[Third person POV]

As the sun set behind the academic towers of Whirikal, bathing William’s kingdom in a melancholic orange light, the atmosphere hundreds of leagues to the east could not have been more different. In the Holy Kingdom of Orestia, the air did not smell of knowledge or progress, but of thick, intoxicating incense that clung to the skin like a second layer of sweat—a constant reminder of the divine presence that claimed everything as its own.

The Primarch Cathedral of Orestia rose like a mountain of white marble, a structure so colossal that it cast a perpetual shadow over the surrounding poor districts. Within its walls, the High Priest Malachias—a man whose white robes were so heavily starched they creaked with every movement—walked through the hall of the Templar Knights with an expression of absolute righteousness.

Before him stood three hundred men clad in silver armor engraved with Gaia’s sun, holding perfect formation. The gleam of the metal was blinding, reflecting the light of thousands of blessed candles that illuminated the statues of the Mother Goddess.

“Knights of the Light, executing arms of the divine will!” Malachias proclaimed, his voice echoing through the vaults with an arrogance born from the conviction that he alone was the savior of a crumbling world. “The world is sick. To the west, in Whirikal, the crown has rotted, allowing witches and beasts to walk freely under the pretext of an impious ‘academy.’ To the north, demons still breathe the air that rightfully belongs to the children of Gaia. But the Goddess has heard us. The time of purification has come.”

Malachias stopped before Captain Valerio, a man whose faith was as hard as the scar crossing his right eye—a wound earned on the borders of demon territory.

“Captain, from this moment forward, the Central Church enters a state of Sacred Retreat,” the High Priest ordered, raising his golden staff. “For the next two weeks, I want absolute isolation. Seal the platinum gates. Activate full mana-nullification barriers. Allow no one to enter or leave—not even royal messengers from the King of Orestia. If a bird dares to fly over our skies, shoot it down. Nothing must disturb the miracle that is about to occur.”

Valerio blinked, unsettled by the scale of the command. “High Priest, with all due respect, a total isolation for fourteen days will cause panic in the capital. The King will demand explanations, and the people will believe war has begun. What justifies such secrecy? Are we expecting an imminent attack from the Demon King’s hordes?”

Malachias smiled slowly—a smile that radiated near-mystical superiority. “An attack? No, Valerio. Gaia, in her infinite mercy, has chosen to grant us the ultimate tool to save humanity once and for all. She is sending us a great gift. A miracle that will descend directly from her realm onto this impure soil, to guide us toward final victory.”

A murmur of awe and fervor rippled through the templar ranks. Captain Valerio felt his heart pound with renewed hope.

“A gift, High Priest?” Valerio whispered with reverent devotion. “Do you mean a legendary artifact? Could it be the mythical Spear of Purification spoken of in the Creation Scriptures? If so, we can finally erase demon territory from the map and fulfill our sacred destiny.”

“Or perhaps a new form of mass blessing for our armor,” another soldier near the front added, his eyes gleaming with holy greed. “With something like that, Whirikal would have no choice but to kneel before our religious authority and admit that its magic is an aberration before the Light.”

Malachias listened to their conjectures with quiet satisfaction. He did not correct them—fervor was the fuel of his army. To them, this “gift” was proof that their struggle was righteous.

“Your minds cannot yet conceive the magnitude of what is to come,” Malachias interrupted, snapping the hall back into silence. “This gift must be protected for two weeks—a period of sanctification, of adaptation to this tainted air. Once it is ready for use, Lyre will witness a power unseen for millennia. Now, move! Seal the temple. Let the darkness of this world not touch what divine light is about to bring forth for our salvation.”

“For the glory of Gaia and the salvation of Lyre!” the three hundred men roared in unison, slamming their shields so hard that the cathedral itself seemed to tremble.

Malachias watched them depart to their posts. He turned and walked toward the heart of the cathedral, passing through doors that required his personal magical signature to open. Here, the air grew heavier—charged with static energy that made hair stand on end and skin prickle.

At last, he reached the Chamber of Communion, the most sacred place in all known lands. Seated upon an ivory throne, surrounded by crystals of pure mana, was Pope Benedict IV. He was an ancient man, his skin like parchment stretched over bone, yet his presence radiated a magical pressure that made the air feel solid.

“Malachias… have the preparations for the coming been completed?” the Pope asked without opening his eyes.

“The gates are sealed, Your Holiness. The knights are swollen with fervor—they believe we are receiving a sacred object for the holy war. No one suspects the truth behind the veil.”

The Pope opened his eyes, revealing pupils of milky white, devoid of any trace of worldly doubt. “The Goddess has spoken to me again, Malachias. The ‘gift’ is not an inert object. It is them. Thirty souls—thirty envoys chosen personally by her divine hand from another dimensional plane. Thirty individuals who will descend into this very hall to become the vanguard of our faith. They are the chosen ones, meant to fight demons and cleanse any emerging threat from this sinful world.”

Malachias felt his hands tremble with excitement. “Thirty? Your Holiness, that number is unprecedented. It surpasses anything recorded in the Church’s annals. Are they holy warriors? Heroes?”

Benedict IV nodded with solemn slowness. “They are instruments of her will. The Goddess calls them her ‘warriors of light.’ They possess unimaginable mana potential—potential that we must guide. They are the ultimate gift to eradicate evil. They will not question our orders, for we will be their only beacon in this unfamiliar world. They are the army that will save humanity from its own destruction.”

Though Malachias spoke of salvation, dark ambition gleamed in his eyes. “With thirty of them, we will not only reclaim control over Whirikal’s laws, but the so-called ‘Princess of Fire’ and her heretical guardians will be judged under the true law. We will unify Lyre under a single creed and erase the demonic stain forever. All for the common good.”

“Precisely,” the Pope said, rising with a vitality fueled by fanaticism. “The knights will see them as angels, and we shall be their mentors. We must prepare them during these two weeks of isolation. If they survive the crossing of planes, the era of true light shall begin.”

Suddenly, the Chamber of Communion darkened unnaturally. The candles did not extinguish, but their light turned gray, and the temperature plummeted until the breath of both men crystallized into frost upon their robes. A crushing, glacial pressure descended from the dome, forcing Malachias to his knees with a groan, while Pope Benedict turned deathly pale.

Then a voice filled the chamber. It came from nowhere—and everywhere—seeming to arise directly within their skulls. It was feminine, melodic, yet utterly devoid of warmth or empathy.

“Benedict… Malachias…”

The voice of the Goddess Gaia echoed like the calving of an eternal glacier.

“My chosen have crossed the threshold. I have torn space itself to bring you the strength your human frailty failed to produce. Thirty new tools for your salvation.”

The Pope prostrated himself completely, trembling upon the cold marble in an ecstasy of terror and devotion. “Oh, Great Mother… your servants are ready… we shall fulfill your sacred will…”

“See that you do,” Gaia’s voice continued, sharpening like an obsidian blade. “I have invested immense essence to harvest these souls from the world of Terra. If even one of these pieces breaks due to your negligence—or if you dare to doubt my decrees—your souls shall be the next erased from Lyre’s cycle. I will tolerate no more delays in this world’s purification. I will tolerate no more failures. Prepare yourselves.”

The pressure vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving both men gasping on the floor, drenched in cold sweat, their eyes alight with manic euphoria. At the center of the hall, the air began to fracture, opening thirty fissures of blinding white light that siphoned mana from the surrounding space.

Malachias lifted his head, terror still etched into his features—but beneath it burned fanatical conviction. “You have heard the Goddess, Your Holiness. The miracle has begun. This time, humanity will prevail over the darkness.”

At that moment, thirty figures began to materialize upon the marble floor. They were young—men and women—wearing strange garments: denim, athletic shoes, brightly colored fabrics, utterly alien in the sacred environment. All were unconscious, their faces marked by the confusion of transdimensional transit.

Benedict gazed upon their inert bodies. He did not see people torn from their homes—he saw the foundations of his future dominion.

“The isolation has begun, Malachias,” the Pope declared calmly. “Let the preparation of our weapons of faith commence. They have no idea what glory awaits them in service to the Goddess.”

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