Inside Elftown's cathedral, candlelight flickered softly, casting long shadows across the stone idol at the center of the hall. The air was deathly still. Only the whisper of wind through the cracked walls stirred the silence.
Bishop Brant sat in a velvet-red chair, slowly flipping through the Holy Codex without reading a word. On the small table in front of him lay a letter—its yellowed parchment scorched at the edges by fire.
"He's entered the forest, Your Grace," a middle-aged man in guard armor said beside him, voice low and tense.
Brant raised his eyes, tapped the letter with a finger."Let him run. As long as he dies, the result is the same."
The man said nothing. Just nodded.
"The Black Knights are already in pursuit. They won't fail." Brant closed the codex and tossed it aside. "Now the question is how to erase this 'heretic' completely from the Church's record."
The door creaked open.
A man strode in, dressed in a deep-blue noble's cloak, his nose sharp, a golden seal ring glinting on his hand. He didn't bow. He sat directly across from Brant.
"The brat ran. Couldn't catch him. Tell me—how exactly does that save face for House Madd?" the noble sneered, tone dripping with mockery.
Brant's brow twitched, but he didn't respond. He simply waved a hand toward the door.
The attendants left. The room shrank to three.
"Your young lord lost his mind," Brant said flatly. "It had something to do with Arthur Raine, sure. And I've already stretched the story enough to make it sound clean. This time, it's your family that needs the cover-up. Not mine."
The noble chuckled and placed a small metal insignia on the table.
"Orders from Sanctum. Wipe that little bastard out, clean and quiet, and your promotion won't be far off."
Brant glanced at the emblem. His eyes flickered.
The noble leaned in, lowering his voice."They say his blood isn't just heretical. He's a Radiant Remnant."
Brant's eyes snapped to his. "Are you sure?"
"Sanctum's already sent an observer. They're watching every move." The noble exhaled. "Don't treat this kid like another throwaway. If you mess it up, you won't just lose the seat—you'll lose everything."
Brant was silent for a beat.Then he reached forward and slipped the emblem into his sleeve.
"Then I'll make sure there's nothing left. Not even bones."
Candlelight flickered across their faces. The shadows on the wall stretched and warped like demons writhing in the depths of hell.
At that same moment, behind the ruins of the ancient temple, Arthur lay crouched behind a stone slab, holding his breath—hearing everything.
In one hand, he still gripped a strip of cloth meant to bind his wounds.His face was pale. Sweat dripped from his brow.
He'd only come back to retrieve the food pouch he'd dropped.And instead, he'd walked into a conspiracy.
Footsteps approached from the other side—two men in Church civilian uniforms, chatting casually as they circled the ruins. Their words made Arthur's spine go rigid.
"You really think Arthur Raine's a Radiant Remnant?"
"People from Sanctum don't make mistakes. I heard his mother showed up at the Northern Church, years ago."
"No wonder the bishop's involved. They've never deployed Black Knights for just any heretic."
Their voices grew louder.
Arthur crouched lower, retreating into the deeper brush.He stepped as silently as he could.
This wasn't just a mistake.It wasn't some cursed noble dragging him down.
The entire hunt had always been aimed at one thing—his blood.
Somewhere far off, a nightbird screeched.A soft glow flickered in Arthur's palm. He clenched it tight, forcing the light down.
He couldn't be seen.Not now.
The Black Knights had pulled out.But the Church was already moving in.
He'd thought the danger was over.Now it was clear—the noose was just tightening.
On the far side of the stone wall, he heard the scrape of metal.
"There's blood here!"
"Track him!"
Arthur glanced down. His wound was bleeding through the makeshift wrap. Drops of blood were soaking into the leaves.
No time.
He slipped out through the bushes on the other side, footsteps light, body sliding silently downhill.
"East-southeast! He's headed that way!"
A short bolt hissed through the underbrush, slicing past his shoulder and slamming into a tree.He didn't flinch.He sprinted, hugging the slope's edge, breath ragged in his chest.
At the bottom lay a forgotten path, swallowed by weeds, leading into the heart of the Black Forest.
He nearly lost his footing halfway down—caught himself on a vine—and vanished into the thicket.
Footsteps thundered behind him.
"Don't let him escape! He's awakened! We have to end this before Sanctum arrives!"
That sentence hit harder than the bolt.
From the pyre to this moment—it had never been about punishing a runaway.It had always been about purging a bloodline.
This wasn't survival anymore.This was extermination.
A soft crunch in the grass. Arthur dropped low.
He saw a plainclothes attendant circling from a side path.
He held his breath.Gripped a dry branch.
Waited—
Then struck.
The stick cracked against the man's ankle. The attendant cried out and fell.Arthur bolted past him, sprinting through a dip in the land, then dove into a crack between the rocks.
Shouts rose behind him—but faded.
He didn't stop.
He ran through the jagged stonefield, heart hammering, lungs burning, until no footsteps followed.
The wind sliced through the trees, cold and sharp.Arthur leaned against a boulder, chest heaving, mind racing.
The bishop.The nobles.Sanctum.The Black Knights.
This wasn't some accident.It was a chain.A plan.And he was one name on the purge list.
Arthur looked down.His blood had dried, but the wound still stung.
He tightened the cloth, teeth clenched.Then sank slowly beside a rock and sat.
The woods ahead were veiled in moonlight.Somewhere in the dark, a bird startled and fled.
He knew one thing.
After tonight—he wouldn't be running anymore.
Not from guilt.Not from confusion.
They wanted to erase him.
He didn't have the strength to fight back.
Not yet.
But he had no choice.
No path but forward.
The night grew deeper.
Wind slipped through the forest, tossing dead leaves into the air like scattered ash.
Arthur kept moving, avoiding the patrols he could hear rustling nearby. He crept past a moss-covered boulder, following a barely visible trail nearly choked with vines.
He had no destination.
Only one rule: Don't stop.
The ground sloped upward. Trees grew thinner. Up ahead, the terrain dropped off—a cliff, blanketed in thick night fog. He edged toward it, looked down.
Only blackness.
A valley swallowed in mist. Nothing but shadows.
He didn't go down.
Instead, he turned, searching for shelter.
Near the cliff wall, a large stone jutted inward toward the mountain. Behind it, a narrow crack in the rock—just wide enough for one body.
Arthur slipped inside, curled up tight, and pulled his torn cloak around himself.
The wind cut straight through him.
His clothes were soaked through. His skin was scraped raw by thorns and branches.
But he didn't think about any of that.
He just closed his eyes and forced his breathing to slow.
Minute by minute, the pressure eased. He could feel it—his pursuers had lost visual. For now.
But he never relaxed.
A black-feathered raven landed soundlessly on the stone edge above him.It tilted its head, staring straight down at him with unblinking eyes.
Cold. Reflective. Lifeless.
Arthur didn't see it.And it didn't make a sound.
Beneath its claws, the stone trembled. Just slightly.
A pulse, invisible to the human eye, rippled outward. Silent. Subtle.A thin line of energy etched itself through the night air.
Far away—hundreds of miles, maybe more—a surface shimmered with glowing runes.A mirrored pool, flickering with light.
A man in a silver-trimmed robe stood before it, motionless.
His fingers slid through the air, adjusting unstable coordinates with surgical precision. His face was blank. Cold.
"Radiant bloodline, confirmed."
"Mark the subject Tier-One Elimination."
Behind him, an assistant nodded and scribbled the order onto a scroll.
The room was silent enough to hear ink touch parchment.Symbols of the Decayed Gods were carved into the walls.The last, flickering echo of the Radiant Church shimmered dimly across the stone.
Arthur knew none of this.
But he could feel something.A coldness. Something wrong. Something watching.
He opened his eyes. Shifted—
Stopped.
A blur moved across the treetops ahead.
He held his breath.
Peered out through a crack in the rock.
Two figures were advancing along the slope, slow and careful. One carried a long staff. The other had a metallic device strapped to his back. Their clothes weren't local. And they weren't Church patrol.
They were something else.
Trackers.
"I'm reading residual blood," one of them muttered.
"He's been gone less than half a cycle. Move."
The other's steps were quiet. Too quiet.Like someone born to hunt.
Arthur didn't move.He couldn't.
He pressed himself tighter into the stone. Focused on his breath.Vanished.
The two figures crept closer.
Ten steps. Five. Three.
One of them reached out to move a nearby rock—
The raven above screeched.
A sharp, sudden "kraa—!"
It took off, wings slicing the air.
Both men froze. The one with the staff tightened his grip.
"Miracle signal lost. Something's interfering."
The other looked up."Decayed watcher. Pull out."
They exchanged a glance.
Then they vanished, slipping away into the dark.
Arthur didn't know why they left.But he wasn't about to waste the gift.
The moment their footsteps faded, he crawled from the crack, staying low, and vanished into the trees.
The raven circled once, then again, then perched on a dead branch farther out, silent once more.
The fog thickened.
Deeper in the forest, whispers moved between the trees.Breaths of things unseen.Not beasts. Not birds.
Something else.
Arthur kept low, weaving through rocks and brush, eyes scanning for a stream, a slope, anything that might lead him out of this cursed zone.
Something pulsed at his feet. A subtle jolt.
He looked down.
A small insignia had fallen at the base of a tree, half-buried in roots.Blackened metal. Slightly corroded.
They'd left it behind. The trackers.
He didn't touch it.
Just looked.
It wasn't a Church seal.
It belonged to the High Command of the Decayed Gods.
His blood chilled.This ran deeper than he thought.
Arthur turned and slipped back into the woods.
No more hesitation.No more second-guessing.
No maps. No allies. No support.Only survival.
Every pause could mean death.
Behind him, the bishop. The noble. The Church.
Behind them… something worse.
He stopped under a massive tree and wiped the blood from his temple.Retied the fraying knots on his cloak.
He didn't look back.
He didn't expect answers.No one was coming to explain his past.No one would offer shelter.
It was all on him now.
The trees rustled overhead.He looked up at the pale moon breaking through the clouds, picked up a branch for a walking stick—
And stepped deeper into the dark.