlight filtered through tall stained-glass windows, casting kaleidoscopic patterns across the marble floor—colors that danced over her white robes, golden eyes fixed ahead in quiet contemplation.

  Saintess Seraphina Ardyn walked the stone halls of the temple with quiet grace, but her thoughts were far from peaceful.

  The Abyssal Zone.

  A wound upon the world.

  There was no mystery in how they formed. Not anymore.

  Abyssal Zones were the result of energy left to stagnate—when the currents of the world, guided by the Akashic System, ceased to flow. In its natural state, this energy was neutral, nourishing, part of the cycle that sustained all things.

  But when that flow halted—when it pooled in one place for too long—it began to sour.

  Like water left to rot in a sealed jar.

  And in that rot, something was born.

  Malith.

  The corrupted echo of what once was. The unbound, decaying energy of the world, severed from balance and order.

  Malith infected everything it touched. It seeped into the earth, blackening soil and splintering roots. It clung to the air like a disease. And worst of all, it warped the living—remaking them into things no longer natural.

  Demonic Beasts.

  Not to be confused with ordinary beasts, who obeyed the rhythms of nature, Demonic Beasts were something else entirely. They were creatures born of malith—spawned from the corrupted overflow of the Akashic System. Stronger, fiercer, endlessly aggressive. Their instincts were sharpened into violent hunger, driven not by survival but by the madness of what birthed them.

  They did not belong in the world beyond.

  And neither did the zones that spawned them.

  Abyssal Zones were inhospitable by design. Though technically survivable, they remained poisonous in ways that were not always immediate. Prolonged exposure—typically more than a week—allowed malith to settle in the body. Quietly. Slowly. Until one’s strength faded and the rot took root from within.

  But if left alone too long, the zone didn’t remain contained.

  Demonic Beasts would begin to appear at its fringes, lurking just beyond its edge. They rarely wandered far, as if tethered to the corruption that had given them form. But their presence would grow with time, and soon the surrounding regions would fall under silent siege.

  It had been twelve years since the Labyrinthine Tomb was first discovered.

  It had festered like hidden decay beneath the Obsidian Woods.

  And because no one noticed…

  Seraphina’s gaze lowered.

  It hadn’t taken long before—

  She blinked, the thought unfinished—cut short by the sight of the twin towers rising at the temple’s rear wing.

  The private chambers.

  She exhaled softly, regaining her composure.

  "Thank you, Matthias," she said as they approached. Her voice was calm again, no longer the soft warmth she wore with the faithful. It was precise. Measured.

  "Of course, my Lady." He bowed. “Shall I wait here?”

  She shook her head. "No. This is a private matter. I’ll speak with Commander Draeven alone."

  He hesitated only briefly before nodding and stepping aside.

  Seraphina reached for the door handle and paused.

  Her fingers curled briefly around the metal, the weight of her thoughts still lingering.

  Then she opened the door and stepped into the room.

  Commander Soren Draeven stood at the far end of the room, beside a small table that held a carafe of untouched water and a pair of glasses. His arms were crossed, his posture still and unmoving, save for the occasional twitch of his fingers—an unconscious sign of the tension just beneath the surface.

  His armor, though freshly polished, bore signs of wear. Faint scratches along the vambrace. A barely-visible dent on the shoulder plate. His cloak was clean, but its seams had begun to fray.

  Like the man himself—held together, but only just.

  Seraphina approached, offering a soft nod. “Forgive me, Commander Draeven. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

  Her tone was diplomatic—refined, yet warm. The voice of a woman used to balancing poise with compassion.

  Draeven turned to her, the faintest smile curling at the edges of his mouth.

  “Please,” he said, his voice gravel-thick from years of shouting orders. “Call me Soren. We've known each other too long for titles.”

  Seraphina allowed the smallest smile in return. “Then Sera will do just fine for me.”

  Their eyes met. Her gaze—calm, composed, practiced over a lifetime of bearing the weight of reverence. His—steel blue, sharp with fatigue, flickering with the remnants of old fire.

  “You’ve grown,” he said, his tone light, yet touched with something heavier beneath it. “You’re no longer that stubborn little brat I used to find sneaking out of temple service to hand off loaves of bread to beggars behind the chapel.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  She let out a quiet, rueful laugh. “And you’re no longer the smug recruit who thought sneaking out of drills to chase barmaids wouldn’t be noticed.”

  Draeven chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Those were different times.”

  “And we were different people,” she echoed back.

  The silence returned for a moment—not awkward, but reflective. Then, slowly, her expression shifted. Her back straightened just slightly. The mirth in her voice softened into something flatter. Sharper.

  Professional.

  “As much as I’d love to dwell on simpler memories,” she said, golden eyes narrowing just a touch, “that’s not why you’re here.”

  The atmosphere in the room changed with those words. The warmth drained out of Draeven’s smile, and the tension returned to his shoulders.

  “No,” he said, voice low. “It’s not.”

  Soren’s expression shifted.

  The weariness in his eyes didn’t vanish—it hardened. Crystallized into something sharper, heavier.

  “It’s about the scouting expedition,” he said, the words coming slowly, like each one weighed something.

  Seraphina’s smile faded without resistance. Not a flicker remained.

  She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

  “They were annihilated,” Soren continued, his voice quiet but unflinching. “Only one came back.”

  The words weren’t dramatic. They didn’t need to be. Their simplicity made them worse. More real.

  Seraphina stepped forward. Her robes whispered against the floor.

  Soren reached into the satchel at his waist and retrieved a folded document.

  She took it without ceremony.

  The parchment crackled as she unfolded it. Her golden eyes scanned the ink—line after line—absorbing each word with growing tension. Her shoulders pulled taut. Her jaw clenched.

  When she reached the end, she didn’t speak.

  She slammed the report onto the table with more force than necessary.

  The impact echoed.

  She stood there, head bowed, one hand braced on the wood. A rare sight—her posture not composed but strained, as if holding something in. The light from the windows carved a sharp shadow across her face, darkening the look in her eyes.

  “This may be worse than I thought,” she said, voice low.

  Soren didn’t interrupt her silence. He gave it space. Waited.

  Then, after a pause: “With your expertise… is it plausible?”

  His voice was calm, but the edge in it was impossible to miss.

  “An intelligent Demonic Beast?” he clarified.

  Seraphina straightened.

  Her hands folded in front of her, tightly enough that her knuckles paled beneath her gloves.

  “Intelligence in Demonic Beasts isn’t rare,” she said, tone returning to its measured weight. “At higher tiers—particularly Harbinger or Cataclysm rank—it’s not common. But this…”

  She glanced back down at the report, then turned away, pacing a slow arc around the table.

  “This wasn’t even Fiend.” she said, each word distinct. “It was a Spawn-rank devil. And not just that—a zombie. Basic. Mindless. It should have had no capacity for thought, let alone complex combat behavior.”

  She didn’t look at him as she continued.

  “Its power doesn’t match its classification. Not even close. Its speed, its strength, the way it fought—none of it aligns with the known metrics. This isn’t a case of one exceptional specimen breaking the curve. This seems like something else entirely.”

  She stopped at the far window, gazing out past the stained glass as if trying to see something just out of reach.

  “Anomalous behavior and abnormal growth… The report suggests it could not just think, but could also strategize and possibly rationalize to the point of overriding its basic instincts.” She exhaled slowly. “I’m not sure if this is evolution or deviation..”

  Soren’s arms were still folded, but his stance had shifted. He leaned forward slightly now, attention sharp.

  “So what does it mean?” he asked.

  Seraphina didn’t answer right away.

  She turned back to face him, and in her gaze was something rarely seen—uncertainty.

  “If the Abyssal Zone is changing,” she said, voice lower now, “if this is the beginning of a shift we don’t understand…”

  She trailed off, and for a second, the air in the room felt thinner. More fragile.

  Then she finished:

  “Then it’s only a matter of time before we face something like the Demon Calamity again. Or worse.”

  The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

  It was thick. Oppressive. Every breath felt like it carried weight.

  Neither of them moved.

  There was no comfort to offer. No reassurance to give.

  Sera looked down as her thoughts drifted to the past—to the Demon Calamity.

  Twelve years ago, the Labyrinthine Tomb Abyssal Zone had first been discovered. Or rather, twelve years ago was when it was finally acknowledged. The truth was, it had existed for nearly a year before anyone even realized it. A festering wound in the land, nestled deep in the Obsidian Woods, quietly growing in power while the world turned a blind eye.

  That neglect had cost them dearly.

  The buildup of unbound energy had given rise to monstrous growth within the Zone. Demonic Beasts, powerful and unrelenting, had swarmed out in a tide of blood and violence. Hundreds of them—twisted, hungry things born from Malith. They spilled into the surrounding area, and Forwin happened to be within their radius. It wasn't long after that they laid siege to Forwin, leaving ruin in their wake.

  Entire towns were lost.

  It had taken everything—the combined might of Forwin and two neighboring kingdoms—to contain the outbreak. The zone was eventually sealed, and from that day onward, Forwin had instituted regular cullings of the top layer to prevent the same disaster from repeating.

  At first, every eight months had been enough.

  But the frequency had increased. Every seven months. Then six. Most recently, four.

  And the last scouting mission had been sent to determine if that interval needed to shrink again.

  That question alone had been troubling.

  Now it seemed the Abyssal Zone was changing in ways they couldn’t begin to understand.

  Draeven’s voice broke the silence.

  "What do we do?" he asked, his tone heavy. "The majority of this kingdom’s forces are still aiding the war effort in Landor. According to my latest reports, they won’t return for at least another month. Maybe we could organize a strike team through the Adventurer’s Guild, but we don’t know how long it would take to gather individuals with the proper level and skill."

  Seraphina shook her head, golden eyes sharpening. "That could take weeks, even with an emergency directive. This matter can’t wait that long."

  Forwin was not a powerful kingdom. It never had been.

  The Demon Calamity had left scars—visible and otherwise. Many of their strongest warriors had perished during that time, and those who had survived often chose not to return, seeking better fortunes in stronger, wealthier lands.

  The military had rebuilt slowly over the years, but the Adventurer and Mercenary Guilds had not. C- and D-rank adventurers had become the norm. The few B-ranks they had left were treated as elite.

  But the Labyrinthine Tomb was an A-rank Abyssal Zone.

  The upper floors had been weakened by repeated culling, yes. The Demonic Beasts there rarely had time to grow in strength. But even then, the monsters that roamed those floors were typically rated as upper C-rank threats. A B-rank could handle them—so long as they weren’t outnumbered.

  Once the second layer came into play, it was a different story.

  Occasionally, stronger beasts would crawl up from the deeper levels, searching for prey. When that happened, it took a squadron of high-ranking knights just to suppress them.

  The cullings weren’t just preventative.

  They were essential.

  The second layer was the most volatile—the monsters there more aggressive, more numerous, more adaptable. It acted as a buffer zone, an unstable dam holding back what lay deeper still.

  The third layer… that was something else entirely.

  It housed things Forwin didn’t have the strength to face. Demonic Beasts whose power could bring nations to their knees. Thankfully, the deeper devils rarely rose beyond their layer—but if they ever did?

  If they emerged?

  Then it would be over.

  No culling. No kingdom. No survival.

  Just annihilation.

  Sera didn’t want to admit it, not even to herself—but deep down, she knew the truth.

  It was time.

  The Labyrinthine Tomb Abyssal Zone needed to be cleared.

  There was no other way. No half-measures or temporary solutions. The only path forward—the only hope of reclaiming Forwin’s former glory—was to end the nightmare at its source. For years, they had fought back the tide. Culled the monsters. Fended off the inevitable. But the tide was rising faster now, and the walls holding it back were starting to crack.

  To clear an Abyssal Zone meant reaching its heart.

  The Abyssal Heart—the source of accumulated Malith, the corrupted energy that sustained the entire zone. As long as the heart remained intact, the zone would continue to fester, producing more devils, more demons, more horrors.

  But the heart of the Labyrinthine Tomb wasn’t on the surface. It was buried deep.

  On the third layer.

  And the only ones with the power to cleanse—or destroy—an Abyssal Heart… were Sigils.

  Sera turned to Draeven, her expression sharpening. Her voice, though calm, carried weight.

  “We need to clear the Abyssal Zone. And for that… we need Sigils.”

  Not symbols. Not sacred markings. People.

  A Sigil was a person—chosen and marked by the Akashic Record itself.

  While the world liked to believe the Akashic System was fair and impartial, Sera and few others knew better. The truth was that the Akashic System wasn’t fair. It never had been.

  Just as a human’s life carried more weight than that of a fly, the system treated some lives as more valuable than others. And Sigils? They were the one’s deemed more valuable. Humans deemed important enough to receive power that matched their weight in the world.

  When the Akashic Record recognized someone as a Sigil, it marked them. Most received this mark during their Class Awakening, when the system acknowledged their potential. Others were chosen earlier, during moments of crisis or clarity—when their presence alone altered the flow of events.

  Regardless of how it happened, the result was the same: they were different.

  Only one in ten people ever awakened a class. Of those, only one in a hundred became Sigils.

  They were rare.

  And they had the potential to be very powerful.

  And they were the only ones capable of cleansing or destroying an Abyssal Zone.

  Sera held Draeven’s gaze, unwavering.

  “This isn’t about defense anymore,” she said, her voice steady. “It’s about resolution. We can’t keep bleeding resources and praying for stability. If we want Forwin to survive—we have to end this. Once and for all.”

  There was no hesitation in her tone. Only finality.

  Draeven frowned, his arms folding across his chest as if bracing for what came next.

  “To be honest,” Sera continued, her posture still but her eyes flickering with buried urgency, “I’ve had a contingency in place. Something drastic. Something I hoped I’d never have to consider.”

  She turned slightly, her gaze drifting toward the stained glass window behind Draeven—sunlight bleeding through the figure of Seraphel.

  “We can request the Luminary Academy to move their graduation assessment to the Labyrinthine Tomb.”

  Draeven blinked.

  Then stared.

  As if trying to decide whether she was joking or had simply lost her mind.

  “You can’t be serious. Are you sure you have gone mad?”

  Sera didn’t look away.

  “That exam is in a week,” he said flatly. “There’s no way they’d agree to that. No time to prepare, no safety protocols, no official sanction from the Crown. Even if you begged them—”

  “I wouldn’t beg,” she said softly. “I would offer.”

  Draeven narrowed his eyes. “Offer what?”

  “The Luminous Saint’s Eyes,” she answered. “An Ex-Rank Holy Relic of the church.”

  Draeven bolted upright.

  "Seraphina, are you mad?! Even as Saintess, you don’t have the authority to offer that. What you’re suggesting—it’s blasphemy. Treason. If word of this got out, the kingdom would demand your head!"

  Sera didn’t flinch.

  "Then let them take it. If that’s the cost of saving Forwin, then so be it. I can only ask that the Goddess Seraphel forgive me before I reach the grave."

  Her voice was calm, but her hands were trembling.

  Draeven stared at her, stunned.

  "Sera…"

  The silence that followed was immediate and deep.

  It took Draeven a moment to find his voice again. When he did, it was low and sharp. “You’ve gone mad.”

  She met his words with a faint, brittle smile. “You said that already.”

  “No, I mean it.”

  “I’m aware.” Sera spoke calmly.

  “If the church finds out—if the nobility catches wind of this, if the king hears about this.”

  “Then I’ll simply be executed,” she said simply.

  “NOT JUST YOU BUT THE ENTIRE CHURCH” Draeven couldn’t contain his anger.

  Sera stepped forward, voice firm.

  “The Luminary Academy is the only institution in the world that trains Sigils—true Sigils. Those chosen by the Akashic Record, marked for more. You know what that means, Soren. You know what they’re capable of.”

  He did. Everyone did.

  And the Academy? It existed solely to prepare them for the world that would eventually fear and worship them.

  “If we can get them into the Tomb,” Sera said, “even under the pretense of an exam, we might have a chance to reach the Abyssal Heart. We might be able to cleanse it. Plus, there will be proctors and professors that are sigils as well, any problem that arises, they should be able to handle it.”

  Draeven shook his head slowly, still stunned. “You’d hand over a relic and risk your head like that—for a chance?”

  Sera exhaled. Her shoulders sagged just slightly.

  “In order for the kingdom to have my head,” she said quietly, “there would still need to be a kingdom left standing.”

  She let the words hang there.

  Heavy. Honest.

  Draeven looked at her—really looked—and for the first time, he saw past the poise. Past the role. Past the white robes and golden eyes and perfect posture.

  What he saw instead was someone who had been carrying the weight of a dying kingdom for far too long.

  And still refused to let it fall.

  “We can go to the king,” Draeven said. His voice was low, earnest. “If we speak to him together—present a united front—we can come up with a plan. You don’t have to risk your life like this, Sera.”

  Seraphina’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, it darkened.

  “Speak to our king?” she repeated, a bitter edge curling at the corner of her lips. “I know you serve under him, Soren. But I didn’t think you were blind.”

  Draeven stiffened, but she didn’t give him a chance to respond.

  “Our king only concerns himself with the nobility. Their estates. Their coffers. Their reputation in foreign courts. Not the farmers struggling to feed their children. Not the border towns plagued by beasts. And certainly not the festering wound of an Abyssal Zone that’s been rotting at our feet for twelve years.”

  Her tone turned colder, sharper.

  “If he gave even a sliver of a damn about his kingdom, he wouldn’t have sent our remaining knights to bleed in a war we had no stake in, while the rest of us are left to hold back monsters with prayers and half-empty rosters.”

  Draeven opened his mouth—but Sera raised a hand, silencing him.

  “You remember the Demon Calamity, don’t you?” she asked, quieter now—but no less forceful. “You remember what it cost us?”

  He did. Everyone did.

  “It was his negligence that let it happen. The church warned him. The previous Saintess warned him. They told him something was wrong in the Obsidian Woods, and he dismissed it as superstition. Wasteful paranoia.” Her gaze turned distant, heavy with memory. “And when the calamity finally came… when hundreds died, when whole villages were wiped off the map, and people had nothing left—he didn’t rebuild.”

  Her jaw tightened.

  “He raised taxes. He funneled gold to the nobles. He turned our grief into coin.”

  Draeven said nothing. There was nothing to say.

  “I would rather die ten times over than leave the future of this country in that man’s hands,” Sera said, her voice shaking with something deeper than anger. “He failed us once. I won’t give him the chance to do it again.”

  A long silence settled between them.

  Then, quietly but resolutely, she said, “I’ve made my decision.”

  She turned toward the window, the fading light casting her profile in gold.

  “I’ll contact the Academy myself. First thing in the morning.”

  Her gaze lingered on the town below. Her voice softened.

  “Soren… if you ever cared for me, even a little… don’t speak of this. Not until it’s done.”

  Draeven stared at her, stunned.

  "Sera…"

  There was a pause.

  And then Draeven spoke.

  "As a knight of Forwin, my allegiance is to the kingdom. But my loyalty… lies with its people."

  He stood.

  "I’ll keep this secret. But I pray you know what you’re doing, Sera."

  He turned and left, the weight of his footsteps echoing behind him.

  Sera remained by the window, staring down at the town below, watching the flicker of lanterns and the fading sun.

  Her reflection shimmered faintly in the glass.

  "I pray I know what I’m doing too, Soren…"

  Chapter End…

  Akashic Record

  Name: Seraphina Ardyn

  Race: Human

  Class: Saintess of Radiant Benediction (Divine Class)

  Level: 22

  Titles: Saintess of Seraphel, Voice of Light, Blessed Shield of Forwin +3...

  Strength: 26

  Intelligence: 39(+4)(+5)

  Endurance: 23(+5)

  Vitality: 37

  Agility: 25

  Skills:

  Divine Invocation – Lv. 9

  Holy Ward – Lv. 8

  Mass Heal – Lv. 7

  Radiant Surge – Lv. 6

  Purification – Lv. 8

  Blessing of Resolve – Lv. 6

  Sacred Bindings – Lv. 4

  Lightstep – Lv. 3

  Inspire Faith – Lv. 6

  Blessed Skills:

  Seraphel’s Benediction – Lv. 9

  Traits:

  Sigil of Light – Lv. MAX

  Divine Core – Lv. 3

  Heaven's Favor -– Lv. 5