The bells tolled hollow over a city that had forgotten daylight.
For endless years, the sun had not risen. No streak of dawn colored the skies, no silver glow of moonlight guided the lost. The heavens had gone dark, wrapped in a suffocating veil, as though the world itself had been buried beneath a shroud. The night pressed on every wall, every bone, every prayer.
Fields turned to wastelands. Crops withered to husks. Oceans curdled, bloated fish floating belly-up as waves reeked of decay. The air itself seemed heavier, filled with smoke and the bitter tang of ash. Whole kingdoms collapsed under hunger and plague. Parents ate their children. Cities drowned in riots, then silence.
But through it all, Many institutions rose , abolishing the existing belief by humans in Christ and implementing a much greater seen power that rivaled the laws of the universe making them unstoppable . Among them stood unbroken—the Church of Glorious Light.
Its leader, Adrian VII, Supreme Pontiff of mankind, was said to be the last saint left in the darkness. To the starving masses, he was salvation. To his enemies, he was a tyrant of ash. To those who served closest to him, he was both.
On that night, Sancta Lux Cathedral was filled to breaking. The old stone walls groaned under the weight of thousands who pressed inside, shoulder to shoulder, desperate for one more taste of hope. Their cheeks were hollow, their clothes ragged, yet their eyes burned with a need that was almost painful to see.
Candles flickered like trembling stars across the nave, their light swallowed by the vastness of the dark vaults. The air was thick with smoke and sweat, with whispered prayers and stifled sobs. The organ thundered overhead, its pipes roaring like the last breath of angels. Choir voices lifted, sweet but wavering, as though they sang against their own doubts.
At the altar, high above the crowd, stood Adrian.
His robes gleamed white, trimmed with threads of gold that caught the candlelight. His tall frame seemed carved from marble itself, his every movement deliberate, measured, divine. His eyes were pale, so pale they seemed to burn—not with warmth but with the white glow of embers buried in ash.
He lifted his staff, and silence fell like a blade.
"Children of the Last Light," his voice boomed, deep and commanding, carrying through every corner of the cathedral, "we are besieged by endless night, yet still we stand."
The people stirred, some clutching their hearts, others bowing low as though his voice pressed them into the ground.
"Let the sun forsake us. Let the moon abandon us. Let the stars be struck from heaven. Still—the Lord's flame dwells within me. And through me, it dwells within you!"
The crowd erupted, voices cracking but fierce:
"Gloria! Gloria in tenebris! Glory in the darkness!"
But beneath their chants lived hunger. Resentment. Desperation. Mothers whispered that the Church hoarded food in vaults while their children starved. Soldiers muttered that their brothers deserted only to be hunted down like dogs. Some swore the Pope had bargained with demons who wore the masks of angels.
Yet none spoke aloud. He was more than a normal pope elected by a council of cardinals but an overlord whose power defied the laws of Earth but only existed in the realm of madness
That place—neither heaven nor hell, but the jagged gulf between. It was said to be where fallen gods wandered. A land of broken divinity, where mortals could rise as false gods by surviving its storms. Those who endured emerged as Sovereign Soul Saints beings marked as SSS, able to wield the power of gods upon the earth.
Adrian was believed to be one of them.
No one dared raise a hand against him. None except whispers. Whispers that had grown louder in the past months, swelling like a tide against the walls of the Church of Light.
And so Adrian came not alone, but with two of his most loyal disciples—Bishop Matthias of the Northern See, a man of iron will, and Elian.
Elian was the most unlikely of them. A girl not yet twenty, with eyes too bright, lips too soft, and beauty so sharp it cut the breath of men. Some joked she was the Pope's plaything, his secret sin. Few believed it, but the rumor clung to her like perfume.
That night she stood behind Adrian, her face a mask of calm. Bishop Matthias gave her a quick glance, and she nodded without looking at him. Silent understanding flickered between them.
The choir swelled higher as Adrian raised the chalice of communion wine. The liquid inside gleamed crimson, dark as blood freshly spilled.
"Behold," Adrian declared, lifting it for all to see, "the blood of salvation! The covenant that binds heaven and earth. Drink, and live forever in the light of—"
And then it happened.
From behind the pope, a blade flashed—hidden beneath a bishop's sleeve. It leapt into candlelight, cold steel glinting, before plunging toward Adrian's side.
Adrian's hand snapped forward with unnatural speed. He caught the wrist mid-swing, bones shattering like glass beneath his grip.
"You dare," Adrian whispered, voice echoing like thunder, "raise steel at the hand of God?"
The chalice tipped, spilling wine across the altar like blood across stone.
And then Adrian moved.
His staff blazed, brighter than a hundred suns. The candles guttered and died in its radiance. Heat rushed outward, suffocating, as though the cathedral itself had been cast into a furnace.
Flame devoured Matthias before his dagger touched flesh. His screams filled the vaulted chamber as his robes ignited, skin blistering, fat sizzling. He crumpled at Adrian's feet, a writhing torch reduced to ash.
Many had not even seen the dagger. To them, Matthias had merely reached toward the chalice—only to be struck down by fire. Murmurs of madness rippled through the cardinals.
"Possessed!" Cardinal Severin cried. "The Pope is possessed by the devil!"
He lunged, pulling Out one of the swords from a knight statue like a mad man but before steel could bite, Adrian's eyes flared white. The blade dissolved, metal melting like wax, dripping molten droplets onto Severin's flesh. His screams joined the dying choir.
"You think me mortal?" Adrian roared. His voice rattled the stained glass, shook the bones of the living. "You think I wear these robes in pretense? No. I am flame made flesh. I am the torch that burns In this endless night!"
Terror swept the crowd. Some clawed at the barred doors, others collapsed in prayer, but none escaped.
Adrian lifted his arms, robes spreading like wings of fire. Flame coiled around him, spiraling into the heights. The marble saints above wept rivers of molten stone as heat cracked their faces.
"Since you scorn salvation," he thundered, "drink damnation instead!"
The air ignited.
Screams filled the nave as pews burst into flame. Mothers clutched children as both became pyres. Men beat at their burning robes only to ignite their own hands. Thousands turned to fire in moments.
Through it all, Adrian stood untouched. His face was calm, almost tender, as though watching beloved children come home.
"Your sins are purged," he said gently, "your hunger ended. In fire, you are equal."
Bodies crumbled to ash. Screams faded to silence and only the crackle of fire remained.
When the last flame died, Adrian lowered his staff. The cathedral was no longer a fortress of worship but a tomb of charred corpses.
"That was unexpected," Elian said softly. Her fists were clenched, but her face was unreadable. "But sinners have been cleansed."
Adrian turned, his expression softening. "Oh, my love," he murmured, stepping to her. He kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then her lips. "I am sorry you had to see this."
Elian sighed. She looked into his pale, burning eyes that claimed divinity, yet were black with desire.
"You call yourself holy," she whispered, her fingers brushing his face. "But you love me, your priestess. If this were the old church, you'd be the sinner. Not the savior."
And then she smiled faintly. "Go love the devil."
Adrian's face twisted in sudden agony. He staggered back as Elian pulled a syringe from his belly, blood dripping from the needle.
"Why…?" he gasped.
"Why?" Elian's voice turned cold. "I've filled your veins with black ant venom. It won't kill you—but it will bury you in a coma for a hundred years. Long enough for me to cleanse your unholy church. Long enough to claim what you had."
She stepped past him and gripped his staff. To her surprise, it did not resist. Perhaps it had always waited for her.
"You cannot…" Adrian coughed blood, his skin paling, his bones showing sharp beneath thinning flesh. "Only the summoned may enter the Realm of Madness…"
Elian dragged him to the altar. She slammed his head against the marble, again and again, until blood poured down its steps.
In that moment,a strong gust of wind swept across the entire basilica . Sweeping away melted bones and flesh ,four figures could been seen stepping forward from that gust,each one wielded a staff with a cross at its top and they were dressed as cardinals except their attire seemed to even outmatch what the pope wore .