Auren felt his chest tighten under the weight of the gazes that fell on him. It was like darkness had pooled within their eyes, pressing an unseen boulder of expectation onto his shoulders.
Yet, he breathed. He stepped forward.
Even as his legs felt impossibly heavy, he stepped forward.
He didn't want this. He never asked for it.
He never asked to be good with a sword. Or to be born as the bastard son of Sword Saint.
He never wanted their expectations, never desired to carry the burden of people's hopes. Not once had he expressed a passion for being a beacon.
So why had fate spun something so revolting upon him? Why had it shackled him to the will of millions—millions who sought to be fueled, satiated, fulfilled through him?
It was suffocating.
But he wouldn't crumble beneath it. Not here.
'One last time… let's take Relisé's advice.'
Auren closed his eyes and knelt, whispering a silent prayer.
He had never been an avid follower of the Archon's teachings. Faith had always felt too intangible—leaving his fate in the hands of something he couldn't see had never made sense.
And yet, at this moment, he felt utterly powerless.
There was nothing he could do except entrust his fate to an unseen, uncertain existence.
The tension in the cathedral was thick, the air stagnant with bated breaths. Even outside, the world had gone still. The people clutched their clothes, fists clenched, waiting.
Waiting for the birth of something great.
Auren felt the priest's palm press against his head.
Then—
A sudden burst of crimson light erupted, not just around Auren but through him, piercing through the cathedral's ceiling and into the heavens.
Gasps filled the hall, then the streets beyond.
"I expect no less of the western state talent… my rival," Lucien murmured, his lips curling into a smirk.
Auren's eyes remained shut, his body soaking in the radiant warmth spreading through him.
It was like something inside him was being unsealed, zipping open within his muscles and veins.
Then he felt something… strange.
'…Is it supposed to hurt?'
Auren's brow furrowed.
Heat flooded his veins, liquid fire unraveling him from the inside out. It wasn't just pain—it was dissection. Like unseen hands were peeling him apart, layer by layer, replacing his bones with something broken, something unholy.
His limbs trembled but he endured it silently.
And then—
The sky darkened.
Not just the cathedral, not just the city—the very heavens themselves seemed to suffocate under an oppressive shadow.
A violent crimson lightning tore across the sky, streaking downward in a jagged arc, before striking the cathedral's pillar of light and vanishing into Auren's body.
The high priest recoiled, his composure fracturing as he stumbled back in horror.
Something was wrong.
Auren's eyes snapped open.
His body was still glowing with the crimson light, but now, black and red sparks lashed across his skin like whips of malignant energy.
Then—silence. The light vanished.
The world returned to normal.
But no one spoke.
The high priest gawked at Auren as though he were something… lesser. Something wrong.
Murmurs spread, whispers rippling through the congregation like a growing storm. The high priest turned to the Pontifex, hesitant. The time it took him to respond was longer than it had been for Randal.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he cleared his throat and spoke.
His voice trembled.
"Auren Veyne… Divine…"
The gasps erupted again, even louder.
The priest paused, his throat bobbing. He clenched the parchment in his hands before forcing himself to continue.
"Auren Veyne… Divine Curse, Requiem of a Failed Hero"
Silence.
Not just inside the cathedral, but outside.
The entire world seemed to hold its breath.
Auren's fingers curled.
'…Curse?'
No. That wasn't right.
That couldn't be right.
He looked up at the high priest. His voice was steady, confident.
"High Priest, I think you made a mistake. You said—"
"There are no mistakes, child," the man cut him off, his voice like steel. "The Archon does not make mistakes. There is only fate. This is your fate."
The high priest's eyes were condescending, laced with unmistakable disgust.
But this wasn't possible.
Curses didn't belong to humans. Humans received blessings—granted by the Archons.
Cursed beings, however, were something else. Something malevolent. They were the reason Blesseds existed—to fight against them.
Hate. Fear. Despair.
When those seeds took root, when they festered, a Cursed was born. They weren't merely creatures with curses; they were phenomena. Twisted manifestations of negativity that have existed since the age of calamity. With their only purpose being destruction.
Auren's jaw clenched.
"This can't be right," he said, his voice cutting through the silence. "How can a human be Cursed?"
"Leave my sight this instant," the priest commanded coldly.
His voice carried no patience, no pity—only contempt.
Auren's breath hitched. He wasn't even given another glance as the priest moved on.
"Lydia Draycott."
A girl with brunette hair, styled into twin buns, walked past Auren without sparing him a single glance.
The high priest's voice was suddenly lively again.
"Lydia Draycott. Mythic Blessing, Azure Starfire."
And again—
"Gideon Crowley. Common Blessing, Night Light."
The words blurred. The voices, the reactions—all of it drowned in Auren's ears, muffled, distant.
Then—
"Lucien Don Ryusmont. Epic Blessing, Eternal Lumina."
Lucien strode back, pausing only to glance at Auren with a smirk before rejoining his friends.
And finally—
"Seraphina De Devereaux. Divine Blessing, Luminous Zenith."
Auren sat at the farthest bench in the cathedral, his mind blank.
His hands curled into fists.
Hope.
He had tried it, just this once.
But it was useless.
And yet…
He refused to believe this was real.
It shouldn't be possible.
The priests had to have an explanation. They had to—
Auren stood.
But before he could move, two sentries approached him.
The others had already left.
He had been so lost in thought, he hadn't noticed.
"We will escort you," one of them said.
His tone was dark.
Auren's grip tightened around his sword's hilt.
"…Escort me where?"
The sentry's expression remained unreadable.
"Somewhere safe."
Auren's eyes darkened.
His hand moved—fingers curling around the hilt—
But before he could unsheathe his blade, the sentry moved.
A fist slammed into his face, smashing him into the ground. The marble beneath him cracked, fractures spiderwebbing outward.
Auren's vision blurred. His consciousness teetered.
Then—
Darkness.