A hundred years ago, a terrible calamity befell the world. It marked the beginning of a catastrophic series of events that drove humanity into an age of regression.
These series of events caused humans to become savages, clawing and fighting for every scrap of food, desperate to live just a second longer, a minute longer, an hour longer.
In the end, civilization crumbled. Resources dwindled to the point where humanity began consuming itself from within.
Utter destruction reigned, relentless and uncontrollable. And as if the world itself harbored a grudge against them, nature turned against humanity.
Every disaster imaginable—earthquakes, storms, floods—converged in a merciless assault, each one eager to contribute to the fall.
When all hope seemed lost, six divine lights descended upon the world. With all their might, they healed the land and mended humanity, halting the inevitable annihilation.
People revered these six lights, worshipping them as their saviors. Over time, provinces formed, each standing as a domain governed by one of these divine entities.
They became known as Archons.
Humans devoted themselves to these beings, receiving their blessings and awakening as Blesseds—chosen warriors who carried out the will of the Archons and purged the remnants of the calamity, known as Cursed Creatures.
Yet, Auren had never truly believed in this tale. He found too many loopholes.
Why had the Archons waited until the destruction was nearly absolute before intervening?
To him, it sounded less like an act of salvation and more like a stage set for their own deification. If anything, they might have been the ones who caused the calamity in the first place—perhaps even the ones who unleashed the Cursed Creatures upon the world.
But no one wanted to hear such thoughts.
Heresy, they called it.
His words were dangerous. Even a whisper of doubt against the Archons risked severe punishment from the Temple, especially the Temple that worshipped the strongest Archon of them all—The Temple of Light.
The Temple of Light had branches scattered across all six states of the Hope Province.
Each state housed a semi-main temple with countless extensions, but the grand temple stood alone, towering at the province's very center. It was more than a place of worship—it was the stronghold of faith, power, and unwavering obedience.
Auren had never set foot inside the main temple before. On Sundays, they usually attended the semi-main temple in the western state—that was if he was unlucky enough to be found.
But today was different.
The grand temple's doors opened only once a year. And this was that moment.
Glass chandeliers hung from the impossibly high ceiling, their radiant glow cascading across smooth white walls. The sheer distance of the ceiling did nothing to dim the brilliance of the lights.
As Auren stepped inside, a familiar, exasperating voice rang out.
"Hey, hey, hey… if it isn't the Talent of the Lysander himself."
A red-haired boy whined, his tone laced with mock enthusiasm.
Auren frowned. "Lucien," he muttered.
Lucien grinned, utterly pleased with himself.
"I can proudly say that this entire day was prepared specifically for you. The whole city shook with the cheers of the crowd—no one even needed to guess. We all knew the Talent of the Lysander had arrived."
He sauntered forward, the picture of smug satisfaction.
To his right stood a boy with deep green hair and perpetually downturned eyes. His face had a way of sticking in one's memory—freckles splashed across his nose like ink on parchment.
To Lucien's left was someone who, at first glance, looked utterly ordinary. Straight posture, unremarkable gaze… but his size set him apart.
He was taller than the other two. Given a few more years, he'd probably grow into a mammoth of a man.
Auren barely spared them a glance. His eyes flickered past Lucien, beyond the vibrant, irritating presence before him.
Something else demanded his attention.
Something more important than an old reunion.
"Excuse me, Lucien."
His voice was cool, detached. Without waiting for a response, he stepped between Lucien and the green-haired boy and walked past them.
The hall stretched before him, its polished wooden benches flanking both the right and left sides.
Above, glittering chandeliers descended in elegant arcs, their silvery glow casting a crisp radiance over the pristine white walls.
The light danced.
Reflections shimmered across the room, colliding with the marble statues and ornate furniture that adorned the space. Every inch of the temple was sculpted into flawless luxury.
Most of the children stood transfixed, their heads whipping left and right as they took in the spectacle.
Ordinarily, they would have only seen this place on special excursions.
But today was different.
Today, they would become something they had only dreamed of.
Auren slowed his pace.
Reaching the center of the benches, he finally stopped. His gaze locked onto the colossal tree standing at the front of the temple.
And he stared.
The Temple of the Light Archon wasn't merely a structure—it was built around the tree.
Every pillar, every arch, every intricately carved corridor had been designed to revolve around it, as though the temple itself drew breath from its existence. The tree stood at its very heart, its presence woven into the very foundation of the temple's architecture.
Its golden leaves shimmered, catching the sunlight that streamed through the grand stained-glass windows. The soft glow bathed the hall in hues of warmth, prestige, and power.
Auren couldn't deny it.
The Archon of Light and Hope was the strongest among the six Archons. The most revered.
More nations worshipped him. His dominion stretched farther than any other.
All Archon temples held their Blessing ceremony around the same period, but that of the Hope Province, resounded louder than anywhere else.
He was the pinnacle.
And those who received his blessing?
They altered the course of history itself.
A deep, creaking sound echoed through the grand hall. The groan of an old, decrepit door sent a hush rippling through the hundreds of children, immediately seizing their attention.
From the right side of the altar, an entourage of priests emerged, their movements slow and deliberate.
They were clad in pristine white robes, woven with golden threads that shimmered beneath the chandeliers. Ornamental embellishments traced the edges of their garments, an intricate display of grandeur and reverence.
But amid them—in their very center—walked a presence so unblemished that her existence alone filled the hall with a palpable aura of peace and longing.
A hush fell over the children.
They strained their necks, stood on their toes—desperate for a glimpse of her.
Auren, however, stood frozen.
He had only ever read about them—in newspapers, in whispers, in rumors.
Yet here she was.
The Pontifex.
And now that he saw her for himself… he couldn't deny it. The hype was real.
A small frown crept across his face.
'How can such an existence be allowed to be?'
The Pontifexes—the closest mortal vessel to the Archon, the spiritual leader of the temple—embodied so much power that it defied reason.
By all logic, beings like them should have seized the world by now.
'If only I had that kind of power…'
Auren couldn't comprehend it. They wielded immeasurable strength—and yet, they spent their lives spreading faith and messages of belief.
Why?
His thoughts fractured as the priests came to a halt, assembling in a perfect line along the altar—nearly thirty of them, standing in solemn silence.
The Pontifex remained behind them, seated at the base of the golden tree.
Then—
A voice cut through the silence.
Sharp. Crisp. Unyielding.
Like steel slicing through brick.
"I am sure you have all been briefed before now. The 99th Blessing Ceremony shall now begin."
The priest's voice rang through the hall, steady and unyielding.
And he was right.
Every teenager gathered here knew what was about to happen.
They knew why they were here in the first place.
Once a year, a subtle shift occurred in the field of Divinity. A shift caused by a singular, unfathomable event—
The Archons blinked.
After bestowing salvation upon mankind, the Archons had fallen into slumber. But even in their dormancy, their presence still rippled across the world.
Shortly after their descent into sleep, humans began experiencing strange symptoms—each one uniquely tied to the six Archons.
But no matter how their symptoms differed, they all shared one terrifying consequence.
They attracted cursed creatures.
Because they were Nascent.
Carriers of a fragile, yet unmistakable spark of divinity.
And because of that spark, many died young.
The world, for a time, descended into chaos.
Until, at last, the Archons intervened.
Through a chosen Nascent, the Archon would lead the afflicted to the place of their slumber. And there, the dormant deity would bestow upon them a fragment of their divine essence.
Thus, the Nascents would fully bloom—transforming into Blesseds.
But it was never so simple.
Each Nascent had to undergo a trial.
And only those who passed… became Blesseds.
Even so, their destiny had already been decided the moment they received the spark of divinity.
As the priest's voice soared, a holographic projection flickered into existence outside the temple, displaying the ceremony for the restless crowd beyond.
In special guest chambers, the children's parents sat in quiet observation.
Some watched with pride.
Some with arrogance.
Some with fear.
Some with joy.
And some with utter indifference.
Then—
"Rondel Guttamaher. Step forward to receive the blessing of the Archon."
A tall, slim boy with rough orange-colored hair startled at the sound of his name.
But he quickly steadied himself.
His steps were deliberate, his expression carefully composed as he moved past Auren, approaching the altar.
Rondel came to a stop before the priest standing directly in front of the golden tree—the man whose position blocked any view of the Mortal Goddess seated behind him.
The priest lifted his hand in a silent command.
Rondel dropped to one knee.
The priest raised both hands together, cupping them as if holding water, his fingers barely trembling.
He closed his eyes and murmured inaudibly.
Barely a second later, a golden leaf drifted through the air, descending with an almost reverent grace until it settled gently into his palms.
With measured precision, the priest lowered the leaf onto the boy kneeling before him.
The moment it made contact, a pillar of light erupted from the ground, its brilliance nearly swallowing Rondel whole—though it only reached his torso, encasing him in a golden radiance.
The priest turned away, stepping toward the Pontifex, who handed him a scroll of aged brown parchment.
Unrolling it with care, he turned back to the gathered crowd and read aloud.
"Rondel Guttamaher. Rare Blessing of the Radiant Tempest."
A beam of joy lit up the boy's face.
He bowed deeply, eyes gleaming with uncontained excitement, before spinning on his heel and jogging back, his heart pounding with exhilaration.
The hall had barely settled before—
The priest's voice, thunderous and absolute, crashed through the air.
No one had expected it.
"Auren Veyne, step forward."