Chapter 22: Calamity

Somehow, against all odds, Julies Evans won.

He’d stood toe-to-toe with a knight he believed was Aleck—and he won.

But as the dust settled and the last spark of mana flickered out, the real shock hit him harder than any blade.

The helmet rolled off.

Not Aleck.

Alice Draken.

His favorite character. The key figure whose fate was supposed to spiral into tragedy. The cold, elusive noble who was never supposed to appear here—let alone wear a knight’s armor and challenge him directly.

The girl whose story, according to everything he knew, wasn’t supposed to begin for weeks.

And yet, here she was.

From the moment Julies collapsed, fate itself shifted.

His future… rewritten.

And somewhere far from that snowy courtyard, in a place untouched by war or strife, the world stirred in response.

In the heart of the sacred city of Veltheria, where the faithful knelt beneath marble domes and golden light, the bells of the Grand Cathedral rang out in the dead of night.

High above, within the sanctum of the Celestial Tower, a quiet tension hung in the air.

The chamber smelled faintly of incense and old parchment.

One by one, the bishops of the Faith gathered—grim-faced men and women in layered white and gold robes, their expressions tight with unease.

Something was wrong.

None of them had been summoned like this in years.

Some whispered it had been a decade since the Pope last called a midnight council.

And now, they stood in his presence once more.

“Your Holiness,” one of the bishops stepped forward, bowing deeply. “You summoned us?”

The others remained silent, waiting.

The man before them was old—ancient, even. His skin was thin and lined, his hands trembling slightly as he leaned on a silver staff. But his eyes, sharp and unblinking, burned with divine clarity.

Pope Elandros, voice calm but firm, answered.

“This old man apologizes for disturbing you at such an hour,” he said, his voice weathered but steady. “But the heavens stir. I could not ignore it.”

The bishops exchanged glances.

Elandros turned slowly, his gaze rising to the great stained-glass mural behind him—the one depicting Ilyana, Goddess of Order and Revelation, her arms outstretched over the world as if cradling fate itself.

“Ilyana has spoken,” he said softly. “And I could not ignore her voice.”

He let the words settle in the silence before turning back to the gathered bishops, their faces expectant, uneasy.

Then he spoke, carefully, solemnly.

“We must find a girl—blonde hair, light eyes, and the mark of the Goddess on her wrist.”

There was a rustle of robes, a murmur of shifting stances.

“Your Holiness… is this part of a prophecy?” one of the older bishops dared to ask.

Elandros gave a slow nod.

“Yes. She is the one destined to face what lies ahead. A Calamity… vast enough to swallow the world whole. Only she can stand against it. She must be found, and she must be protected.”

His next words were nearly a whisper, yet they rang louder than any bell.

“She will be our Saint.”

The chamber erupted.

Some gasped. Others bowed their heads and began to mutter prayers.

But beneath the shock, there was something else in the air—a stirring. A strange, fervent hope. A spark.

—

Meanwhile, deep in the shadowed lands of the demon realm—

A storm rolled above the obsidian towers of Drazharoth, the Empire of Flame and Blood.

Lightning cracked against black spires as the sound of clashing steel echoed through the air. The civil wars among the demon clans—already fierce and bloody—had only grown more brutal in recent moons.

And at the center of it all stood a lone figure.

Perched on the balcony of a scorched keep, overlooking a battlefield strewn with corpses and fire, a demon with crimson eyes surveyed the chaos with quiet satisfaction.

“The time has come,” he said, his voice a deep, rumbling growl that seemed to shake the air.

Behind him, generals knelt—monstrous beings in gleaming dark armor, their auras oppressive.

“First, we unify Drazharoth,” the demon declared. “Then we cross the Ashen Veil and break the lands of man. The world has forgotten its true rulers.”

He raised a clawed hand, flames curling around his palm like living serpents.

“We will remind them.”

A declaration of pure ambition. Arrogant, yes.

But not empty.

In Drazharoth, power was law—and he reigned at the peak of that savage hierarchy.

A name echoed in the hushed breath of demons.

“Lord True Dragon… Other races has rejected our proposal to serve under you.”

He smiled. An arrogant smile.

“Those…Fools, I gave them chance to surrender and yet here they are. Wating for …the storm to swallow them.”

Lord True Dragon turned his back to the battlefield, his crimson cloak snapping in the wind. His voice, once low and composed, now roared with fury.

“Let them tremble. Let them cling to their palaces, their sanctuaries, their so-called gods. It will make their despair all the sweeter when I tear it all down.”

His generals lowered their heads deeper, cowed not just by the weight of his mana, but by the certainty in his words. There was no doubt. No hesitation.

He would crush the world.

Not through schemes or whispered promises like the lesser demons. Not through false peace or pacts.

Through conquest.

Through power.

One of the generals—a beast-headed warrior clad in spiked obsidian plate—lifted his head slightly.

“My Lord… shall we march?”

“Crush those who resist, spare only the submissive. Install puppet leaders and control the entire race.”

“As the True Dragon wills.”

What else could be done? In typical demon fashion, force was used to subjugate.

….And there was one girl who was supposed to stopped this calamity.

But for Julies….It was different type Calamity that was waiting for him.

[Alice Draken’s Doom Trajectory Progress is updated in the status window.]

[Current Progress: 45%]

Death was looming close.

Despair was knocking at the door, right outside his home.

….How will he stop the Calamity?

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