chapter 8
There are those whom the gods remember.
Not because they prayed. Not because they begged.
But because they devoted themselves so completely… that the divine could no longer ignore them.
Such mortals are called Chosen Angels.
A human may worship many gods.
Yet only one may claim their soul—and only once in a lifetime.
When chosen, a mortal does not merely gain power.
They are unbound.
The limits of flesh and will loosen.
The divine flows into them—subtle, absolute, unstoppable.
In battle, they may awaken a state beyond human reach—
a reflection of the god who claimed them.
Sometimes… in silence or in bloodshed…
they hear a voice.
Not their own.
But the voice of the one who chose them.
A Chosen Angel may do anything…
Yet there is one law they may never break:
To speak of the gods. Their names. Their will. Their location.
To reveal such secrets is sin—
a curse that can claim even a Chosen Angel's life.
To become a Chosen Angel is not ascension.
It is completion.
For once a god has acknowledged you…
there is nothing higher left to attain.
The night hung heavy over the camp.
Two Chosen Angels faced one another.
Tomasi: You could still try.
After all… you're a Chosen Angel, aren't you?
Guinevere froze.
Her eyes narrowed. Every muscle in her body tightened.
Guinevere: Of course I am.
But I was not chosen by Monesa.
A whisper of steel cut through the night.
Her blade rose—its edge glowing blue, crackling like distant lightning.
Guinevere: How… do you know that?
Tomasi tilted his head, a calm, almost amused smile on his face.
From his palm, pale purple flames curled upward—silent, mist-like, unnatural.
Tomasi: Is it… really that important?
Guinevere's anger flared instantly. The blue aura around her sword surged.
Guinevere: Liar!
Tomasi: Perhaps… it is simply because I am chosen by Monesa that I can see it.
Guinevere: Being chosen doesn't make you special. Not more than any other angel.
Tomasi: Oh? Then perhaps you should ask your god.
I see… she chose you… and yet you've never met her. How unfortunate.
Guinevere's grip tightened.
She was about to strike—
Princess: Stop—both of you!
The command cut through the tension like a blade.
They froze.
Guinevere still burned with restrained fury.
Tomasi remained composed, almost serene.
Princess: I've heard enough.
Her gaze shifted to Tomasi.
Princess: How do you know all of this? I never told you… no one else knows.
Tomasi bowed his head slightly.
Tomasi: Because of the mark.
A faint crystal-like glow flickered in his eyes as he looked toward Guinevere.
Tomasi: You can't see it, Princess?
Princess: What mark?
Guinevere's suspicion deepened.
Guinevere: Liar!
Tomasi: Perhaps. Or perhaps it is simply the gift of being chosen by Monesa. That is why I can see it.
Guinevere: None of your business!
Princess: Enough. Both of you—step back. Take air. Stop arguing.
Tomasi bowed gracefully and turned away.
Guinevere exhaled slowly, forcing down her anger before walking off.
The Princess remained behind for a moment.
She bent to pick up her coat, then paused.
Her eyes hardened with quiet resolve.
Princess (thinking): He's hiding something. I can feel it. But I can't force it out… not yet. Not until we reach Monesa.
---
The Dream_
A small boy laughed, holding a fish in his hands.
Boy: Mom! Look! I got ten fish! I'm better than Father!
The world twisted.
Colors blurred.
Laughter shattered into screams.
Boy (screaming): Father! Save me! Mom! Help me—I can't breathe!
Water roared around him.
Panic clawed at his chest.
The sky, the river, the world—everything collapsed into chaos.
Boy: Mom…!
Then—
Silence.
John jolted awake, gasping for air, drenched in sweat.
His heart hammered violently in his chest.
He pressed his hands against his head, trying to steady his breathing… trying to silence the echo inside him.
Am I… remembering? Is this really me?
---
The tent flap rustled.
Marco stepped inside.
Marco: Hey, gardener! You ready yet? We're about to leave.
John: What?! Oh… right… I forgot.
Marco (grinning): Looks like someone finally slept.
John forced a nervous laugh.
John (thinking): Am I… finally remembering?
Marco leaned closer, teasing.
Marco: Thinking about the Princess?
John flinched.
John: No—no! I wasn't!
Marco: Relax. You don't have a chance anyway.
John: Huh?
Marco: She's a real Princess. Taken already. Not some fake prince like you. Ha!
John blinked, confused.
Marco: Anyway—Guinevere's calling you.
John: Me? Why?
Marco (smirking): Go find out.
---
Guinevere
John stopped a few steps in front of her.
Guinevere stood with her massive sword resting casually on her shoulder. Even idle, it radiated pressure.
Guinevere: Do you know why I called you?
John: No… I mean, that's why I'm here.
Guinevere: We're heading into a major clash. Our soldiers aren't enough.
John: Fifty soldiers aren't enough? Are we going to war?
Guinevere smirked.
Guinevere: Yes. It is a war.
John froze.
Guinevere: I want you to lead the soldiers today. Marco won't be here.
His voice caught.
John: W-War…? Wait—Commander Marco is going somewhere?
Her eyes gleamed—sharp, unreadable.
Guinevere: He's on a mission. That's not your concern.
She turned slightly.
Guinevere: Just do your job… and try not to die.
A faint smile curved her lips.
Guinevere: Good luck.
John stood frozen.
The air around him felt heavier now.
Outside, the camp stirred.
Inside, silence held its breath.
…CHAPTER 8 ENDS…