A beautiful and feminine voice echoed along the walls of the once-grand, now abandoned cathedral.
That cathedral, long since forsaken, now seemed alive with the lyrical singing of that woman.
Long wooden pews, covered in moss and creeping plants, stretched forward toward a strange altar. Upon it, white wax candles still held small, steady flames.
Standing before the altar was the woman from whom that enchanting voice emanated.
She wore a large, tattered cloak that completely covered her body, revealing only her face from the nose down.
She continued her lyrical chant without pause. It was almost as if she didn't need to breathe, didn't require any rest between her notes.
Suddenly, beneath the hood that concealed her eyes, blood began to trickle down her cheeks.
Yet she didn't seem to care. She sang on.
The blood ran down her chin and began to drip onto the floor. Soon, her mouth also began to bleed.
Still, she paid it no mind. It was as if the only thing that mattered to her was her angelic chant.
As time passed, a pool of blood began to form around her feet, reaching the base of the altar before her.
Suddenly, the flames on the altar's candles turned black.
Vuush!
A strong wind blew through the abandoned cathedral, lifting the woman's cloak and finally revealing her appearance.
She was a beautiful woman with disheveled blonde hair falling over her face. Her eyes were closed. Her skin was pale, and her lips cracked and dry. She looked almost like a corpse.
The beautiful woman opened her eyes—ice-blue, so pale they seemed white.
She finally closed her lips, and her haunting voice ceased to echo through the cathedral.
Her gaze shifted to the black flames upon the candles. She raised her right hand slightly in front of her chest.
Then, she spread her fingers wide, palm facing upward—and something began to form.
The flesh of her palm twisted and bled, shaping itself into a small copper whistle. It was as if the whistle had been hidden inside her body all along.
The whistle was plain, with only a single engraving etched into the copper: a skull.
The mysterious woman brought the whistle to her lips and blew.
No sound came from it.
Yet the candle flames flickered unnaturally. Then, they expanded and merged into a floating ball of black fire.
The flames grew and formed a massive, mysterious door—crafted seemingly from human bones and the remains of other bizarre creatures.
The door creaked open, revealing a vast and terrifying abyss of darkness.
The beautiful woman stepped forward and passed through it. Her body disappeared into the veil of darkness beyond.
Finally, silence and stillness returned to the cathedral.
The sun hung in the afternoon sky over the bustling metropolis of the Portford continent—the city of Murren.
A graceful, eye-catching architecture dominated the city: gothic structures, brick houses with steep rooftops.
The stone-paved streets were neat and well-kept. Horse-drawn carriages rolled through them, and pedestrians bustled to and fro.
In the distance, factories released smoke into the skies, sullying the otherwise beautiful blue and hiding the radiant, majestic sun.
The city had a port, where several ships were docked—most of them cargo vessels.
Far off in the vast ocean, an immense fog spread unnaturally, both mysterious and intimidating.
It was as though that fog was concealing something massive. And in truth—it was.
Behind that mist lay the most terrifying and unknown land known to mankind: the Forgotten Continent.
It was home to bizarre and fearsome creatures—and to the mighty Herald.
The Herald was a divine being who brought with Him countless magical and insane changes to the world. He also gave humanity the ability to wield power. But only to those He "chose."
And He also promised to bring humanity's destruction in four years—just as He foretold 1,850 years ago.
The year 1854 would be the year of calamity.
In an abandoned district of Murren, a place overrun by criminals, beggars, and the forgotten…
A young boy was running, chased by a group of adults. Two middle-aged men in filthy, torn clothes.
In his hands, the boy clutched half a loaf of bread and an apple that was clearly past its prime.
He ran as if his life depended on it.
But fate had other plans.
He tripped on a stone he hadn't seen.
He fell hard, dropping the apple and crushing the bread beneath him.
The adults snarled in rage and shouted at him.
"Damn you! You steal our food and then waste it too, you little son of a—"
He was cut off as the boy kicked him in the gut.
The man coughed. The boy was weak—probably from hunger. As were all who lived in that forsaken place.
The other man grabbed the boy's wrist and slammed him to the ground. They began to beat him.
Curses flew from their mouths. Passersby watched the brutal and pitiful scene of a boy being beaten by two grown men.
No one intervened.
It was normal. Everyone knew: survival came before dignity. Two adults beating a teenager wasn't shocking—it was routine.
After enough kicks and slurs, they left him there.
Broken.
That boy was Lucian Morrath.
Like so many others his age, he fought to survive. Seventeen years old—and already well-acquainted with human cruelty and inequality.
Despite the pain, he forced himself to stand. He hobbled over to where he'd dropped the food.
The bread was crushed. The apple was gone—someone had likely stolen it during the scuffle.
He picked up the bread and limped onward.
Each step throbbed with pain.
"Bastards…" he muttered through clenched teeth.
In truth, he was simply trying to suppress the tears—trying to ignore the physical pain and the anguish twisting inside him.
He finally reached his destination: a windowless, filthy house without even a door.
Inside, the wooden floor was dusty and broken. In places, the boards were torn up, revealing the dirt beneath. But none of that mattered.
What mattered—was her.
The one he called the most important person in the world. His mother.
Lucian's mother was in a deplorable state. She had contracted a rare disease.
The illness was called "Mutation." It spread across the world with the arrival of the Herald.
It warped the bodies of its victims in terrifying ways—causing pain, vomiting, fevers, and eventually, death.
Lucian's mother was in an advanced stage.
Though her body was covered with a sheet, what little was visible still frightened Lucian.
Her neck, collarbone, and upper torso were entangled in vines with crimson flowers. One massive bloom covered her right eye.
Her skin was pale and cracked—she was dehydrated.
Lucian knelt beside her, forcing a smile—one full of sorrow and quiet pain.
"Mom… I-I brought you some bread…"
He tore a piece of the dirty, flattened bread and brought it to her lips. It was all they had.
She pressed her lips tighter, refusing to eat. She tried to speak, but only faint groans escaped.
Her hand reached for his face, gently brushing his bruised left eye.
He hadn't even realized it was swollen—it hurt less than the rest of him.
He forced another smile. "I'm fine… Don't worry. Please… eat a little."
Suddenly, she began to cough violently.
Lucian panicked.
He dropped the bread and pressed his ear to her chest, trying to hear her heartbeat.
He'd heard from someone on the street that checking the heart was important. He didn't know if it was true.
And then—terror.
Her heartbeat was frantic. As if her heart would explode.
He pulled away, overcome with a desperate urge to cry.
"Mom!" he cried.
She looked at him—her eyes dull and tired. She reached out and intertwined her fingers with his.
Tears fell from her face.
But they weren't ordinary tears—they were red. Bloody.
Lucian's desperation deepened. He knew this day would come… but he wasn't ready.
He could do nothing—only hold her hand tighter.
Tears spilled from him, full of the pain he had bottled up to avoid worrying her.
And then…
Her skin turned even paler. Her hand colder. Weaker.
He gripped it tightly, begging internally for her to live. Begging the Goddess to spare her.
He shut his eyes tight, praying with everything he had.
When he opened them, she was fine. Her beautiful face returned to normal.
No vines. No flowers. No pain. No sorrow.
Lucian, his face soaked with tears, smiled.
But reality struck him like a blade.
Her hand was gone.
The illusion his mind had conjured shattered.
In her place was a grotesque mass of flesh entangled in crimson flowers and vines. The size of her body.
The hand he'd held had become a pulpy, slimy mess. Blood stained his fingers.
The warmth of it made him want to vomit.
His mother… was dead.
A piercing scream echoed through the house and into the streets.
A scream of pain, of sorrow, of rage.
He screamed until his throat bled. He cried until his tears dried.
And when he could no longer scream or weep, he simply sat.
Staring at the horror that had once been his mother.
Then—something strange.
Tiny orbs of light began to float around him. Like fireflies.
They gathered, forming a glowing sphere the size of a hand.
It flew toward him—striking his chest and sinking into his body and soul.
He doubled over, the urge to vomit overwhelming him.
And then—a voice.
An angelic voice spoke in his mind. As if an angel had chosen him.
"Poor soul, stoned by mortals and toyed with by fate…Your sorrow becomes your strength.Your destiny is sealed…Fortunate through tragedy…"