[The Sanctum of Eternal Blooms]
The carriage slowed to a gentle stop before the church.
The first thing to greet us was the grand silver gate, gleaming softly under the daylight. I stepped down from the carriage, the faint crunch of my shoes against the marble pathway echoing in the still air.
The path was lined with lush greenery, the scent of fresh leaves mingling with the faint perfume of flowers drifting on the breeze. Beneath my feet, pristine white marble tiles formed a straight, guiding road toward the heart of the temple grounds.
It was a sight worthy of the holy—the architecture stood proud, immaculate in its symmetry, every arch and pillar a testament to masterful craftsmanship. At the courtyard's center, a towering statue of an angelic figure stood above a fountain, water cascading gently around it. Everything here was white—not the dull, lifeless white of stone, but a pure, luminous white, as if the place itself had been born from light.
I walked slowly, letting my eyes drink in the scene. The sanctity of the place seemed to seep into me with every step.
As I approached the main building, the temple's grandeur became clearer. The towering façade seemed to watch over the grounds with serene authority. The intricate carvings whispered the devotion of those who had built it, each line and curve an offering in itself.
Inside, the hallway stretched long and bright, walls adorned with angelic figures carved from pale stone. They told a silent story—how they aided the goddess in creation—each expression frozen in time yet somehow alive in the golden light streaming through the high windows.
I stepped into the prayer hall, the sound of my footsteps softened by the marble beneath me.
At the far end stood the divine figure of Goddess Aurelia—the Goddess of Life. Her marble form rose tall and graceful, bathed in streams of colored light from the stained-glass windows above. She was captured with outstretched hands, as if eternally offering her blessing to the world.
She was the one who had bestowed the most precious gift upon this planet—life itself.
Before her, the air felt different. Still, yet humming faintly, as though the stone remembered the breath she had once given to the first living things.
I stepped closer, lowering myself onto one knee, clasping my hands and bowing my head—just as the previous Evan had done countless times before. I murmured thanks for the life I'd been given, for the turning of the seasons, for a dozen other polite blessings suited to a place like this.
But the truth is, those words are emptier than my wallet after rent day. I've never been a believer. Prayer's just me talking to the ceiling like a crazy person, except I dress nicer while doing it. The kneeling, the whispering, the pious face—it's all theater, and I'm the lead actor in a play God skipped on purpose.
I mean, I've met an actual goddess. Saw her up close. Spoke to her. And now I'm here, kneeling in front of a stone statue that looks like it's been judging me since the day it was carved.
Is this devotion? Or am I just doing a very convincing impression of someone who gives a damn? Either way, the applause is nonexistent.
When the prayer was complete, I slowly rose to my feet. I had intended to leave right away, but the faint sound of approaching footsteps made me pause mid-step. For some reason, they planted the thought in my mind to linger a little longer.
"A clear, faithful devotion as always, Lord Evan," came a calm voice from behind.
I turned toward it, finding a wise-looking man in his forties, his face lined not by weariness but by quiet dignity. He was dressed in spotless white robes — the kind worn only by those who held a close position within the sanctum of the church.
He gave a gentle nod.
"Young lord, may the blessings of Goddess Aurelia stay with you wherever you are."
I returned the nod with a faint smile.
"And may your blessings always come true, Father."
"How have you been, young lord? I see you still find your way to greet us back," the father said with a warm smile, his tone carrying the familiarity of someone who had watched me grow.
"Yes, I've been good — all thanks to your graces," I replied politely. "Just been busy with the academy. The studies don't give much of a break."
"Oho, yes, yes, my lord," he chuckled knowingly. "The school curriculum has become rather demanding these days. Even my own child comes home far less often."
"You have a child, Father?" I asked, tilting my head slightly.
"Haha, yes," he said, his eyes softening. "But she is adopted, my lord. I took her under my wings at the orphanage. She's one of the brightest children I've ever met — and blessed with the gift of divine healing, granted by the goddess herself."
"Is she in the Royal Academy as well?"
"Yes, my lord. She's in her second year. If you ever meet her, please… tell her this old man is missing her."
"Well, indeed, Father," I said with a small nod.
After that, our exchange lingered for a while longer. The father didn't often get company, and I could tell he was savoring the conversation. It was a gentle river of pleasantries, flowing between two people who knew their parts by heart. When our talk finally drew to a close, I excused myself and made my way back to the carriage.
"Are we heading back to the mansion, young master?" the coachman asked as he held the door open.
"No," I said, settling into my seat. "Let's head to the city for a while. I want to explore a little."
"As you wish."
The carriage rolled forward, the gentle breeze slipping in through the parted curtains. The scent of distant flowers mixed with the faint aroma of the road.
After some thought, I leaned forward.
"Stop the carriage a little outside the city," I ordered. "I don't want too much attention."
"Understood, young master."
When we arrived, I took my robe from the seat beside me and draped it over my shoulders, pulling the hood forward just enough to shadow my face.
"Take care, young master," the coachman said respectfully. "Take your time."
"Hmm. I will."
With that, I stepped down and departed on foot, the hum of the city faint in the distance, waiting.
---
The city was lavish, alive with energy. The streets hummed with motion — merchants shouting over each other, carts creaking under their loads, the scent of grilled meat drifting between stalls. The market, as always, was a battlefield of voices.
"Hey! Take a look at our product! You'll never find it anywhere else!" a vendor bellowed.
"It's just a cheap scale," another man scoffed loudly, "with a fancy coat on it."
"What did you say?" the vendor snapped.
"If you want to sell something, maybe you should sell your wife's used underwear," the man shot back. "I guarantee it'll be the talk of the market."
"You motherfucke—!" the vendor roared, his voice cutting through the crowd.
I passed by without slowing, the corner of my mouth twitching slightly. Now that's the kind of energy I expected here.
The city was proving itself to be a pleasant place to wander. The estate's prosperity — all thanks to my father's growing business — meant I could walk alone without worry. Crime was scarce; most people here had work, one way or another.
As I walked further, I wondered where to head next. The market stretched out in every direction, each street promising something different.
That's when a small body crashed into me.
"Ooh—sorry, mister! I was in a hurry, I didn't look around!" the boy blurted, glancing up at me with wide eyes.
"Oh, no problem, little boy. Just be careful next time," I said casually.
"Okay!" he chirped, before darting off again, weaving through the crowd like a fish slipping through water.
I walked a little farther, but for a second… something felt off.
A quick, almost instinctive check of my pocket told me exactly what it was.
Empty.
"Haaah…" I sighed, running a hand through my hair.
…Didn't I just say the crime rate here was low?
Right. So why did that little brat just steal my money pouch?
Now that's the question of the day.
Is he trying to muddy our clean pond like some stray fish?
Well, sorry for him… that's not gonna happen.
I'm not letting this slide — not when I've finally found my timepass.
My genuine mission for today… has just been decided.
I turned on my heel, heading in the direction he'd run.
Fast, light steps — slipping through the crowd like a flicker of heat haze.
Not exactly invisible, but I moved fast enough that anyone in the way barely had time to blink.
Then I spotted him.
"Uuuhaha… you're not getting away, you little shit," I muttered, cutting into a narrow alley.
I kept my steps quiet, following close, before breaking off toward a side wall.
One leap, one pull, and I was over — taking the shortcut to cut him off.
Dropping down on the other side, I moved to step out—
—and bumped right into him. Again.
"Ooof."
"Well, look at that," I said, steadying him by the shoulder. "We keep running into each other. You're quite the bumpy little guy, huh?"
He looked up and froze. Didn't expect to see me here. The way his eyes darted around said one thing—he was absolutely not ready for a situation like this.
Well, I can't exactly blame him. Imagine bumping into a guy by accident… only to bump into him again later, except now you've got his money in your pocket. Yeah. Not great for the nerves.
"So, little man," I said gently, my voice a soothing coo that didn't quite fit the situation. "Where're you heading in such a hurry? Running from someone?"
"N-no, not exactly…"
"Mhm. Well, that's good. How about we have a little chat before we both go our way?" I patted his shoulder, a gesture that was half-friendly, half-threatening.
"We-well, I'm in a hurry, I should go—" he tried to slip past me.
"Hurry for what? Running with this?" I dangled the pouch in front of him—the one he'd just stolen, which I had deftly snatched back the moment he bumped into me. At first, he looked confused.
Then his face went pale as his hand shot to check his robe.
"Fufufu… like my trick?" I grinned. "I'm pretty good at this myself."
He panicked and tried to bolt… only to trip and plant his face right into the ground.
"Oh my, poor boy, must've hurt, right?" I strolled over. He tried to get up, but I was already there, my hand on his back.
"Calm down, my boy. What's with the panic? Didn't I say I just wanted to talk? What's the rush?"
"P-please… I didn't do this because I wanted to! I-I only—" sniffle sob
"Oh, did I make you cry? How cruel of me." I pulled him into a hug. "There, there. Want me to sing you a song?" He cried harder.
"Listen, boy, I know all your worries. I was once the same as you," I lied, because why not? If it stopped the crying, I'd claim I was his long-lost uncle too.
"R-really?" he asked, his voice muffled by my shirt. Damn. That actually worked.
"Yes, yes. You didn't do this because you wanted to—you only did it for your family, right?"
His eyes went wide. "H-how did you know?"
Oh, perfect. I'd just been fishing for sympathy and accidentally hooked the truth. Happens more often than I care to admit—lying my way straight into honesty like some morally bankrupt prophet.
"Oh, I know everything," I said, layering on the mystique. "You've been working since you were small just to scrape a little coin. Your mom's sick, your sister's still little, and your father's a drunk who never works—only comes to take your money and disappear, right?"
"Y-yes… are you some kind of psychic?"
"Not exactly. You've just got the same eyes as me."
"But mine are blue."
"Shut up and listen."
So I started spinning him a tale—lies are cheaper than therapy, after all.
"See, kid, I had a rough childhood like yours—just with extra seasoning. I lived with an abusive father who came home drunk and beat the life out of me every day. He wasn't always like that—once upon a time, he was a loving man, a loving husband, and a loving father. But one day, everything changed.
I still remember why. I'd thrown a tantrum over a toy—expensive one. My parents refused, so I ran away. Stubborn little brat that I was. My mother chased me and caught me in a grassy field. Problem was, there was a snake hidden there. Venomous.
It bit her. In all the panic, she didn't even realize at first. Next morning… she never woke up.
After that, my father was… gone, in a way. He stopped talking. Stopped working. Stopped living. I was the only one left to blame. The drinking started small, then grew. And the hangovers came with a temper—a kind of rage that strips a man .
And that's where my personal hell began.
One morning, he wakes up—half-drunk, half-conscious, and fully ready to ruin someone's day. Lucky me, I was standing right there, the perfect target for whatever disaster was brewing in his skull.
He starts talking. That's always how it starts. No yelling yet, no fists—just that slow, heavy voice like he's been storing up the poison all night.
"Hey… why did it happen? Was it because of that toy? Or something else? Tell me—you didn't want to see us happy, right? My happiness, my wife's happiness… you took her from me, didn't you? Why are you so quiet?"
I didn't answer.
Couldn't answer.
What would I even say? "Sorry for existing"? "Oops, my bad for being born"? It's not like there's a good response to someone who's already decided you're the villain of their tragic love story.
And the part that really burned? He never seemed to remember I was her son. And his. The biology didn't matter. To him, I wasn't family—I was an eyesore he couldn't scrub out of his perfect little picture.
Then, like clockwork, the patience drained out of him. Voice got louder. Words got sharper. And then came the fists.
And so began our daily schedule:
Morning Special: Baseless accusations with a side of creative insults.
Afternoon Feature: A solid beating—extra points for creativity if he found something new to throw.
Evening Encore: Tears, apologies, and the "I swear it won't happen again" speech, delivered like a man auditioning for a tragic play.
And every time, I wanted to believe maybe he meant it.
Every time, I thought maybe this was the last time.
And every time, the next day proved me wrong.
It was like living in a rerun of the worst show ever made. Same script. Same cast. Same ending. No escape.
Welcome to my hell.
Population: me.
Free admission. No exit."