The Capital, more prosperous than the Holy City, was destroyed by the ancient Royal City. If it weren't for the sudden appearance of the Lord Holy Snake, this country might have already fallen apart.
Yet even with the divine-like assistance of the Big Snake, countless perished in the Capital, and to this day, the scars remain unrepaired.
And all of this was wrought by those who call themselves True Saint Disciples, fanatics who worship the Dark Key.
Even the seldom-stricken Holy City, after the bustling and festive day of preparing for the Saintess selection, as the deep night falls, and citizens lie in bed, their hearts are filled not with contentment and anticipation.
But with an indescribable, inescapable, lingering deep unease.
Who will be next, they wonder?
They fearfully fret that their doors might be silently opened while they sleep, that the scythe of death might suddenly descend in their dreams, severing their throats.
