Chapter 1

“O god, deliver us.”

In the darkness of the prison, trembling voices whispered in fear, “Please, if you can hear our voices, have mercy on us. Spirit of Tala, Watcher of the Forest, Deep-rooted Tree, Tide of Deepwaters.”

As many as there were prisoners, so too were the gods they pleaded to, each cry laced with desperate hope. Yet their earnest prayers were mercilessly drowned out beneath a greater roar.

“Anir, Libal!”

The air trembled. Toot! Every time the warhorn blared, thousands outside the prison chanted in unison, “Anir, Libal! Anir, Libal!” The deafening roar of voices, unrelenting like crashing thunder, left their ears ringing.

“Anir, Libal!”

“O most radiant of the Five Giant Gods, accept our offering, and have mercy on these wretched beings!”

Thousands of fervent zealots filled the vast space, all on their knees, hands clasped in reverence, their eyes fixed on a single point: a massive, towering altar made of gold. The colossal altar gleamed with majestic grandeur under the sun, as though embodying the very divinity of the giant god. Tears streamed from the zealots’ eyes. They seemed blind to the skulls scattered on the steps and the dried, dark-red stains at the altar’s base.

Thud. 

The earth rumbled from afar. A skull, nudged by the tremor, rolled down the steps. It tumbled across the golden path beneath the altar and only came to a stop when it hit the prison door.

“Aaaah!”

The offerings screamed, their bodies trembling. With nowhere left to run, they scrambled desperately toward the corners and edges of the cell. New scratch marks joined the countless claw marks already etched into the walls and floor. 

People often say that light is hope and darkness is despair. The same held true here. The deep shadows of the prison were the pit of despair, and the only light—coming through the grated prison door—was hope itself. It was the one and only way out.

But even hope did not come freely. It required courage. And outside the prison, the fervor of the fanatics, blazing like wildfire, snuffed out every ounce of courage the sacrifices had. All they could do was shiver, gasping weakly for breath.

Thud!

The same tremor that had sent the skull rolling to the prison door struck again.

Thud, thud.

The earth-shaking sound grew steadily closer. It was the very being the zealots outside were calling to with such devotion.

“Anir, Libal!”

It was the giant god Libal of the vast western continent. The zealots honored him with the title “Anir,” a word reserved only for sovereigns, rulers, and supreme beings. Even in a land as turbulent as this continent, the god’s name stirred particular dread. Stories of hundreds of heroes slaughtered while trying to slay him, and of his devouring of a once-peaceful god alive, formed the core of his infamy. His followers’ madness only fueled his growing reputation. Driven by a burning mission to make the giant the sole deity and religion of Libal, they razed villages and cities, forcing conversions upon survivors. Some even kidnapped children and young women to offer as sacrifices. Many factions now considered them enemies.

Rumors had recently spread that the Allied Forces of Thul’mor had declared it would send a subjugation force composed of heroes and mercenaries. But what good was recalling that now? The sacrifices held their breath, tears falling.

“O greatest, mightiest, and most exalted god! Accept our offering and bestow your blessings! Anir, Libal!”

“Anir, Libal!”

“Anir, Libal!”

“Bless us!”

The chants fed on each other, swelling into a frenzy. The storm of fervent worship grew more intense, sweeping through everything like a hurricane.

Thud!

As the earth shook again, a massive shadow fell across the doorway. All light vanished. The prison turned pitch-black, as if night had descended. The sacrifices, mid-scream or sob, fell silent. The same happened outside. The zealots’ thunderous cries of “Anir, Libal!” suddenly ceased. It was as if all sound in the world had been snuffed out.

Then came the deafening roar.

Goooooooh…

The sky groaned and the ground trembled. The sounds were those of earthquakes and thunder.

The voice of the god was like the raw sound of nature, incomprehensible to mere humans. The sacrifices had no choice but to bow their heads before the enormity of that presence.

“The god has answered!”

“Soak the altar in the blood of the offerings!”

“The offerings!”

“Death!”

“Blessings!”

“Glory!”

The zealots shrieked in madness. Horns pierced the air with sharp cries. The drums pounded faster, echoing like a racing heartbeat. As footsteps approached, the sacrifices cowered, wailing in terror.

Where is my god? The merciful one who watches over this world, the great being I have worshiped my entire life—why will you not save me now?

God is almighty. A true god does not abandon those who follow. But the deeper the despair, the more that faith began to crumble.

An elderly woman whispered a parched sigh, “Is there truly no god who will save us?”

Whether they begged for mercy or cursed the divine, nothing changed. There was no salvation, no divine punishment. Only a small laugh, quietly escaping someone’s lips in the prison, grounded them in reality. A sound as familiar as laughter felt strangely out of place.

The old woman raised her bowed head. She didn’t need to look to know who had laughed. While everyone else huddled in corners and shadows, one man was calmly walking toward the door. His leisurely, unhurried pace clashed with the weeping and despair that filled the space.

The old woman realized he had been the one who laughed. She recognized him. Among the hundred or so offerings packed into the large prison, he stood out. Not because of his height or handsome features—those were secondary. During the time they were imprisoned, while others wept, screamed, fainted, and prayed, this man had simply sat against the wall like a fixture, utterly composed. He looked so at ease, as though seated not in a cell, but in another world entirely.

He didn’t spare even a glance at the others, now huddled into a single mass, but walked straight toward the door. He stepped into the one spot still touched by light. A gentle breeze stirred his black hair. As the sunlight poured in, his eyes narrowed. He looked less like a prisoner awaiting sacrifice and more like a man welcoming spring on a wildflower-covered plain. There wasn’t a trace of fear or misery on him.

He turned his head and looked at the old woman as if he had known she was watching all along. His lips curved into a soft smile. That expression confirmed the laugh she’d heard was no illusion.

“What?”

“…Pardon?”

“Just wondering why you’re staring at me like that.”

The man spoke in a casual, familiar tone, unconcerned with the other’s age. His informal speech didn’t come across as awkward or inappropriate in the slightest, suggesting that he was someone of high status.

The old woman opened her mouth to speak, then pressed her lips together again. Thud, thud, thud—the drums echoed, and the zealots sang with crazed abandon. Surrounded by a bleak future with no escape, she wondered what the point was in status or idle conversation.

“Ah,” the man let out a nonchalant exclamation. “Because I laughed?”

After a moment of silence, the old woman gave an awkward nod.

“But for the famed priest of Rhanna to say there are no gods…”

Her face stiffened. Despite being in a life-or-death situation, she had uttered blasphemy while still dressed in the sacred vestments of Rhanna’s priesthood.

“Enlightenment sure comes slowly, doesn’t it? All that womb-worship, decades of blood-shedding asceticism—it was all for nothing. Don’t you think?” 

The man laughed broadly, showing his teeth. The old woman’s face flushed with humiliation. He watched her for a moment, then, as if losing interest, turned away with a bored expression.

Clang. Just then, the prison door rattled. The zealots had finally arrived to retrieve the sacrifices. The clatter of keys and locks created an unpleasant noise. The offerings screamed again, voices splitting with panic. The door creaked wide open, scraping against the stone walls. The zealots, faces flushed with excitement, panted heavily.

“Well, how kind of them.”

The man casually offered thanks as he strolled past them and exited the cell. His demeanor was utterly natural. One of the zealots, holding a noose, looked bewildered, as if they had just kindly opened the door for him.

A sacrifice walking out of the prison on his own—such a thing was unheard of. Normally, the prisoners were dragged like animals to the altar, weeping, sniveling, sometimes even wetting themselves. But the man was different. Without the slightest hint of resistance or fear, he calmly walked along the golden path leading to the altar.

The old woman stared blankly at the scene. Under the blazing sun, the man’s black hair swayed gently in the breeze. The loud drums and soaring sound of horns in the sky made the grim situation feel almost like a hero’s triumphant return.

The old woman searched her memory. She recalled stories of a hero with black hair; one of the most famous on the continent.

Could it be…?

Had the subjugation force from the Allied Forces of Thul’mor already arrived? The ember of hope, long thought extinguished and reduced to smoke, began to flicker back to life. The old woman kept her eyes on the man as he grew smaller in the distance.