As the last pieces of life left the priestess, her breath stopped, and time seemed to stand still. She felt a sharp, immediate pain around her neck—sensing the dauntingly vile [Energy] and seeing the scarlet red fur—but the pain quickly faded into nothingness. Her final conscious thought was not of fear but of disbelief that her holy mission would end this way at the hands of beings she considered abominations; barely one could consider sapients.

Yet, between the boundaries of life and what came next, all her emotions seemed to fade away as a strange and abstract realm stretched where time held no meaning and space folded upon itself endlessly.

Ethereal rivers of swirling mist flowed silently, intertwining through shifting islands of crystalline memories and fading echoes of emotions long past. The air—if such a corporeal concept existed here—hummed with whispered prayers and broken promises, remnants of lives now concluded. Souls, delicate wisps of luminous mist, floated aimlessly through these regions, navigating currents of fading thoughts and forgotten dreams, illuminated only by gentle pulses of distant, muted lights like stars reflected on the water.

Luze-Ferris's soul drifted silently through these intangible territories, guided by unseen forces, her memories like translucent threads intertwining and disentangling as she passed. Her consciousness wavered between acceptance and denial. It was melancholy, drenched with bittersweetness—her first time entering the church, scenting myrrh and feeling the warmth of the wood as candles burned around her; people kneeled and confessed the truth once it was their turn. The memory was vivid, almost tangible in this place where physicality held no meaning.

That first confession had been liberating—the first time she could voice all her secrets. The hardwood beneath her knees, the gentle play of shadow and light across the ornate columns, and the distant hymns echoing through vaulted ceilings—all had welcomed her into the embrace of something greater than herself.

She was half-human, half-high-elf. Her mixed heritage marked her as an outcast from birth, drawing suspicious glances and cruel whispers wherever she went. Her parents had abandoned her, leaving her to sense the coldness of the world from her earliest days. The delicate, pointed tips of her ears and her unnaturally bright eyes marked her as neither fully human nor truly elven—a creature belonging nowhere.

But in that first confession, tears streamed down her face as she spoke for almost an hour to the pastor, her grievances rolling off her tongue like water breaking through a dam. The pastor's weathered hands rested upon her head, neither condemning nor pitying—simply accepting. This was true liberation she wanted everyone to feel; the liberation to have their pressure taken care of, to be seen fully and still deemed worthy, as all beings were on Orbis.

She never kissed someone, never felt the warmth of a lover's embrace or the tender caress of passion. Instead, she received her [Divine Class] of an [Acolyte]—a moment when golden light had suffused her being, and the church's stained glass windows had seemed to sing with color. She gave her heart to the church, praying and studying the history, laws, and ethics in ancient tomes whose pages crackled with age and power. Night after night, she'd pored over sacred texts by candlelight, fingers tracing holy symbols as her lips formed silent prayers.

A reward came quickly—she rose to become a [High-Priestess] once reaching Tier 3. The ceremony had been modest but profound: seven senior clergy surrounded her in a circle of light, anointing her forehead with sacred oil that smelled of crushed herbs and ancient promises. Her new mission—sadly fundamentally political—became to follow nobles and spread the word, looking for those who were not The First Servants, converting them into a blissful servitude she herself enjoyed. Each conversion was a victory; each soul turned toward her light, a vindication of her own choice.

Yet, it shouldn't have ended as it did—killed by the hands of a Druid and noble wolf kin whose scarlet fur had been the last earthly sight she'd beheld. Their faces had been contorted with righteous fury and despair as they struck her down, believing themselves champions of some alternative truth. Fortunately for Luze-Ferris, death signified only the beginning of an unending servitude, an eternal pledge she had no intention of breaking.

At first, it seemed that all colors and wisps of light slowly left her, slowly giving her freedom from pain and the long-seeked liberation from struggle—her final plunge showing the resolve she had to bring forth the belief in her soul—yet, this chapter of her life wasn't the closing one.

"My dear child," a voice softer than moonlight yet powerful enough to quake mountains echoed within her consciousness, awaking her in the final moments. It wrapped around her soul like a comforting yet weighted blanket, pulling her gently from the ethereal currents toward a fate already sealed. Unlike mortal speech, this voice did not merely sound—it existed, each syllable resonating with the fundamental nature of creation itself.

The voice continued, "You may have fallen prey to devils, but your destiny remains intact—you can still defend the Holy Fold, the fate to cleanse the world from all those abominations." Each word pulsed with purpose, with a conviction so absolute that it could not be questioned.

Her ethereal form curled tightly, protective yet vulnerable. Memories flooded her of the last moments; she had willingly given her life, extinguished her own light to try to quell sinners whose very breath was an affront to divinity itself. She remembered the Druid's eyes, wild with primal power and hatred, the wolf kin's teeth bared in a snarl that spoke of generations of conflict between their kinds.

"Should you agree," the voice resumed, majestic and commanding like an emperor granting clemency to a subject whose worth they recognized despite their failures, "we will bestow upon you the life you've always desired—you will stand beside the hero, graced by holy divinity, and even more than that—"

Strong and fierce, a thundering heartbeat resonated within her, irresistibly pulling her soul back into its physical vessel. The sensation was violent yet gentle—like being torn apart and reassembled simultaneously by the hands of a regal butcher. Threads of sacred luminescence enveloped her, stitching body and spirit seamlessly together, every fiber of her being igniting with renewed purpose. Life surged anew in veins that once had run dry, eaten by worms, and stained by monsters; bones that had begun to crumble reformed with crystalline strength; flesh that had decayed blossomed with renewed vitality.

"You will have your revenge."

A blinding pulse of holy power erupted from within her, obliterating the oppressive soil and stagnant waters around her resurrection site. The ground itself recoiled from her reborn form, earth, and stone crumbling away as if cowering before her divine presence. The air sizzled with purifying [Energy], elements themselves seeming to rearrange to accommodate her sanctified existence.

Luze-Ferris stepped forward, reborn and remade, her eyes sharpening with clarity and determination. Her new class emerged vividly in her consciousness—[Trainee Saint Priestess]. The words branded themselves into her very essence, a title, and purpose inseparable from her existence. She marveled silently at the surge of sacred [Energy] flowing effortlessly within her, power rivaling those she once revered. It coursed through her like liquid sunlight, illuminating her from within and casting shadows from every pore.

Every Hero had a Saint, but many trainees had to prove themselves to him. Now, she was also one—ready to give her life and be toward the blade of the church—the only one destined to illuminate the world.

Her thoughts were interrupted once she felt the touch of cold and wetness on her naked being—as the rain trickled down. Luze-Ferris looked around, orienting herself until all memories came flooding back—the village she made her last breath—eery but without worth even wasting a single thought on her past.

She walked toward the now-left-alone village, mud trying to envelop her feet, only to be pushed away by holiness she couldn't fully control as she surveyed her surroundings—her newly given power making her listen to the voices of the despaired—souls of commoners and nobles alike screamed in agony, their peace unavailable to them as they deemed to suffer in eternity, dying by the hands of a disgusting animal woman.

The droplets sizzled upon contact with her skin, evaporating into tiny halos of steam that wreathed her form like a ghostly shroud. "Time has passed," she murmured, her throat dry and transformed as she walked to the charred remnants of what had once been her mission site. The lingering stench of corrupt [Energy] stained the sacred grounds, a pink miasma that offended her heightened senses. Her eyes gleamed with cold resolution. "The girl is gone."

Indeed, the naive, hopeful priestess who had believed in gentle conversion and patient teaching had perished alongside her first body, and in her place stood something firmer, purer, and infinitely more dangerous—a weapon of divine will.

Luze-Ferris's eyes wandered around, seeing how remnants of parasitic [Energy] collected under her feet, wanting to eat her away—red and pulsing tendrils of corruption that reached hungrily toward her radiance. Disgust was the only emotion she could feel, the same [Energy] that came from the first-ever Demon God who the first-ever Hero killed by sacrificing himself—Hiro, praise his name, as where the term for the savior came from, giving life to life. The parasitic Energy writhed and hissed, archaic and malevolent—hungrier than time itself.

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"Revenge," she whispered softly, a tranquil yet unsettling smile curving her lips. The word tasted sweet, a promise and a prayer combined. "Patience is divine."

With a casual flick of her wrist, [Energy] surged forth from her fingertips—not the gentle healing light she once commanded, but something more primal and absolute. Golden flames tinged with blinding white engulfed the village in holy fire. The conflagration roared upward, hungry yet disciplined, devouring only that which was tainted and depraved. In mere moments, every trace of miasma and scarlet-red [Energy] was reduced to dust, purged from existence. The flames respected only purity, consuming corruption while leaving untouched the few remaining innocent elements.

"Fascinating," she mused, flexing her fingers thoughtfully as she observed the perfect control she now wielded. Where once she had struggled to maintain a simple blessing for hours, now she commanded powers that could cleanse entire landscapes without conscious effort.

"Oh?" Furthermore, the souls of the damned screamed, their screeches echoing as the pain from the cleansing was unbearable but unavoidable—they soon calmed down, drifting away in peace.

Luze-Ferris reached the first [Conjecture] and, with that, took the first step into a world she deemed as a being of absolute power.

With one clenching motion of her hand, her old staff shimmered into existence, summoned effortlessly across whatever distance had separated them. It appeared different now—familiar yet renewed, like an old friend transformed by the same rebirth she had experienced. The wood, once merely blessed oak, now glistered with the divinity of thousands of suns, as rings of divine [Energy] circled around a shaft of pure white crystal, almost too holy to touch. Runes that had been painstakingly carved by mortal hands now pulsed with living light, shifting and adapting to channel her newfound power.

"Now," Luze-Ferris looked to the sun, her eyes no longer beautiful blue—that mortal imperfection had been purged alongside her sapiency. Her once creamy white skin was no more, and her blemish-less complexion now showed the price of her transformation. "Time to go," she moved with a fluid grace that belied her recent resurrection, her black and lifeless eyes watching how the last of her holy flames devoured any miasma and souls, how her grey and scarred skin glowed with inner purpose—she was proud of her appearance, as it was undeniable proof of her servitude, her soul, her everything.

The landscape around her transformed as she walked—grass withering then springing back with renewed vigor, purer than before; animals falling silent, sensing something beyond their comprehension passing by; even the air itself seemed to part before her, unworthy of touching her sanctified form. Each step left temporary impressions of light slowly fading behind her, marking her path like breadcrumbs of divinity—a Saint was born.

— — — — —

Beneath the towering arches of a sanctuary inside a small town named Hokkaido, a church stood right in the middle. The structure was both simple and robust—weathered stone foundations supporting walls of ancient wood harvested from sacred groves eons ago. Dozens of people knelt before it, heads bowed in silent prayer as no one was allowed inside—this was the first Hero's church, where he was born, where he received his abilities, and where he was accepted by the [Holy Sword].

The town itself existed solely to serve the church—humble dwellings with thatched roofs circled the sacred ground like supplicants, their windows always positioned to view the humble spire. The streets were immaculately maintained, swept clean each dawn by devoted followers who considered the task a blessing. No commerce or frivolity was permitted within sight of the holy ground; this was a place of reverence alone.

Before a simple cross with five circles around every end and middle—an old symbol of their church predating written history—knelt Luze-Ferris. She prostrated herself before a boy whose very aura embodied hope and unyielding strength. The air around him shimmered subtly, reality itself bending slightly to accommodate his significance.

Barely ten, the child stood erect with a regal bearing that contradicted his youth. Blue eyes like ancient glaciers—not merely in color but in the weight of ages they carried—gazed upon her with a recognition that transcended their brief acquaintance. His golden hair, kissed by the sun and seeming to capture light even in shadow, framed a face both innocent and impossibly wise. His tiny hands confidently rested on the sword's hilt destined only for heroes—a blade whose metal seemed simultaneously solid and liquid, its edge both defined and infinite.

Beside him stood a dog-kin slave, head bowed in unwavering devotion. The young dog's ears—one notched from some past cruelty—twitched occasionally, alert to any potential threat to his master. His collar, ornate but undeniably a symbol of ownership, gleamed with enchantment similar to those on Luze-Ferris's staff, though less potent.

"Are you Luze-Ferris?" The boy's voice defied his age, ringing with the authority of countless generations, tempered by untold hardships—no arrogance, no fear—he was perfect, like a guardian watching over her in his villager-like attire of simple cloth and leather, deliberately humble despite his heavenly position.

She shuddered in reverence, her gaze lowered submissively, and her heart raced with awe. Dust motes danced in shafts of colored light streaming through stained glass windows, creating halos around his small frame. The divinity, the holiness, had chosen him, and thus, the world would kneel.

"Yes, my Hero," her voice trembled with reverent humility, the words catching slightly in her changed throat. The church's acoustics carried her whisper throughout the sanctified space, echoing it back as if the building itself acknowledged her pledge.

The young boy circled her thoughtfully, his footsteps echoing solemnly on the sacred wood. Each step seemed deliberate and measured—a ritual rather than mere movement. The scent of ancient incense and beeswax candles hung heavy in the air, mingling with the subtle aroma of the oils used to anoint the chosen one.

"Defeated by someone from the Leonandra lineage?" His question carried no judgment, merely confirmation of what he already knew.

Luze-Ferris flinched at the mention, bitterness flooding her veins like ice water. Her fingers trembled, teeth biting deeply into lips now tinged grey. Memories of that final confrontation flashed vividly—the Druid's transformation—crackling with [Nature Energy]; the wolf kin's malicious [Wild Demonic Energy], like claws, extended, gleaming with malice—the now trainee Saint had no chance against those abominations.

"Yes," she managed, her voice tight with a restrained fury that even her devotion could not fully suppress.

He stopped before her, his shadow falling across her kneeling form like a blessing—or perhaps a brand. His eyes pierced her soul with wisdom far beyond his youthful frame, seeing not merely what she was but what she could become.

"Rise, and let your heart be cleansed," he commanded softly yet powerfully, his tone resonating deeply within her, vibrating through bone and spirit alike. "I have three tasks for you, my tarnished lamb."

She wouldn't dare to look directly at him, her eyes solely on the ground where centuries of faithful had worn smooth depressions in the wood. Around them, candle flames stood unnaturally still, as if time itself respected this exchange. "Of course, my Hero."

He stopped, his hands slightly clenching in the stillness of the church. The gesture—so human, so childlike—contrasted sharply with his otherwise perfect composure. "First, I need to talk to the sixth princess of the Royal Leo family, Beatrix B. Leo, and the disciple of the Blood Saint, Laurel L. Love," his voice clearly strained, as if the names themselves carried weight. "Do everything to kidnap them, but do not kill them."

Though she did not show it, confusion flickered through Luze-Ferris's mind. Why would the Hero wish to speak with royalty of those animals and a disciple of another Saint? Yet doubt was a luxury she could no longer afford—her resurrection had purged such weaknesses. She would never question the most virtuous person alive.

"Second," his voice became even more strained, as if old memories resurfaced, filling with melancholy that belied his apparent age. "Should you eliminate Alexander K. Leonandra, I promise to elevate you to the sacred mantle of a Saint."

The name struck her like a physical blow—Alexander K. Leonandra, surely related to those who had ended her first life. Her heart quickened. The promise hung sweetly, dangerously enticing. Saints were beings of legend; their names were whispered with awe even among the church hierarchy. To join their ranks... The thought was intoxicating.

Luze-Ferris straightened, determination burning fiercely in her gaze. The stained-glass window above cast colored light across her scarred features, transforming her momentarily into a living mosaic of divine purpose.

"Third," he sighed, his voice clearly carrying a smile though his expression remained solemn. "Should you come back and find another person as the hero, act normal, but do not trust."

The cryptic instruction lingered in the air, heavy with implications she could not yet understand. Before she could inquire further, the young Hero was already walking away, his small frame casting a grand shadow that stretched impossibly far across the ancient stones. His boots made no sound now as if he walked between worlds rather than merely across the church floor.

"I know you will fulfill the command," he murmured, barely above a whisper yet perfectly audible in the sacred acoustics of the church. "As always."

The small canine kin boy beside him asked cautiously, glancing from his master to Luze-Ferris with eyes that reflected uncertainty. "But... I thought you wanted to—"

The Hero interrupted his slave with gentle authority, placing a small hand upon the dog kin's head. "No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same man, nor the same river," he ruffled the slave's fur, a gesture almost lovingly paternal despite the vast gulf in their positions. "You will soon understand, Dorian."

As Luze-Ferris watched the Hero walk away, something in her heart clenched, like she had witnessed this scene already, a sense of déjà vu that transcended her resurrection. There was something familiar in the boy's gait, in the cadence of his speech, in the weight of his gaze—as if they had enacted this ritual countless times before, across lifetimes she could not remember.

She screamed before the ornate door closed, her voice echoing through the hallowed chamber with fervent devotion. "I will fulfill your command, my Hero!"

The door closed with a finality that resonated through the church, sending dust motes swirling in disturbed patterns. Luze-Ferris remained kneeling, surrounded by the whispers of ancient prayers and the weight of her new purpose. Outside, the faithful continued their silent vigil, unaware of the forces set in motion within their sacred walls—the resurrection of a fallen priestess, the commands of a new yet almost unknown hero, and her tasks that would soon engulf kingdoms.

In the stillness, Luze-Ferris's transformed eyes gleamed with holy purpose, her scarred fingers tightening around her staff as she contemplated her targets. Alexander K. Leonandra. Princess Beatrix. The Blood Saint's disciple. Names that would soon learn to fear the touch of a [Trainee Saint Priestess] whose very existence defied death itself.

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