Zean leaned back in his chair, watching the knights sparring outside. Their synchronized movements and precise strikes created a rhythmic harmony that held his attention longer than he intended. The clang of swords, the occasional barked instructions, and the discipline on display were captivating. When the session paused, Aryan handed him a steaming cup of coffee.
"Here," Aryan said, settling down beside him.
Zean took a sip and raised his eyebrows. "This is… amazing. Did you work in a café before becoming an advancer?"
Aryan smirked, his dull green eyes glinting with pride. "Twenty-three years of experience, my friend. Perfection takes time."
Zean shot him a deadpan look. "You've been making coffee longer than I've been alive?"
"Respect your elders," Aryan quipped, taking a sip from his own cup.
Suppressing a smile, Zean reached for the newspaper lying on the table. The front page announced the usual political squabbles and trade agreements, but a smaller headline on the bottom right corner caught his attention:
"Twelve Children Gone Missing Along with Horus Church Member."
Zean's heart skipped a beat. He read the article carefully, noting the details. The report mentioned a man named Erwin Geroze, a 5'9" individual with black hair and brown eyes, who had been escorting twelve orphans to the Horus Church. None of them ever arrived.
A photograph of the man accompanied the article, and Zean froze. He knew that face. He had seen Erwin Geroze during his journey to the town, standing inside the orphanage, speaking to the caretaker. Zean clenched the edges of the paper, the memory resurfacing vividly.
"That badge," he muttered to himself, recalling the emblem on Erwin's chest—a horse soaring through the clouds. "So that's the symbol of the Horus Church…"
His mind raced. If Erwin was involved in something sinister, what did that mean for the missing children? Was the Horus Church itself implicated, or was this a rogue act?
"You're staring at that paper like it owes you something," Aryan said, startling him.
Zean quickly folded the newspaper. "It's just… interesting. This world right now is insanely crazy and dangerous."
Aryan's expression turned serious. "I don't know who you were before your memory loss, but this world has always been that way. Crazy, dangerous, and often unfair."
His tone softened, but his eyes seemed to darken. "Darkness will always exist, no matter how much light shines. And no matter which side the gods are facing, there's always a shadow lurking."
Zean didn't fully grasp Aryan's cryptic words, but the weight in his voice made him uneasy. Aryan's gaze drifted toward the sky, and for a brief moment, he seemed lost in thought, as though haunted by memories only he could see.
The moment passed when Sir Hustel approached, his towering figure casting a long shadow. "Enjoying the view?" Hustel asked with a booming laugh, gesturing toward the knights.
Zean and Aryan stood to greet him. "Sir Hustel," Aryan said, nodding respectfully.
"Captain," Zean added, feeling slightly intimidated.
Hustel grinned. "No need for formalities, lad. Just Hustel will do."
They exchanged pleasantries before Hustel outlined Zean's training schedule. "We start tomorrow at 6 AM sharp. Four hours of intense training with the knights, then you'll have the afternoon to rest or study in the library. Make good use of the time, lad. Knowledge is as powerful as any sword."
Zean nodded politely, though Aryan had already briefed him earlier. He didn't want to interrupt Hustel's enthusiasm.
After Hustel left, Aryan excused himself, mentioning he needed to check on Rebecca's mother. Alone now, Zean decided to explore the church grounds. The massive structure was bustling with activity—nuns attending to their duties, knights patrolling the corridors, and chefs preparing meals in the enormous kitchen.
As he wandered, Zean stumbled upon a large door guarded by four knights. Intrigued, he approached. "What's behind this door?" he asked one of the guards.
The knight didn't respond, maintaining a stoic silence. Zean frowned but refrained from pressing further. He was about to leave when Hustel appeared again, seemingly out of nowhere.
"This is where we keep the artifacts," Hustel explained. "Important ones, ranging from Rank C to Rank S."
"S?" Zean asked, his curiosity piqued.
Hustel nodded. "There's only one S-rank artifact in this church, and it hasn't been used in 4 years. But we do have twenty A-rank artifacts, three of which were blessed by the goddess Crusia herself and there were 10 more."
Zean's eyes widened. "Blessed artifacts? What happened to the others?"
"They were taken by advancers," Hustel said. "Including one by me."
With that, he unsheathed his sword—a massive golden blade with crimson accents. The sheer aura of the weapon sent shivers down Zean's spine.
"This," Hustel said, holding the blade aloft, "is my A-rank artifact. Blessed by the goddess herself. If I swing it with full force, not even a Gate 5 advancer would escape unscathed."
Zean stared in awe but didn't dare ask if he could enter the artifact vault. He already knew the answer. Instead, he thanked Hustel and returned to his room, exhausted.
The evening sun painted the sky in hues of orange and gold as Zean stepped outside for fresh air. The seven moons were beginning to rise, casting a faint glow over the town. He wandered aimlessly, observing the townsfolk going about their lives.
Some were praying fervently to their gods, while others discussed the missing children in hushed tones. Accusations flew—some blamed the Horus Church, while others pointed fingers at the orphanage caretaker.
"People are the same, no matter the world," Zean thought bitterly. "Quick to judge, quick to blame, even when nothing is proven."
He was about to leave when a man's voice caught his attention. "Don't worry," the man said loudly, addressing the crowd. "If it's their fate to die, then they will. If not, they won't."
The words seemed to ease the tension among the crowd, but Zean's blood boiled.
"Fate?" he muttered under his breath. "The life of people should not be taken lightly, and death should never be blamed on something as abstract as fate. It's disgusting."
He clenched his fists, his crimson eyes burning with defiance. "People shape their destinies with their choices. Blaming fate for life's cruelties is nothing but an excuse for inaction."
The crowd dispersed, leaving Zean alone with his thoughts. As the moons rose higher, he looked up at the night sky. The mysterious figure from his dreams flashed in his mind—the blurred throne, the cryptic words.
"Chosen by fate… a slave to destiny," he whispered. "I won't accept that."
Zean turned and headed back to the church, his resolve strengthening with every step. If he was to navigate this dangerous world, he needed answers. And to find those answers, he would have to grow stronger—strong enough to face whatever awaited him in the shadows.