CHAPTER 01: WORST NIGHT 1
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The chapel bells rang faintly in the distance, their soft chimes drifting on the cool breeze. I sat on the stone steps outside the orphanage, turning the cracked mask over in my hands. My fingers traced the jagged edges, rough where the wood had split. It wasn't anything special, just one of the simpler masks my father used to make. But to me, it was everything.
The last piece I had of them.
I tried to focus on the present, on the courtyard around me, but my thoughts kept slipping back—back to the shop, the smell of fresh wood shavings, the warmth of the hearth. My father's hands guiding mine as we shaped another mask together. My mother's soft hum in the background. All of it was gone, swallowed by the fire that took them and everything we owned. And now, all I had left was this mask, cracked and imperfect, like the memories that haunted me.
"Are you even listening, Ken?"
I blinked and looked up, realizing Sister Elara had been speaking. She stood in front of me, arms crossed, her usual kind smile replaced by a look of frustration. I hadn't been paying attention—again. She was always scolding me for something. Chores. Skipping prayers. Whatever it was today, I couldn't bring myself to care.
"I'm sorry, Sister," I muttered, looking down at the mask again, my grip tightening on it like it was the only thing keeping me grounded.
She sighed, and I could hear the disappointment in her voice. "You're a good boy, Ken. But you need to focus more. You've been here for two years now, and I'm trying to help you. The past is gone, but your future can still—"
Her words faded as I drifted back into my thoughts. I knew she meant well, but she didn't understand. No one did. The future didn't matter when all I could think about was what I had lost.
The smell of burning wood still clung to my mind, like it had been burned into my memory as deep as the scars the fire left on my life. I could still hear their screams, the crackle of flames licking at everything I once knew. Every time I closed my eyes, it all came rushing back, as vivid as the night it happened. It haunted me, even when I wanted to forget.
"Ken."
Sister Elara's voice cut through my thoughts again, snapping me back to the present. She was still standing there, waiting for a response, but I couldn't find the words. What was there to say? I didn't want to argue with her—I didn't have the energy—but I couldn't pretend like everything was fine either. So, I did what I always did. I stayed quiet.
The day dragged on after that. I went through the motions of my chores, kept to myself during meals, and avoided the others as much as possible. They all knew me as the quiet one, the kid who never spoke unless he had to. Fine by me. It was easier that way.
But when the sun dipped below the horizon and night fell, I felt the familiar weight settle over my chest. The same unease that had followed me every night since the fire. In the orphanage, under Sister Elara's watchful eye, I was safe. Or at least, I was supposed to be. But something was always wrong, and tonight, that feeling was stronger than usual.
I couldn't sleep.
I removed my blanket and sat up
"Where are you going?" I heard a voice of a girl next to me
"I just need to use the bathroom, Yume. I promise I'll come back quickly, so don't be scared" I patted her head trying to reassure her
I slipped out of bed quietly, the cold floor under my bare feet doing little to shake off the restless feeling in my gut. It was late, too late to be wandering the halls, but something pulled at me. After heading outside to relieve myself, I felt drawn to a part of the orphanage I rarely ventured. There was something in the air tonight—something strange, thick, almost... inviting.
I didn't understand it, but the pull was strong, like it was leading me somewhere I needed to be.
The hallways were silent, empty, except for the soft creak of the old floorboards under my feet. I passed the door that led to the orphanage's storage room, a place Sister Elara always told us not to go. She had said it was where old records and supplies were kept. No one had any reason to go in there.
But tonight, it felt... different.
The air around the door seemed heavier, and before I could second-guess myself, I found my hand reaching for the handle. It turned easily, and the door swung open with a soft groan. Inside, the room was dimly lit by moonlight filtering through a small window, casting eerie shadows across the old shelves.
I stepped inside cautiously, my eyes scanning the clutter. Old crates, dusty books, nothing unusual at first glance. But something deeper in the room caught my eye—a faint, reddish glow. My heart picked up speed as I made my way toward it, my pulse loud in my ears.
There, tucked away behind a stack of old wooden boxes, was an old ledger. But it wasn't the book that held my attention. No, it was the strange altar beside it—a cup stained with what looked like dried blood and a hiltless sword, its blade black as midnight. My breath caught in my throat.
This wasn't normal. Why would the church of the Goddess Lunaria have some things like these?
I hesitated, but the pull—whatever was guiding me—urged me forward. I knelt by the altar, my hand hovering over the ledger. Something about it felt... wrong, but my curiosity wouldn't let me leave it untouched. Slowly, I opened the ledger, my fingers brushing across the worn pages.
The first few entries were normal enough—lists of children who had come to the orphanage. I recognized a few names. Kids I had grown up with, kids who had been adopted over the years. But as I turned the pages, things started to change. The names became fewer. And then... they stopped altogether.
Instead, strange symbols filled the pages, and the words "offered to the Great God" stood out in bold writing. My heart sank.
Offered? What did that mean?
I flipped further, my hands trembling. The pages told a story, a dark one. Rituals. Sacrifices. The children who had been "adopted" weren't sent to loving families—they had been given to something called ---
"A devil?" I said flipping more of the book pages.
Then I saw it. A story etched in the final pages—a legend of the Great Devil, a powerful being who have once fought against the hero.
But I thought there are two heroes, that's what I remember the school taughts
The bloodstained cup... the black sword... it all made sense now.
The church... The Goddess... If there are sacrifices... C-could the Goddess Lunaria be the Devil in this story!
The weight of the truth hit me like a blow to the chest, and I stumbled back, knocking over the cup in the process. The sound of it hitting the floor echoed in the silence, the dark red stain spreading like a warning.
I had to get out of here. I had to—
A hand landed on my shoulder, and I froze, my breath catching in my throat. My mind raced, praying it was Yume, but deep down, I knew it wasn't. The grip was firm, too steady. Slowly, I turned, heart pounding in my chest.
Sister Elara stood there, her eyes cold and calculating, nothing like the gentle woman I had known for the past two years. The warmth she usually showed was gone, replaced by something darker—something that sent a chill down my spine.
"You shouldn't be here, Ken," she gave off a smile and said softly, but there was no warmth in her voice. Her gaze drifted to the ledger still open in my hands, and for the first time, I saw it—true contempt.
I took a step back, clutching the book to my chest like it could protect me. "What is this?" My voice came out shakier than I intended. "The other kids... what did you do to them?"
Many of the sacrificed kids are who they introduced as those who are already adopted by other families, Th-They just killed them
Her lips curled into a slow, unsettling smile. "You've been digging where you don't belong. But I suppose it was only a matter of time before you found out."
My hands trembled as I stepped back, bumping into the altar. The hiltless black blade and the other things on the altar clattered to the floor beside me, "You sacrificed them... to the Goddess... N-no, t-to a demon!" The words felt heavy in my throat, as if saying them out loud made the horror more real.
She stepped closer, her eyes locked on mine. "It's all for a greater purpose, Ken. The Great God's power is beyond anything you could understand. Those children—those pure souls—they were a small price to pay for the strength we've gained. For the empire. For the church. For everything."
My chest tightened, my mind reeling. The empire... the church? How deep did this go? How many people knew?
"I won't let you," I whispered, barely loud enough to hear myself.
She laughed—a cold, hollow sound that echoed in the room. "What are you going to do, Ken? Run? Hide somewhere like a scared little mouse?" Her eyes gleamed darkly, malice clear now.
"No one will believe you. No one cares. You're just an orphan—a nobody."
Tears stung at my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. The mask in my hand felt heavier—the last piece of my family, my last tether to the life I had before all of this. I couldn't stay. I couldn't let her keep doing this.
"Since you're so nosy, and considering you've reached this far, I think I should give you a reward," Sister Elara said, shoving me hard. "You should be honored for being so helpful to the Great Vael." Her voice dripped with menace, her smile twisted and bloodthirsty. She drew a knife from her side, muttering incantations I couldn't understand.
I couldn't move. My tears flowed freely now. I can't die yet! But fear paralyzed me.
All I could do was clutch the mask, the last thing my family left me. And now, I was going to lose it.
Sister Elara's eyes snapped open as she licked the blade of her dagger. "All hail the Lord," she whispered.
My mind raced, but my body wouldn't respond.
As I crawled further away from her, something sharp brushed against my hand, making me wince in pain. Blood started to drip—I'd grabbed the sword by its blade without even realizing it, too desperate to care.
"Now, die!" Sister Elara shouted as she lunged at me, her dagger poised to strike.
Blood splattered across the room.
I opened my eyes, stunned. "I-I killed her?"
Sister Elara lay in a pool of her own blood, a fresh cut across her abdomen.
The same cut made by the sword I was holding.