As mentioned before, erecting a barrier over every city in the empire was indeed possible—if they were willing to burn through the treasury's reserve of mana stones. Yet each stone could last no more than a week before it burned out, and the rain was predicted to linger for an entire month.
The empire was caught in a dire predicament. To use the mana stones now meant that, should war erupt without warning, they would be stripped of the very lifeblood that powered their armies, their weapons, their defenses.
Inside the imperial court, voices clashed like thunder.
"Are we to squander our arsenal on mere weather?" one noble scoffed, his knuckles white against the table. "What if the northern tribes march tomorrow?"
"And what of our people?" another shouted back, slamming his fist. "Will you watch them drown in sickness and famine just to polish your blades for a war that may never come?"
The Emperor sat in silence, his gaze heavy upon the piles of reports—cities begging for aid, villages already failing. On one side lay his duty to the empire's survival against its enemies; on the other, the cries of his subjects who with each day grew weaker beneath the endless rain.
To choose one was to gamble the other.
....
The quiet sound of a child's muffled sobs filled the small hut. His parents lay pale and bedridden, their breaths shallow, their bodies wracked with the sickness that swept through the empire.
The potion distributed by the city had been scarce. Only one vial had reached their family, and his parents had pressed it into his hands without hesitation. He was healthy now—while they wasted away before his eyes.
Their village was far from any city, too remote for healers or mages to reach. Supplies ran thin, and hope thinner still.
As the boy wept, a sudden booming sound echoed through the village. He startled, clutching his sleeve, before edging toward his parents' bedside. But they weakly raised their hands, stopping him.
"Don't… come closer," his father rasped between coughs. "Cover yourself… and see… what is happening. It must be… from the capital." His eyes glimmered faintly with hope.
The boy nodded quickly. Pulling on a tattered raincoat and a mask, he hurried outside. Around him, neighbors too stepped into the rain, drawn toward the noise.
What they saw rooted them in awe.
A massive temple—far too large for their humble village—now stood tall, its marble walls gleaming even beneath the storm. Above its gate, glowing script read:
< Temple of Light >
A priest in white robes emerged, golden embroidery catching the dim light.
"People of Lalrem," he called, his voice ringing with warmth and authority, "we come from the Temple of Light. Bring forth your sick, your water, your food—so that we may purify them through the Light's grace."
The villagers' eyes, once dulled with despair, lit up with desperate joy.
"We will come! We'll bring them!" cries rose from every direction. "Thank you, thank you!"
The priest raised his hands gently. "Do not thank us. Thank the Light that guides us here. May the Holy Light be with you all."
"Yes, yes! Blessed be the Holy Light!"
"Praise the Light!"
The boy's eyes brimmed with tears as he rushed home, dragging out a wheelcart despite his small frame. His arms trembled, but his determination did not falter. He would bring his parents to be healed.
And before long, within the temple, he saw it with his own eyes: the villagers' sickness fading one by one under the priests' touch. His parents too… healed. His sobs of grief turned into cries of gratitude.
Outside, far above the clouds, the Celestial Tower's scholars, if they studied the night sky, would notice something strange—
The Star of Light burned brighter, inching ever closer to an unassuming star.
...…
Yuna stirred restlessly in her sleep as streams of murmurs echoed faintly in her ears. When she tried to focus, everything grew hazy, yet the voices only grew louder.
It was as though she had been pulled into a vast, endless space, where countless spectrums of light encircled her. Each carried with it a whisper. What Yuna did not realize was that, in the waking world, the dimension stone embedded in her chest was glowing softly, illuminating her room.
In this dreamscape, fragments flashed before her—people collapsing beneath ceaseless rain, the downpour black as ink. She saw animals wither, villages suffocating under sickness and death.
Amidst the countless murmurs, a few resounded above the rest, clear and desperate:
[Please… let the rain be gone.]
[Please, purify.]
[Please, grant us the blessing of holy light.]
Something stirred deep within her chest. Or rather, the dimension stone stirred—urging her to act, to use the light flowing into her body to answer these prayers.
It was the first time it had ever spoken to her and it was to give her a command.
Yuna thought sarcastically, even through her blurred consciousness: So it finally decides to talk, and it's just to order me around. This bitch.
Still, the endless murmurs pressed against her skull. If following the stone's instructions would quiet them, then so be it.
Perhaps because of her bond with the stone—or because she had done something similar before—Yuna instinctively knew how to channel the light pouring into her corporeal form.
"They are… praying," the stone told her. To whom, she didn't care. In her fragmented state of mind, the only thought she could muster was to shut the noise out.
"To all those who pray…" Yuna mumbled, barely conscious.
And then she saw it. A light barrier blossomed across the empire, enveloping the supplicants whose voices had reached her. It did not repel the rain, but filtered it. Where the droplets passed through, they glowed faintly before falling as clear, pure water.
The people and animals tainted by the black rain were cleansed.
Before she could concentrate further, her awareness slipped, and darkness claimed her once more.
....
Meanwhile, in the villages, priests labored endlessly. They healed the sick, purified food and water, but the rain was relentless. No matter how many times they drove away the illness, it returned with the next downpour. Exhaustion gnawed at them, faith their only anchor.
One priest collapsed from overdrafting his power—when suddenly, the veiled statue within the temple began to shine. The diamond-shaped jewel in its chest blazed brilliantly.
Light surged outward, flooding the temple before expanding across the empire. A divine barrier descended, covering the entirety of Lalrem. The rain did not stop, but it was transfigured—purified as it fell.
A breath of divinity lingered in the air, sharp enough that every powerful individual could feel it.
The First Prince raised his weary gaze to the heavens, the light reflected in his purple eyes. "The deity of the Temple of Light… is it truly benevolent?"
The First Prince felt a tangle of complicated emotions as he witnessed temples rising in every city and village of the Lalrem Empire—each one bringing unexpected joy and relief to the people much to his happiness and dismay.
This was the first time in history a god had so openly displayed such goodwill to mankind. The shift could not be ignored.
For years, the Temple of Light's growing influence had unsettled the royals and the powerful alike. Stigmata bearers were already proof of its mysterious deity's strength. But this—this was the first true display of divine might.
....
"It feels… like a newborn deity," one figure murmured.
"But its strength far exceeds what a newborn should possess," another replied, their gaze fixed on the radiant sky.
...
"This deity of light is rather interesting," Lilith said, amusement flickering in her tone. She shifted the topic as easily as changing clothes. "Oh—by the way, Zahia is coming to the Academy next week, isn't she?"
"Yes," Professor Veyne answered.
"Mm. I suppose she's finally ready to challenge that domain… to absorb its law and temper her own. How exciting."
Professor Veyne remained silent. Zahia Elliohart's chosen path, and the law she sought to comprehend, was among the most formidable. That strength demanded a price.
He could only hope she would succeed. For one who walked her path, failure meant not just being crippled—failure meant death.