Meanwhile… on the night when the stars aligned.
The cathedral's hallways were dead silent. Outside, the empire was drowning in celebration—fireworks, parades, endless chanting of the prophecy's fulfillment. But inside the sanctum of the church, silence pressed down like a coffin lid.
The news had spread quickly. The Demon King had resurfaced. Entire nations trembled at the prospect. And yet, in the same breath, the revelation of three long-awaited figures had brought a spark of desperate hope.
A Hero.A Saint.A Prophet.
Each one of them, priceless.
A Hero was the sword-arm of the gods, a warrior capable of cleaving apart armies and standing as humanity's shield on the battlefield. A Saint was a healer who could mend even the most fatal wounds, restore vitality, and revive the fallen. And a Prophet—favored of the gods, interpreter of miracles—could shift nations with a single decree.
Securing even one of them would be an advantage. To claim all three? It would mean absolute dominance.
And so the search for these chosen had intensified. The empire's claws spread far and wide, sniffing out every rumor, every omen. For too long, the balance of power had stagnated across the continent, but this… this was a chance to tilt the world.
The Empire who had been on the top is threatened.
"The Empire must possess all three."
The voice came from the head of the round table, resonant and cold.
Seated at its center was Henry Edencrown, the 13th King and Emperor of the Carlisle Empire. A man who had not inherited his throne by birthright, but seized it with blood. His rise came through slaughtering his predecessor in single combat, and ever since, he had been expanding the empire's reach with ruthless precision.
In every corner of the continent, his name was whispered in awe and dread. He was not merely emperor; he was a conqueror, the strongest man alive, and a tyrant who wore his power openly.
"I trust all of you will cooperate in this matter," Henry said, his tone leaving no room for refusal.
Around the table sat five figures: one from the Church, and four from the great noble families that anchored the empire's foundation. Their presence alone pressed like a storm against the marble walls, each of them radiating an aura that could cow even generals into silence.
"As the Crown wishes, so shall it be done."
The first to speak was Yamato, the representative of the East. He rose with a bow so precise it looked rehearsed a thousand times, yet his eyes glimmered like the edge of a blade. His armor was lacquered black and crimson, adorned with spiraling dragon motifs that coiled across his chestplate. From his shoulders hung tattered banners, once white, now permanently stained by blood and ash from campaigns long past. His hair was bound tight in a warrior's knot, and when he smiled faintly, the scar running from ear to jaw twisted grotesquely. Behind him, the faint clinking of charms bound to his blade reminded everyone that Yamato of the East had never entered a battle without taking heads.
"As your Highness commands, the South will answer."
Tezca spoke next. He was shorter, broader, and far heavier than the others—but his body was corded muscle beneath his gilded robe. A mask carved from obsidian covered his face entirely, only two slits for eyes glowing faintly beneath. Around his neck dangled necklaces of teeth, bone, and jade, each one rumored to be taken from his enemies. His bare arms were painted in crimson dyes, geometric lines spiraling up to his shoulders like a curse etched into flesh. Even seated, his sheer bulk radiated violence, the kind of presence that suggested he could crush a man's skull with one hand—and would, if only to prove a point.
"For my liege's will, the West shall do its best to fulfill it."
Konrow's tone was smooth, but his presence was no less suffocating. He wore a high-collared coat of midnight blue velvet that seemed to swallow the light around him. His fingers were adorned with rings—each one etched with sigils that pulsed faintly, alive with some hidden sorcery. His face was pale, unnaturally so, and his smile lingered too long, showing teeth that seemed just a shade too sharp. A faint perfume of iron and smoke clung to him, and it was said that wherever House Konrow tread, plagues and whispers followed. His eyes were pits of calm, but anyone who met them too long swore they felt their secrets peeled open.
"And finally, the North: On behalf of House Nikolav, we pledge our strength for the sake of peace."
Nikolav's representative leaned forward, his cloak of fur dragging across the floor like the hide of a slain beast. His hair was white as frost, his beard thick, and his exposed chest bore countless scars that looked carved by claws rather than steel. His hands were massive, gloved in leather blackened with age, and each breath he exhaled fogged the air as though the cold followed him wherever he went. His eyes, ice-blue and unblinking, stared with the stillness of a predator waiting to pounce. Every movement he made was slow, deliberate, like a bear choosing whether to maul or simply crush its prey. Even seated, he was a mountain of a man, a reminder that House Nikolav ruled the North not through politics, but through sheer, primal terror.
When their voices overlapped, pledging to the Emperor in turn, the chamber darkened—not from lack of light, but from the sheer density of their collective presence.
Henry raised his goblet. "Then let us seal this pact of allegiance."
They raised their cups as one.
"For the glory of the Empire!"
Wine flowed, the toast echoed, and one by one, the nobles departed.
Only one remained.
"There is still no news about the Saintess?"
It was Pope Jude, spiritual head of the Church, still seated at the table. His voice was soft, but it carried venom underneath. Before him knelt a hooded figure, armored in the insignia of the Templars—a feared order that served directly under the Pope's command.
"I'm afraid not, my lord," the templar said.
The Pope's lips curved faintly. He sipped his tea, eyes narrowed in disdain. And then, without warning, the templar's body collapsed inward. Bones snapped, organs burst—the man's entire frame crushed by an unseen force. His corpse hit the marble floor with a dull thud.
"Worthless insect," Vachua muttered. He rose and strode toward the balcony, robes trailing like shadows behind him.
"You call yourselves Templars, yet you cannot find a single woman." His gaze lifted skyward, to the heavens ablaze with constellations. The alignment of the stars signaled it clearly: the three figures had already manifested.
"It has been four months since the revelation," he whispered. "And yet even with the Church's full might, we have not a single trace of the Saintess… My goddess… how much longer must we test your patience?"
He tightened his grip on the railing. The Constellation of the Goddess of Victory, Athena, was silent. But he felt her eyes, cold and watchful.
"Call the Overseer," he ordered. "Tell her to prepare foresight."
"I'm already here, little Jude~"
The voice came before the footsteps. A woman entered the balcony, clad in white robes. Her long hair shimmered like silver threads, her eyes glowing with an unnatural blue light. The Overseer. One of the Church's hidden trump cards.
Her existence alone was forbidden knowledge. The daughter of a demigod, her bloodline traced directly back to Mnesmoyne, the Goddess of Fate.
"It seems you really can't help yourself," she teased, her lips curling. "Even my mother refused me for the first time in years!"
"That means…"
"That means they're here," Vachua finished.
"Yes. All three. And if fate has dragged them into this world, then it also dragged their shadows."
From behind her, armored figures emerged—silent, faceless, terrifying in presence.
The Executors.
Known only to a handful within the church, they were whispered of as the pinnacle of divine enforcers, loyal only to the Pope. Even kings feared to speak of them.
"Re-direct all efforts into finding the Saint and the Prophet," Jude said coldly. "That is my direct order. Do you hear me, Overseer?"
"Yes, your holiness."
"And if she refuses to reveal herself…" His eyes glinted, cruel and calculating. "…then so be it."
The Overseer tilted her head, her faint smile never fading. "Do we really have to go that far?"
"When it concerns the will of the Empire," Jude replied, "there is no such thing as too far."
The stars above flared brighter, as though laughing at their scheming.
And far away, in her own chambers, Josephine sneezed.