The dust began to settle.
Silence reigned over the shattered cathedral.
The once-blinding light had faded into soft embers, drifting down like snowflakes. Candles, long snuffed out by the force of the ritual, flickered back to life one by one. Runes dimmed to a faint, smoldering glow beneath cracks in the scorched marble.
For several seconds, no one moved.
No one breathed.
Then—slowly—hoods lifted. Heads rose. Wide, tear-filled eyes blinked through the haze.
A few murmurs broke the stillness.
And then—
"It worked."
A voice cracked from the back.
"It worked…"
Then louder, with disbelief and joy tangled together—
"It actually worked!"
The cathedral erupted.
Hands shot into the air. Voices cried out. Dozens of church members stood, weeping openly. Some fell to their knees in prayer once more—this time in gratitude, not desperation. Others clutched one another, laughing through sobs of relief.
"Praise the goddess! The Eternal Flame has answered!"
"We summoned a true hero!"
"Aeternitas be blessed forever!"
Robes swirled as priests and acolytes embraced each other with trembling hands. The walls still trembled faintly. Loose stones clattered down from cracked arches above—but no one cared. They had witnessed a miracle.
And they had survived it.
They had succeeded.
Beneath a split column, several elderly monks knelt together, whispering verses from the Book of Aeternitas. Their weathered voices shook with reverence.
"We are not alone… the gods have not abandoned us…"
Others rushed to light fresh incense, despite the soot that choked the air. A new chant began—no longer the call of pleading souls, but a song of hope.
"O flame eternal, guide his blade…O light of stars, bless his path…O hero of prophecy, awaken now…"
And still—Priestess Kalien stood motionless.
Her arms lowered slowly at the edge of the broken summoning circle, the final pulse of wind still tugging at her white-and-gold robes. Strands of blonde hair clung to her face. Her green eyes didn't blink.
She was watching the center.
Where the light had struck.
Where the runes still smoked.
And as the last veil of dust drifted away…
She saw him.
The room quieted once more.
Breaths held. Voices silenced.
The figure on the floor slowly came into view—kneeling, unclothed save for a long white cloth loosely draped around him, half-fallen from his shoulders like an afterthought.
Broad shoulders. Collapsed posture. Chest rising and falling with uneven, shaky breaths. Dark, disheveled hair hung low over his face. Scars ran like threads across his arms. His hands pressed into the floor, as if he had to anchor himself to believe any of this was real.
He didn't speak.
He didn't move.
But he was here.
A boy no one had seen before.
A man from another world.
The summoners instinctively stepped back, giving space. Some stared in awe, others with cautious uncertainty. But none dared to approach.
Except Kalien.
She stepped forward—slow, reverent—each footstep echoing across the fractured marble. Her gold-trimmed robes swayed as she passed scorched runes and trails of blood. The wind had stopped. The room seemed to hold its breath again.
When she reached him, she did not kneel. She stood over him, tall and radiant, like a statue carved from faith itself.
Her voice was soft—melodic, reverent.
"Greetings… being from another world."
The young man stirred.
His head tilted slightly.
"My name is Priestess Kalien, of the Eternal Church of Elenor."
A faint, exhausted smile touched her lips—equal parts awe and relief.
"On behalf of all the faithful…""Welcome to our world, Elenor.""We pray you can save us."
She gently placed a hand over her heart.
"For centuries, we have been at war with the—"
"Shut the hell up."
The words hit like a hammer.
Gasps erupted throughout the cathedral.
Every priest, every summoner, every acolyte froze.
Kalien's eyes widened. Her lips parted in shock.
The hero—still kneeling—finally lifted his head.
His eyes were sharp.
Cold. Exhausted. Furious. Alive.
"I don't know who the hell you are," he muttered, voice low and raw,"...or what kind of cult this is…"
He tried to rise—one leg under him—but the weight of his body gave out. He collapsed back into a kneel, the cloth slipping further down his shoulder. His breath came sharp and uneven. He looked up at her, strands of black hair clinging to his face.
"But whatever this is…""You picked the wrong guy."
Kalien stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat.
The room didn't move.
The silence that followed wasn't holy.
It was something else.
Something darker.
Something that didn't belong to gods, or temples, or scripture.
It belonged to him—to the man kneeling before them.To whatever past he carried.And to whatever fury had followed him across worlds.
Then, slowly, he lifted his head fully.And for the first time, his eyes met hers.
There was no confusion there.No disbelief.Only the hard, cold awareness of someone who had already pieced it all together.
"I know what this is," he said quietly. "Your goddess dragged me here."
A few priests flinched at his tone.He didn't care.
"She told me why," he continued, voice cracking with restrained rage. "Said your world needed a hero. Said I was chosen."
He laughed—a bitter, hollow sound that echoed through the cathedral.
"Chosen…" he repeated. "No. I'm just a weapon she pulled out of the grave."
Kalien's mouth opened, then shut again. Her faith wavered for the briefest moment, but she steadied herself, straightening her posture.
"If Aeternitas chose you, then there is purpose in it," she said, voice trembling but determined. "She would never take a soul without reason."
Adrian looked up at her with a faint smirk that didn't reach his eyes.
"Reason? Oh, I've got mine."
He pushed himself a little higher this time, his knees grinding against the stone as he steadied himself.
"I'll fight your war. I'll burn your enemies to ash. I'll play the hero you want."
Kalien blinked, confused. "Then why—"
"Because she promised me something," he cut in."A way home."
Her lips parted in shock. "Home…?"
He nodded, eyes narrowing, voice growing darker.
"Back to the world I came from. Back to the people who destroyed my life."
He leaned forward, the flickering candlelight reflecting in his eyes.
"I'll fight your battles, Priestess. I'll spill as much blood as you need. But don't mistake that for faith."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Kalien took a small step back, her green eyes softening—equal parts sympathy and fear.
"You seek vengeance."
"No," he said quietly. "I am vengeance."
The priests whispered among themselves. Some backed away from the summoning circle entirely, clutching their prayer books close. The older ones crossed themselves, muttering prayers of warding under their breath.
Kalien, however, didn't move.
"Then perhaps," she said softly, "Aeternitas knew exactly what she was doing."
He tilted his head.
"You think your goddess wants a killer?"
"I think she wanted someone who's already seen hell," Kalien replied. "Someone who can walk through it again—and not break."
Adrian stared at her for a long, still moment.Then his lips curled—something between a smile and a threat.
"Then I guess she picked right."
The two of them stood there in silence—Priestess and summoned hero—while the last embers of divine light faded across the floor.
No one dared speak again.
The miracle was over. And the war had just begun.
Adrian's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, then he exhaled through his nose—shoulders easing, just slightly.
"...I was rude."
His voice was quieter now. Not soft, but less venomous.
"My name is Adrian. Adrian Lukas."
A pause.
"Nice to meet you, Kalien."
The priestess blinked in surprise—her expression softening with cautious warmth.
"Nice to meet you too, Adrian."
She smiled—not the grand, holy kind she wore before the summoning, but something smaller. Realer.
"Now…" she glanced at the cloth barely hanging around his waist. "How about we get you some clothes before we continue this conversation?"
Adrian didn't answer, but he gave the faintest nod.
Kalien turned gracefully, her robes brushing across the marble as she began walking.
"Follow me."
He stepped forward, slowly, barefoot on the cracked stone. Every muscle in his body ached, but he moved without complaint.
The crowd parted in silence.
Every eye followed him.
Hundreds of white-robed clergy, summoners, and acolytes stood like statues—watching the summoned man walk past them, half-covered in linen and lit by the flicker of broken candles. No one dared whisper. No one dared breathe too loud.
Adrian kept his head forward.
He didn't look at them.
Didn't care about the way their gazes followed him like ghosts.
He was used to it.
Being watched. Judged. Whispered about.
But never like this.
Not with expectation.Not with hope.
Kalien led him down a side corridor, past a pair of tall iron-framed doors flanked by guards in ceremonial armor. They bowed their heads as she passed, then glanced at Adrian—not with suspicion, but with awe.
The corridor narrowed, lit only by golden lanterns and a faint magical glow running along the seams of the ceiling.
Finally, she stopped beside a wooden door carved with the seal of the Eternal Church—a ring of stars surrounding a single, open eye.
She pushed it open.
"You can change here," she said gently. "Clean robes are inside."
Adrian looked at the door, then back at her.
"You waiting outside to spy on your 'hero'?"
She smiled again, but this time, it held a trace of mischief.
"Only if you try to run."
Adrian snorted once.
"I don't run. I came here to kill."
Kalien's smile faded, but she didn't argue.
She simply nodded.
"Then get dressed. We'll speak again soon."
She turned, the door closing gently behind her—leaving Adrian alone in the dim room, and the silent cathedral behind him still echoing with everything he was not.
The wooden door clicked softly behind him as it shut.
Adrian stood motionless for a moment, the flickering lantern above casting long shadows against the walls. The room was modest—stone walls, a wooden bench, a small washbasin in the corner, and folded white robes laid neatly atop a table. A narrow stained-glass window let in light from the moon outside, its image of Aeternitas glowing with soft blue hues that painted the floor in divine color.
But Adrian wasn't admiring the architecture.
He stepped to the center of the room and turned a slow circle, scanning every corner, every seam in the wall, every shadow.
He dropped to one knee, checking under the bench. Then he tilted the lantern slightly to inspect the rafters above.
"No peepholes. No hidden priest with a notepad. No runes watching me breathe."
He let out a breath, standing straight again.
"Guess no one's here."
He turned toward the window. The soft blue light from the stained-glass goddess fell across his chest.
That's when it happened.
A faint hum buzzed in the back of his mind—subtle but clear. Then, without warning, a glowing screen appeared before his eyes.
[STATUS INTERFACE]
Name: Adrian LukasRace: HumanLevel: 1
Strength: 20Speed: 20Agility: 20Defense: 20Stamina: 20Health: 20
Skill: Revenant
Able to heal no matter how severe the injury. Recovery is guaranteed. Pain is not.
Hidden Skill:??? (Will unlock upon reaching Level 20)
Adrian stared at the screen, brows furrowing.
"All stats... twenty?"
He blinked. "That's... high, right?"
He tilted his head at the lone skill.
"Revenant. So I can't die, but I can still feel it?"
He clenched his jaw, turning his hand palm-up. A scar crossed his wrist—one of many reminders from a world that gave him nothing and asked everything.
"Only one way to know."
He looked around again, just in case.
Then he reached toward the bench where a ceremonial dagger rested among the neatly folded robes—likely symbolic, or meant to clip threads or fasten a clasp.
Not anymore.
He drew it from its sheath with a whisper of metal and pressed the blade against his palm.
"Let's test it."
The cut was clean. Shallow at first, but enough to draw blood. He flinched.
"Tch—"
He dug deeper, slicing halfway across the center of his palm. Blood spilled freely, warm and red, trailing down his wrist. The pain was immediate, sharp and hot.
He dropped the blade with a clatter.
Then watched.
Flesh twisted.
Veins reconnected.
Blood reversed like ink in water.
The wound sealed in seconds.
The skin closed clean.
Not even a scar remained.
But the pain—
"Hghh—" He doubled over, clutching his wrist. "Okay... that sucked."
It felt like it had just happened. No numbing. No delay. His hand remembered what the flesh had already forgotten.
He sank onto the bench, shaking the sting out of his fingers.
"That's not healing," he muttered. "That's punishment with a rewind button."
He looked back at the status screen.
His eyes narrowed at the final line.
Hidden Skill:??? (Will unlock upon reaching Level 20)
"Hidden skill?" he murmured. "What the hell are you hiding from me now—"
A knock interrupted him.
"Are you alright in there?" came Kalien's voice through the door, gentle but amused."Or are you trying to escape through the roof?"
Adrian blinked. The glowing screen in front of him—the one that displayed his stats—vanished the moment he turned his head, fading like mist in sunlight.
"No—sorry," he called back. "Just... checking something."
"That so?" she replied lightly. "Well, unless the ceiling's made of gold, the clothes are probably more useful."
He gave a tired exhale, shaking off the sting still lingering in his palm.
He stood, glancing at the folded robes again. Carefully, he grabbed them and stepped in front of the small mirror embedded in the corner wall.
He paused.
The cloth slipped from his shoulder again.
He studied his reflection.
What stared back at him wasn't the body he remembered.
Where there had once been a thin, bruised frame—frail from years of neglect and depression—there was now muscle. Tight, lean muscle. A firm chest, shaped arms, a hardened core. Not bulky, but chiseled, like a body carved through war, not worship.
And yet… the scars remained.
Thin, jagged reminders ran along his ribs, his lower back, the inside of his right wrist. A faint burn near his collarbone. The long, curved line across his left side—the one that ended it all—still there, untouched.
The pain was gone.
But the past hadn't left him.
He stood still, expression unreadable.
His posture was stronger too—he stood taller, straighter. Still around 5'10"… about 178 centimeters, but no longer slouched. No longer small.
He flexed one arm slowly, watching the skin ripple across muscle.
"So I guess twenty Strength is stronger than my past life…" he murmured.
He touched one of the old wounds near his ribs, tracing the scar with the back of his knuckles.
"Not even divine magic wipes that away, huh…"
He sighed, rolled his shoulders, and finally began dressing.
The robes fit loose but comfortably, clasping at the waist with a silver cord. The sleeves draped slightly over his wrists, but the material breathed easily, soft against his skin.
As he pulled the final fold over his chest, he looked once more into the mirror.
No heroic glow.
No mythical armor.
Just a man.
A man with vengeance in his blood…
...and pain stitched into his bones.
"Let's get this over with."
He stepped toward the door.