On that fateful day, the sky bled crimson, casting a foreboding pall over the land. Cruel judgment fell upon humanity, awakening dormant sins long forgotten. An unseen force swept through, snatching lives with merciless efficiency, like wisps of smoke consumed by an insatiable fire.
That day became forever etched in memory as the darkest day of humanity. France, once a cradle of culture and life, transformed into a desolate wasteland where not a soul dared to tread. The survivors, marked by horror, sought refuge in faith, bearing the weight of their trauma like a shroud. They turned to God, emerging with new names, desperately trying to escape the nightmares that haunted them. The land itself earned the moniker "The Devil's Cradle," a testament to the horrors unleashed upon it.
Scientists and curious investigators, eager to uncover the truth, returned forever altered—ill and laughing maniacally, their minds unraveling like delicate threads. No one could pinpoint the origin of the faceless horrors that had extinguished three million lives in a heart-stopping hour.
As for me, I cannot conjure the terror of that day, shrouded in the mists of childhood. Perhaps my youth shielded me from the worst of it. But while they sought baptism, I found solace in the notion of exorcism. My name is Noir Adélard, and the only gift I carry from my late mother is a fragment of crimson fabric, faded yet vivid in memory—a remnant of her life that I clutch tightly, my emotional anchor amid the storms of my past.
After escaping the nightmare at the Devil's Cradle, I was set on a humble wooden cart bound for a foreign land. My journey to Japan began with a kind-hearted group of runaways who offered me shelter and direction amidst chaos.
As I stepped off the cart and onto the cobbled streets, the driver's gaze lingered on the ruby necklace around my neck. A trinket I had taken from a wandering child, urged on by a silver-haired man I could barely remember. The ruby sparkled in the light, casting a warm crimson glow that seemed to ease the tension in the driver's shoulders, offering him a fleeting sense of relief. I sensed his fascination, perhaps drawn not just to the gem itself but to the story behind it.
I slipped him a coin, the transaction done, but the weight of the past pressed down on me. The fabric in my pocket pulsed against my heart, a reminder of my mother and the tragic fate that torn us apart eternally.
With each step I took, the memory of her voice whispered in my ear. "My mother would've known what to do," I thought bitterly, memories flickering in my mind—her laughter, her embraces in darkness, the stories that masked our stark reality.
"Lost something, kid?" a voice jolted me from my thoughts. A passerby eyed me curiously, their gaze trailing from the ruby to the fabric of my pocket.
"Just… thinking," I replied, glancing away. The emblem on the fabric pulsed in my pocket—a constant reminder of loss and the life I might have had, tethering me to my late mother and the father I never knew.
I clenched my fists, rage bubbling up inside me at the thought. "I have never seen him since birth. Is he even aware that he has a son out there?" The idea gnawed at my insides, a relentless itch I couldn't scratch.
As I took in the bustling streets, vibrant life pulsing around me, I felt both alienated and oddly hopeful. Japan was different, yet the beauty here deepened my longing for answers. I had embarked on a relentless quest to uncover the Ise Order, that shadowy specter of my past. The worn fabric, a symbol of my grief and resolve, guided me through the treacherous path I had chosen. It was more than a keepsake; it was my driving force, igniting a fierce desire for vengeance and peace.
With the ruby shimmering against my chest and the fabric whispering tales of my mother's love, I resolved to confront the demons of my past. I would learn the truth, find the Ise Order, and claim the justice that eluded me. The journey ahead would be fraught with danger, but for the sake of my mother—and perhaps my own salvation—I was ready to face it.