SINS OF A SAINTChapter 2
Rain fell like judgment.
Rigorus knelt, soaked in ash and blood, his face tilted to the skies. Thunder cracked above the hollow remains of what once was sacred.
RIGORUS (weeping, shouting):
"Ohh Father… what have these poor children done? What have I done? Why do we deserve such cruelty?!"
His voice trembled, but it carried weight—a raw ache carved into every syllable.
"Did we not serve? Did we not live righteously?!"
He spread his arms out as if to welcome Heaven's wrath. The wind howled in response. His soaked hair clung to his face, covering tear-streaked eyes.
"Look at them, Father! LOOK AT US! Have you truly abandoned us?!"
Silence answered.
And then… a laugh. Broken. Moist. Hollow.
Rigorus looked down. His lips quivered as a twisted smirk stretched across them. His tears continued falling—this time not out of sorrow, but madness.
RIGORUS (muttering):
"Ohh… I get it now. This is because of me…"
"Because I let the world be what it is—corrupt, cruel. And I did nothing. I prayed. I believed. You told us not to fear, that You are with us."
His voice dropped to a whisper, but the earth seemed to lean closer to listen.
"Isaiah 41:10 — 'Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God…'"
He clenched his fists.
"Then let me be your instrument."
The Birth of a Forgotten Technique
Long before the fall, before exile, before blood, there was only one cultivation technique Rigorus ever knew.
He first awakened it at the age of 7, in the garden of his mother, surrounded by flowers and songs of birds. The energy of the garden—calm, kind, and nurturing—flowed into him, and from that moment, the technique was born.
When he showed it to his mother, her eyes welled with tears. She gave it a name:
Rage of the Heart: The Origin of Ambient Resonance.
At first, everyone in the Draeven Clan called him a genius. A prodigy. A boy with the potential to reshape the clan's future.
But that praise vanished as quickly as it came. He cried too much. He failed in duels. He was "too soft," they said. "Too emotional."
And so, his cultivation technique—born of love—was mocked. Forgotten. Shoved into silence.
What the Technique Truly Is
In a world where cultivators draw power from internal spirit wells or rigid sect techniques, Rigorus was different.
His cultivation didn't come from within—but from everything around him.
He was a resonator—a soul that absorbed the ambient emotions, energies, and essence of the world.
Whether from the sorrow in a garden, or the hatred in a battlefield, his heart took it all in—and gave it form.
In his mother's garden, the energy had been serene. Peaceful. It poured into him as petals bloomed. He became a mirror to that beauty.
But now...
Now he stood amidst the corpses of 100,000 innocents—absorbing their fear, pain, sorrow, and rage.
Unconsciously, their souls clung to his. Their regrets echoed in his marrow. His cultivation spiraled, reshaped into something godlike and horrific.
And as he stood, the air warped around him. A demonic red aura radiated from his skin, seething like a storm barely contained.
He whispered—
RIGORUS:
"The sun shall rise early for you all… if only to witness what crawls out of the dark."
The Long Walk
He walked.
Through night and day. Across mountains. Through deserts.
For forty days and forty nights, he wandered. Not with purpose—but with surrender. He let fate decide.
He was not looking for home.
And yet, he arrived—feet aching and robes tattered—before the gates of the Draeven Clan.
Only… it wasn't the same.
The land was cold, yes. But somehow, it had bloomed.
It was beautiful. Lively. As if untouched by the sins of its elders.
He stared in silence, unsure how he got here. He didn't intend to return. But here he stood.
GUARD 1:
"Who are you? What business do you have in the land of the Draevens?"
RIGORUS (calmly, yet distant):
"This is my home."
GUARD 2 (laughing, gripping his shoulder):
"I've lived here my whole life. I don't know you—and if I don't know you, you best leave before I lose my patience."
Rigorus stood still, unmoved.
A Storm Reignites
Suddenly—memories burst from the depths of his mind.
His father. The beatings. The silence. The fear.
Pain he thought buried returned like a scream. His aura leaked out violently—pure murderous intent.
Every soldier at the gate reached instinctively for their blades.
And then—like a streak of lightning—she appeared.
From the highest spire of the Draeven castle, she descended in a flash, dust spiraling in her wake.
Liora Draeven—his younger sister. Now the clan's head, and once the only light in his world.
She landed at the gate, hand on her blade, breathing heavy… until her eyes met his.
She froze.
And then... her blade dropped. Her hands trembled.
She stepped forward, slowly, as tears welled up in her eyes.
She reached out, gently grabbing his face.
LIORA:
"Brother… Rigorus… is it really you?"
Though bound by fear of their father's iron will,
the love she bore for Rigorus had never faded—
and even after all these years, and all the changes to Rigorus's face,
she could still recognize him.
RIGORUS (quietly):
"Hello, Liora."
The Shadow Within the Clan
From the castle's halls, a new figure emerged.
No longer a noble. No longer proud.
Kairos Draeven—Rigorus's older brother. The man who once embodied power and promise.
Now? A drunkard. A brute. A murderer of women who refused him. A disgrace wrapped in strength.
But Rigorus knew none of that. He had heard no whispers.
He only saw what stood before him: a shell of a man.
A man he once called brother.
A tense silence fell.
Liora stepped forward, placing herself between them, her eyes burning with fierce loyalty.
Liora:"Kairos, enough. He is our blood, and he is home now."
Kairos sneered, spitting on the ground near her feet.
Kairos stepped closer, reeking of alcohol, eyes hollow and dark.
Rigorus watched him for a moment, then spoke—
RIGORUS (coldly): …For a moment, Kairos…I thought I was staring at Father.The same stench of power soaked in filth… the same eyes, hollow and full of pride.But no… you're not him.You're worse.At least he had purpose behind his cruelty.You? You reek of waste—of a name worn like a crown you never earned.
Tell me, brother…
Is this what became of the 'heir'?