The altar of the Dawn Grand Cathedral burned white in the morning light. The vast interior of the towering cathedral was filled with layers upon layers of light-magic barriers. The milky-white radiance pouring from the holy stones enveloped the entire space, silently proclaiming this as the most sacred place on the continent. A structure that had stood in the holy city of Lusevila for approximately 780 years. Golden seals were carved into the walls—all of them traces of light magic. In this world, light symbolized order and salvation. Darkness symbolized taboo and ruin. That was what she had been taught. That was how Milisarl had spent her twenty-two years. Before the altar, she knelt. Her body, wrapped in white holy vestments, remained perfectly upright. Milisarl, twenty-two years old. Her jet-black bob cut fell softly against her shoulders, and her deep amber eyes stared forward without wavering. Her slender frame—170 centimeters tall—was controlled with such precision it seemed to embody holiness itself. Yet that perfection was already a lie. Seven of the highest-ranking clergy of the Seat of Dawn stood in a semicircle around her. The Dawn Priest at the center, surrounded by clergy of various ranks. All wore white holy vestments, their foreheads marked with the seal of light magic. Their gazes were cold, fixed upon Milisarl. There was no respect as there had once been. Only the frigid indifference of those who pass judgment. "Milisarl Luminous Aurelius." That name was known throughout the entire continent. The Holy Saint of Light. The people's hope. The savior of the suffering. That was what she had been called—her formal name. The Dawn Priest opened his mouth slowly. His white-haired face bore deep lines. He was a man who had devoted more than sixty years to the Seat of Dawn. What reflected in his eyes—was it disappointment, or calculation? "Your seat as Holy Saint is hereby revoked." The words were brief. Concise. And they ended everything. Milisarl's heart seemed to stop for a moment. (What?) Her mind rejected the very meaning of those words. Her seat as Holy Saint? No, that couldn't be right. There had to be some mistake. She needed confirmation. She needed to ask questions. She opened her mouth to speak, but the next words cut her off. "The reason is—" "Loss of qualification as a Holy Saint." It was vague. Terribly vague. Milisarl's brow furrowed. Loss of qualification? Yet her aptitude for light magic, measured in quantifiable terms, exceeded ninety percent. That was officially recorded. When she had been selected as Holy Saint twelve years ago, her measurement had been the highest in eight hundred years of history. Such aptitude could not suddenly vanish. "Is there anything you wish to inquire about?" The words were courteous. But their intonation was that of one who had already rendered judgment. There was no room for rebuttal. That atmosphere chilled Milisarl's entire body. This is a ritual, she understood instinctively. Not a trial—a ritual. "No." Her voice was calm. Despite the turmoil within, the trained courtesy of a Holy Saint sustained her. She did not resist when ordered down from the altar. She did not resist when commanded to remove her white vestments. But then— The moment a clergyman's hand grasped the hem of her holy garment, Milisarl's body reacted. (This is wrong.) That voice screamed within her. "Wait, please—" The words had escaped her. A voice stripped of control. A voice of human terror, defying the training of a Holy Saint. But no one listened. The vestments were torn without mercy. The white fabric made a harsh, crackling sound as it was ripped from her body. Milisarl remained in only a thin linen undergarment. Her entire form was not exposed. But in that moment when the thing that had defined her for twelve years was stripped away, the humiliation was beyond measure. "Confiscation of all assets." "Revocation of citizenship." "Declaration of the Fallen Saint is hereby issued." Words rained down one after another. They were ritual words meant to legally erase the existence of Milisarl Luminous Aurelius. Outside the cathedral, thousands of people had already gathered. When Milisarl was dragged from the Grand Cathedral, she was met with screams of chaos. "False Holy Saint!" "Traitor!" "Not the Child of Light, but a servant of darkness!" The voices that had once adored her had transformed into hatred. With each step Milisarl descended the cathedral stairs, the clamor grew louder. Soon it took physical form. Stones flew toward her. When the first stone struck her shoulder, Milisarl finally understood. This was reality. This was her life. "Run." That voice came from no one else—it was Milisarl's own instinct. She ran. Across the stone-paved streets of the holy city of Lusevila, barefoot, in tattered linen. Thousands of people chased behind her. Among them were surely those she had blessed. Those healed by her light magic. But now, those memories held no meaning. Stones struck her back. Pain shot through her entire body. But she did not stop. A stone hit her thigh. A sharp stone's edge split her cheek. Still, she ran. The will to seek truth. That was what drove her forward. Why? What had happened? What had gone wrong? An intense will to find those answers. And the instinct of a living creature to survive. The eastern gate of the holy city came into view. The gate guards saw her. Those who had once saluted her in respect. But now they too threw stones. Beyond the gate lay the outside world. Once past the walls surrounding Lusevila, green began immediately. To the east, toward the territory of the Tolvern Duchy. There lay the primordial forest called Elgnowale, the Abyss Forest. The pursuit of the crowd gradually faded. Tracking one who had lost citizenship was not an obligation under the Church's law. Rather, association with such a person was considered unclean. Milisarl continued to run. Gradually, the green deepened. Trees enveloped her. Light was blocked out. From the white, sacred world of light she had known, into a dim green world. Her legs could no longer carry her. Running beyond the limits of her strength. Blood loss from her wounds. The collapse of her spirit. All of it crushed her. Several kilometers into the depths of the Elgnowale Forest, Milisarl fell. The roots of an ancient tree caught her. Her body was covered in blood and mud. Her garments were torn. Dead leaves clung to her short black hair. On her left wrist, a mark that had not been there before began to surface. Dark purple lines were etched into her skin. They were traces of dark magic. When, and how, such a thing had been inscribed, she did not know. But it was unmistakably there. Milisarl wept then—for the first time. In the forest where no one was present. In a place where no one could hear her cries. She wept aloud. (Why?) That question repeated endlessly. Why only her? Why this? She had been devoted and compassionate to the people. She had lived as the symbol of light, as the people's hope. Her weeping became breathing, and her breathing became the fading of consciousness. Milisarl's vision blurred. The dark green foliage grew darker still, until it became complete black. That was when it happened. An impossible sensation shot through her mind. It was a gaze. The feeling of being looked at. Someone was watching her. Milisarl lifted her fading eyes. Between the trees, a figure stood. A person draped in a black robe. Their face was completely hidden in shadow. Yet they were unmistakably watching her. The weight of that gaze became the force that held her consciousness from slipping away. (Help me.) Milisarl tried to speak. But her throat constricted, and no sound came. She could not even produce a hoarse whisper. The figure did not move. Only watched. As Milisarl's consciousness was about to sink completely into darkness, one final thought formed in her heart. (I... cannot die yet.) It was not a prayer, but an unwavering resolve. Until she knew why this had happened to her. Until she uncovered that truth. She could not die. That strong will kindled a brief light in her eyes. The figure among the trees smiled quietly. It was a face illuminated faintly by moonlight—perfectly composed. A man in his mid-thirties. Deep crimson eyes gazed upon Milisarl's light. Serislan Valentis. A wielder of dark magic. One of the most dangerous people on this continent. "Finally found you." Those words did not reach Milisarl. Her consciousness had already fallen completely into darkness. Serislan approached slowly. There was no urgency in his footsteps. As if he had foreseen this moment all along. He lifted Milisarl's body. Her form was soiled with blood and mud, but Serislan paid it no mind. He cradled her and walked deeper into the forest. Within the Abyss Forest Elgnowale, an ancient stone tower stood in quiet solitude. Its name was the Tower of Silence. That place would become the beginning of her new life—though Milisarl did not yet know it. There, she would walk the path from light into darkness. And at the end of that path, multiple men's obsession and affection awaited her.