The morning mist hung like a veil over the small border town of Reston in the Kingdom of Calanthia. The damp air carried the mingled scents of earth and charred firewood, drifting through the narrow streets. Ramshackle wooden houses crowded the roadside, their eaves hung with dried roots—the only sustenance serfs could rely on during famines. On the streets, serfs trudged with bowed heads toward the fields, their backs hunched as if weighed down by invisible shackles. Each carried a coarse burlap sack containing their daily ration—a piece of black bread so hard it could kill a rat, sometimes mixed with husks or gravel. Occasionally, someone would pause to sneak a bite, their teeth grinding against the crust with an unsettling crunch before swallowing with a grimace, as if chewing were a luxury they couldn't afford.
At the town's center stood a towering temple, built from pale gray stone, its spire piercing the sky. In the square before it, a weathered stone tablet inscribed with "The Diligent Shall Enter Heaven" loomed faintly in the mist. Though the words had been eroded by wind and rain, their authority remained unquestionable. Beneath the tablet, black-robed priests brandished whips, their hawk-like eyes scanning for latecomers. The lashes cut through the air with sharp whistles, striking the backs of serfs who dared not cry out, only quickening their pace as their sacks trembled. One priest bellowed, "Laziness is sin! Only through labor can you atone!" His voice echoed through the fog, pressing down on the already heavy air.
You are Alan, the Hero of Reston—at least, that's what everyone calls you. For as long as you can remember, this title has clung to you like a brand seared into your soul. Village elders spoke of your destiny by the bonfire, calling you "the Chosen One." Priests pointed to you during sermons, declaring your birth a divine mandate to oppose the Demon King. Even the beggars by the roadside, as they accepted half a loaf of bread from you, would whisper hoarsely, "Hero, may you slay the Demon King and deliver us from suffering." These words poured into your ears day after day, leaving no room for doubt. Your childhood held no games, only endless training—swordplay, horsemanship, and the doctrines of the Holy Edicts. Your hands were calloused, your shoulders bruised from wooden practice swords.
Your conviction came from your mother's last gift. On a frigid winter night, she lay on a worn wooden bed, her face as pale as snow. With trembling hands, she pressed a white rose emblem into your palm, its edges smoothed by time, as if bearing the weight of countless years. Her voice was weak but firm: "Alan, this is the mark of the Hero. Carry it, and fulfill your destiny." She said no more, but her eyes held something complex—hope, reluctance, and a sorrow you couldn't decipher. That night, she died, leaving you with only the emblem and a lonely future. From then on, the white rose became your creed, worn over your heart like a piece of her soul.
Today, the wheel of fate finally turned. At dawn, a squad of royal guards knocked on your door. Clad in silver armor engraved with Calanthia's eagle crest, their swords gleaming coldly at their waists, the captain announced, "Alan, Hero of Calanthia, the King summons you to the capital at once!" Serfs gathered outside your home, their eyes filled with awe and fear. They whispered of "the Demon King" and "the Holy Sword," but none dared meet your gaze. The village elder hobbled forward on his cane, offering a prayer: "May the gods be with you, child. Slay the Demon King and save Calanthia." You nodded, shouldered your pack, gripped the short sword at your waist, and followed the guards toward the capital.
The capital city of Calanthia sat nestled between mountains, its towering walls adorned with golden eagle reliefs. The streets were paved with smooth stone, flanked by noble estates where warm light spilled from windows, carrying the aroma of roasted meat and wine. This place was nothing like Reston—no muddy roads, no priests whipping serfs. The people here wore silk robes, laughing as if living in another world. You glanced down at your worn leather armor and mud-splattered boots, the white rose emblem glinting faintly in the sunlight, reminding you of your purpose.
The royal palace stood at the city's highest point, its spires piercing the clouds, its walls inlaid with stained glass depicting the legends of past Heroes who had slain Demon Kings. Inside the grand hall, the opulence nearly blinded you—polished marble floors, frescoed ceilings of divine prophecies, and a massive crystal chandelier casting a soft glow. The King sat upon his high throne, draped in violet and gold, a jeweled crown upon his head. His gaze was imperious, cold enough to pierce your soul. Beside him stood the Princess, clad in a white gown like a lily under moonlight. Her eyes were red-rimmed, tears glistening, yet her expression held something unreadable—pity, perhaps, or silent resistance. You knelt on one knee, bowing your head to receive the King's decree.
"Alan, Hero of Calanthia," the King's voice boomed through the hall, "the Demon King has led our people into sloth, defiling the Holy Edict that 'labor is atonement.' His evil must end." He rose, taking a sword from a guard—a blade sheathed in ruby-studded scabbard, its hilt carved with eagle wings. "This is the Holy Sword, 'Dawnbreak,' bestowed upon Calanthia by the gods to vanquish evil. Take it, march to the Demon King's fortress, and sever his head."
You accepted the sword, feeling its weight—the weight of a kingdom's hopes. Its blade gleamed coldly, the rubies like drops of blood in the firelight. You drew it slightly, the edge humming as it cut the air, as if answering your calling. The Princess's gaze lingered on you, her fingers tightening on her skirt, lips parting but saying nothing. Unaware of her unease, you sheathed the sword and bowed. "I will not fail my duty."
As you left the palace, dusk approached. Serfs gathered in the square outside, kneeling in the dirt, foreheads pressed to the ground, chanting, "Long live the Hero! Slay the Demon King!" Their voices were hoarse, mechanical, as if the words had been carved into their bones. You tightened your grip on the sword, scanning their bowed heads, a strange emotion rising in your chest—was it pity, or duty? At the square's edge stood a grand archway, its golden letters proclaiming "The Diligent Shall Enter Heaven." Beneath it, priests raised torches, chanting the Holy Edicts. The firelight flickered across your face as the white rose emblem swayed on your chest.
You took a deep breath, stepped through the archway, and set off toward the Demon King's fortress. Behind you, the serfs' cries faded, the mist swallowing Calanthia once more, leaving only the cold gleam of the Holy Sword shining in the night.