The village of Rosenvale slept beneath a sky so clear it felt blessed.
The moon hung low, silver and calm, brushing the thatched roofs with pale light. Wind moved through wheat fields like a mother's hand through a child's hair. There were no alarms, no war horns, no prayers whispered in fear.
Peace had lived here for years.
Demian believed peace was eternal.
At nineteen, Demian carried the quiet strength of someone raised beside a sword but not beneath its shadow. His shoulders were broad from chopping wood and training in the early mornings, his palms scarred—not from battle, but from honest labor. His eyes were sharp, yet warm. They were the eyes of a boy who had known discipline without hatred.
His father, Sir Albrecht Valen, had once been called The White Shield of the Church.
A Holy Knight Commander.
A name that once made battlefields silent.
Now, he was simply a man who fixed fences, taught children to read, and sharpened kitchen knives with the same precision he once used to hone blessed blades.
"Don't forget to write," his mother had said, adjusting Demian's cloak.
"I will," Demian replied, smiling. "It's only a short trip."
His little sister clung to his arm. "Bring me a city ribbon," she demanded.
"Only if you promise not to tie it to the goat again."
She laughed. "No promises."
His father watched quietly from the doorway. The lines on Albrecht's face were deep, carved by war and regret. He placed a hand on Demian's shoulder.
"Holy City Aurelia is not as pure as its name," he said calmly. "Watch your steps. Trust fewer smiles."
Demian nodded. "I know, Father."
Albrecht hesitated, then spoke in a lower voice.
"And if you ever feel cornered… remember the Black Mist Forest."
Demian frowned. "You've mentioned it before. You always stop."
Albrecht's eyes darkened. "Because some doors, once opened, never close."
Demian wanted to ask more.
But the road called.
He left Rosenvale with the sunrise behind him.
---
The Holy City Aurelia rose like a divine promise carved in marble.
Golden spires pierced the heavens. Cathedral bells rang every hour, their sound heavy with authority. Holy Knights patrolled the streets in polished armor, white capes trimmed with gold. Citizens bowed as they passed.
Demian met his friend, Leon Hartwell, in a crowded tavern near the academy district.
Leon grinned. "You look like you crawled out of a painting."
"And you look like you haven't slept," Demian replied.
They drank, laughed, spoke of trivial things—academy rumors, ducal feuds, whispers of border unrest. Yet beneath it all, Demian felt something wrong.
Posters adorned the walls.
"By Order of the Church: All Retired Knights Must Register."
Demian stared at the ink.
Leon followed his gaze. "Strange decree, right? They say it's for 'honorary pensions.'"
Demian's jaw tightened.
That night, as bells rang midnight, Demian felt unease coil in his chest like a living thing.
At dawn, he left.
He rode hard.
Too hard.
---
Smoke greeted him before the village did.
The scent struck first—burned wood, scorched flesh, iron-heavy blood.
Demian's horse screamed as it reared. He leapt down and ran.
Rosenvale was gone.
Houses were reduced to blackened skeletons. The well had collapsed inward, stained red. The chapel—small, humble—was split in half, its holy emblem shattered.
Bodies lay everywhere.
Villagers he knew.
Neighbors who had shared bread.
Children.
Demian dropped to his knees beside a corpse.
It was the baker.
His throat had been cut cleanly—professionally.
"No…" Demian whispered.
He ran.
His home stood at the village edge.
Or what remained of it.
The door was torn from its hinges.
Inside, ashes carpeted the floor.
His mother lay near the hearth, arms wrapped around his sister's small body. Their faces were frozen in terror. Burn marks traced holy sigils into their flesh.
Demian screamed.
A sound so raw it tore his throat.
He stumbled forward, hands shaking, and touched their cold skin.
"No… no, no, no…"
Behind him, a body shifted.
Demian spun.
His father lay against the wall, armor cracked, blood dried black. One arm was missing.
Yet his eyes were open.
"Father!"
Demian crawled to him, lifting his head.
Albrecht coughed, blood spilling from his lips.
"They came…" he whispered.
"Who? Demons? Bandits?" Demian begged.
Albrecht's hand clenched weakly around Demian's sleeve.
"No," he said.
A tear slid down his temple.
"It was the Church."
The world stopped.
"They bore holy seals," Albrecht continued. "White cloaks. Gold trim."
Demian shook his head violently. "No. No, that's impossible."
"They called it… purification," Albrecht said bitterly. "Said I knew too much. That retirement was never forgiveness."
Demian's vision blurred.
"Why?" he whispered.
Albrecht smiled sadly.
"Because gods need secrets… and men who refuse to forget must burn."
His hand went slack.
Albrecht Valen died without another word.
---
Demian buried them alone.
No prayers.
No blessings.
Only silence.
When night fell, he sat amid the graves, knuckles bleeding from clenched fists.
"I swear," he said to the stars, voice hollow.
"By blood, by bone, by soul… I will tear down the Church."
---
He did not act blindly.
Demian sold his horse, his belongings, his name.
In taverns and shadows, he listened.
And the truth came like poison.
Rosenvale had been marked months ago.
A sealed order from the High Synod.
Eliminate Commander Albrecht Valen and all associated witnesses.
Why?
Because Albrecht had once led a campaign near the Black Mist Forest.
And he had returned… changed.
The Church feared what he knew.
Demian learned another truth.
A single Holy Knight recruit could crush him.
He was weak.
And hatred alone would not sharpen his blade.
That was when his father's final warning echoed again.
Black Mist Forest.
---
The forest was a wound in the world.
Mist black as ink clung to twisted trees. The air whispered—voices overlapping, promising, mocking.
Demian stepped inside.
Immediately, pressure crushed his chest.
Visions assaulted him—burning villages, laughing knights, shattered halos.
He fell to his knees.
"I know you're here," he said hoarsely. "Whatever you are."
The mist thickened.
Something moved.
A voice spoke from everywhere and nowhere.
"Another child of revenge."
Demian raised his head. "Give me power."
"Power costs."
"I'll pay."
"Your body."
"Take it."
"Your soul."
"Carve it."
"Your future. Your name. Your salvation."
Demian did not hesitate.
"I don't need salvation."
The mist surged, forming a towering silhouette with countless eyes.
"Speak your oath."
Demian pressed his bleeding palm to the ground.
"I abandon the path of light.
I reject gods who hide behind halos.
I offer flesh, soul, and fate—
In exchange for strength enough to drown heaven in blood."
Silence.
Then laughter.
The mist poured into him.
Bones cracked.
Veins burned black.
Demian screamed until his voice broke.
When the forest stilled, a young man stood alone.
His eyes were no longer warm.
They were cold.
Sharp.
Unforgiving.
"Rise," the voice whispered.
"Bearer of Black Oath."
Demian clenched his fist.
The ground shattered.
He looked toward the distant glow of the Holy City.
"Wait for me," he murmured.
"Holy Knights. Dukes. Emperor. Gods."
"This time—
you will burn."
---
End of Chapter 1