In the heart of a ruined temple, where crumbling pillars clawed at a bruised twilight sky, twelve ancient priests in faded brown robes swayed in unison. Their voices, brittle as dried leaves, scraped out a chant in a language that tasted of dust and forgotten gods. Around them, on the cracked flagstones, a complex circle of glowing seals pulsed with a weak, desperate light. The minutes stretched, each heartbeat a deafening silence between the rasping words. When the circle remained inert, one priest—his face a roadmap of wrinkles and regret—lifted a ceremonial dagger of black obsidian. Without a flicker of hesitation, he plunged it into his chest. A wet gasp escaped his lips as he crumpled, a spreading stain of crimson darkening the front of his robe, the chant faltering for only a second before the remaining voices picked it up, louder now, more desperate.
One by one, they followed suit. The ritual demanded a total payment, a life for life, a soul for a soul. The second priest fell, then the third, their bodies forming a grim, silent audience to the dwindling spectacle. The glowing seals on the floor sputtered and dimmed with each death, feeding on the final, fading essence of the fallen. Soon only two remained, their voices cracking with exhaustion, their bodies trembling with the effort of their devotion. They stood on either side of the circle, their eyes locked on the empty space at its center, their faces masks of agonized hope.
Then, it happened. The light within the seals did not return; it erupted. A single, blinding spear of pure white brilliance shot upwards from the circle's center, searing through the gloom of the ruined temple and forcing the last two priests to shield their eyes. The air crackled, smelling of ozone and raw power. And there, standing in the epicenter of the magical vortex, was a figure. She was an adventurer, clad in practical leathers and worn steel, but her entire being shone with an inner, divine luminescence that made the steel gleam like polished silver and the leather seem spun from moonlight. Her name was Esther, and her appearance was an answer to a prayer that had cost ten lives to ask.
The brilliance faded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind not a divine champion, but a short, curvy woman who blinked in the sudden dimness. Esther stood where the light had been, her long brown hair disheveled and a faint, almost invisible tremor in her left hand. The sacred garments she wore—a thin white shirt, a visible pink lace bodice, and a ridiculously short dark blue skirt—were starkly out of place amidst the ancient stone and blood. She looked not like a savior, but like a victim who had been dressed for someone else's pleasure. Her large, dark eyes, ringed with exhaustion, took in the scene with a weary resignation that bordered on defeat.
The two remaining priests stared, their faces a mixture of awe and utter confusion. This was not the warrior of light they had been promised, the instrument of divine will their sacrifices were meant to summon. Their chant had died on their lips, replaced by a heavy, judging silence. One of them, a man whose face was a pale crescent of bone beneath a sparse white beard, took a hesitant step forward. His robes, once a dignified brown, were now stained with the sweat of his effort and the blood of his fallen brothers. "The ritual... it worked," he rasped, his voice laced with disbelief. "But... the Goddess... she sent..." He couldn't finish, his gaze stuck on Esther's soft, vulnerable form, a stark contradiction to the brutal sacrifice required to bring her here.
From behind Esther, a figure shimmered into existence, leaning casually against a fallen pillar as if he'd been there all along. He was the ghost of her older brother, handsome with the same strong jaw and dark eyes as the man from her memories, but his expression was a mask of cynical amusement. "Well, look at that, little sister," he said, his voice a familiar mix of affection and exasperation that only she could truly comprehend. "Ten dead men, and all they got was you. You really have a knack for showing up at the worst possible times, don't you?" He chuckled, a low, grating sound that seemed to scrape against her soul. "Try not to get yourself into trouble before you even say hello. These priests don't look like they'd appreciate a damsel in distress right now." His words, a typical brand of fraternal concern, hung in the air as Esther's forced smile tightened, the light in her divine form seeming to dim just a little more.
The world tilted, the jagged lines of the ruined temple blurring into a watercolor of impossible possibility. The priest's words, the scent of old blood, the weight of their stares—it all funneled into a single, electrifying thought: Why me? It wasn't a cry of despair, but a whisper of dawning revelation. Esther felt the familiar cold knot of doubt, but for the first time, it was tinged with something else—something that felt suspiciously like hope. She was an F-Class adventurer, a designation that meant "barely competent," a title she had earned through what she'd always dismissed as terrible luck and narrow escapes. She couldn't protect her own family, couldn't save them from the fire that had claimed their lives while she, the survivor, had lived. But what if it wasn't failure? What if it was something more? Her parents had always told her she had untapped potential, a spark of something extraordinary that she never could believe in. Now, standing in this holy space, her body clad in these ridiculous, revealing garments, a possibility ignited in her mind: What if her luck had finally changed? What if all her misfortune had been preparation for this moment? The Goddess, in Her infinite wisdom, might not see a failure—but raw, unshaped potential.
A flicker of movement in her peripheral vision—a lean form, a familiar, cynical smirk. Her brother. He was there, just for a heartbeat, leaning against a pillar as if mocking her from beyond the grave. He'd been dead for three years, a ghost she had long since tried to bury. But he was here now, a real, solid-seeming apparition, and then... he was gone. The world snapped back into focus, and he was simply not there. Had she imagined it? A hallucination brought on by stress? The possibility was a terrifying one, a crack in the fragile dam of her sanity. She forced herself to look at the priests, to focus on their bewildered faces, but the image of her brother's disappointed smile was burned onto the back of her eyelids.
Every child knew the legends. The Ritual of Invocation was a story of glory, of teleporting the mightiest heroes—legendary mages who could level cities, warriors whose names were spoken in hushed, reverent tones. They were titans, figures of impossible power and unwavering virtue. And then there was her. Esther. Short, curvy, dressed in an outfit that screamed "victim." She felt a hot flush of shame crawl up her neck. Her generous hips and full chest, things she had always tried to hide, were now on display, a physical testament to her vulnerability. The priests had given their lives for a warrior, and they had received...
The two priests exchanged a look, their exhaustion momentarily replaced by wide, beatific smiles. They shuffled forward, their bare feet making soft sounds on the dusty, blood-stained stones. The one with the sparse beard spoke first, his voice now filled with a warm, reverent tone that was completely at odds with the grim ritual. "Do not be afraid, blessed one. There is no need for such apprehension. The Goddess does not make mistakes. If She has chosen you, it is because She sees within you a greatness that perhaps even you cannot yet perceive."
His companion, younger but with the same deep-seated weariness in his eyes, nodded enthusiastically. "He speaks the truth. We are but humble servants, and we do not question Her divine will. We rejoice in Her choice!" He gestured vaguely at her outfit, a look of profound admiration on his face. "And that garment... it is not just clothing. Many will recognize it. Look closely, chosen one. Embroidered along the hem, here on the bodice... that is the sacred symbol of the Goddess Herself. You wear Her mark, Her blessing, for all the world to see." He beamed at her as if this were the most tremendous honor imaginable, completely oblivious to the deepening blush of humiliation that was creeping up Esther's neck.
Esther awkwardly brushed a strand of her long brown hair from her face, her fingers fidgeting with the unfamiliar, revealing garment. "So... what do I do now?" she asked, her voice softer than she intended. "What's the plan?"
The bearded priest smiled warmly. "Please, come with us. There is much to discuss, and it is not fit for this... hallowed ground." He led her through a crumbling archway into a small, adjoining chamber. It was dusty but relatively intact, with a large, worn table in the center. "I am Brother Malachi," he said, gesturing to himself, "and this is Brother Elian." His companion gave a respectful nod. "We do not know the exact day, but the Demon King's rebirth is imminent. It could be in six months, or it could be in two years. That is the window we have. You must become stronger."
Brother Elian stepped forward, his eyes bright with fervor. "The legend is clear. The Chosen One must gather a party. You must find the most powerful mage, the bravest warrior, the most pious healer, and the most loyal friend. It has always been so. With them at your side, you will face the darkness." He paused, then added, "We are not a wealthy order, but we can give you this." From a hidden pouch, he produced a small, heavy purse of gold coins. "And you can ask for aid at any temple or cathedral of the Goddess. They will help you, Her champion. They must."
The responsibility crashed down on Esther like a physical weight. The ghosts of her family, the faces she hadn't allowed herself to clearly picture in years, flashed in her mind. She had survived their inferno, a fact that had defined her as a coward. Now, this? To be the world's savior? A hysterical laugh almost escaped her lips. She wanted to run, to leave these ancient ruins and this impossible task behind, to disappear back into the life of an F-Class adventurer where failure only meant going hungry. But beneath the terror, another feeling stirred, hot and sharp. It was the same ember that had kept her going after the fire, the vow she had made in the ashes to find justice, to become strong enough that no one she cared for would ever be hurt again. Fear and duty warred within her, a chaotic storm in her chest. She was terrified, but for the first time in a long time, she also felt a terrifying, exhilarating pull towards something more than mere survival.
"You may stay here, at the temple," Brother Malachi offered gently, sensing her turmoil. "Rest. Prepare yourself. We will provide for you."
Esther shook her head, the motion small but firm. "No. If this is real... if I am... this... then I have to start. I need my things." Her voice gained a sliver of its old resolve. "I have my family's savings, kept hidden. I need to go get them. Where are we? How far is it to Three Mills?"
Brother Elian supplied, "You are on the outskirts of Aethelgard, the City of the Clergy. It's several days' journey to a town called Three Mills."
"My things, my money, my gear—they're all near that city," Esther stated, her voice gaining a sliver of resolve. "I have to go there. It's the first step."
The priests exchanged another look, this one of understanding. "As you wish, Chosen One," Malachi said with a nod. "The path ahead is yours to walk. We will summon a Sister from the city. She will accompany you to Three Mills, to ensure you are safe and to help you procure whatever you may require for your journey."
They walked in silence, the stone streets of Aethelgard gradually growing wider and more crowded. The soft shuffle of their boots was the only sound between them. Esther could feel the weight of Lyra's unease, the novice's rigid posture and downcast eyes screaming a deference she couldn't stomach. For her part, Esther was a fish out of water; her family, the Mutloses, had been minor nobility, their estate isolated amidst vast agricultural lands. Trips to the city had been rare, formal affairs, and she had dropped the family name long ago to avoid the enemies her disgraced father had made. The silence became unbearable. "If you want to ask me something," Esther finally said, her voice a little too loud in the quiet space between them, "you can. We're going to be traveling together for a while. It's better if we... know each other."
Lyra flinched, then offered a small, hesitant smile, though the reverence in her posture didn't lessen. "I was just wondering, Chosen One," she began, her voice barely audible, "are you... happy? To have been chosen?" Esther considered the question, a knot of fear tightening in her gut. She was terrified, but beneath it, a stubborn spark was finally catching flame. If the Goddess had chosen her, did anything else matter? "At first, no," she admitted, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. "But... now? Yes. I think so." Lyra's smile widened. "The Goddess would not have chosen you if it were not so." Esther let out a humorless laugh. "I'm just scared of disappointing everyone. I'm an F-Class adventurer. Weak. The last hero... he was the most powerful warrior of his generation."
Lyra's expression softened with compassion. "The Goddess sees all, Chosen One. She sees what has happened and what will be. She sees the connections between all things. If She chose you, the reason will reveal itself in time. But do not mistake strength for worth. There have been many heroes who were not mighty or possessed powers of combat. They were always chosen for something." She paused. "My favorite hero from the histories is Owen. He was the weakest of all, but he changed the world more than any other." As they spoke, they entered the city's market district. The gazes that fell upon Esther grew more intense, more pointed. They didn't see a holy figure; they saw a woman in a ridiculously short skirt, the navy blue fabric barely reaching mid-thigh. With every step she took, the hem swayed, offering flashes of the pink lace beneath. Men, alone or in groups, stopped and stared openly, their eyes crawling over her full chest, clearly outlined by the thin white shirt and lace bodice. She felt their leers like a physical touch, a grimy heat that made her skin crawl. Even men walking with their wives turned their heads, their lingering looks bold and lascivious. She shivered, pulling at the hem of her skirt uselessly. Lyra, lost in her own thoughts, seemed not to notice the nature of the stares. "The inn is just ahead, Chosen One," she said, pointing to a brightly painted sign swinging in the breeze a block down the street.
Lyra handled the arrangements at the inn's front desk, her voice quiet but firm as she secured two adjoining rooms. "I will go now, Chosen One," she said, turning to Esther with a respectful nod. "To arrange our transport for the morning. Please, rest." Esther watched her go, then retreated into the privacy of her own room. It wasn't luxurious, but it was clean, with a sturdy wooden bed and a washstand with fresh water. It was, she realized with a sigh, far better than the cramped lodging she'd grown accustomed to in Three Mills. As she sank onto the mattress, the day's exhaustion washing over her, a familiar sound broke the silence—a soft, theatrical clearing of a throat.
There he was. Leaning against the wall by the door, just as she remembered him, though slightly translucent. Same light brown, almost blonde hair. Same mischievous glint in his dark eyes. "Don't bother pinching yourself," he said, his voice a perfect echo of the memory that haunted her. "You're not hallucinating. It's me. Your dearly departed older brother." Esther stared, her heart hammering against her ribs. "How?" she whispered. "They told me... they told me the ritual summons the hero. I don't understand." He shrugged, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Seems I'm part of the package. A spirit, tied to the ritual to guide the hero. Apparently, they all get one." He pushed off the wall and moved to sit beside her on the bed. He reached for her hand, his fingers passing straight through hers, a tingling cold the only sensation. "How are you?" she asked, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Did you suffer? Do you... do you hate me? For not doing anything? For not getting justice for you?"
His expression softened, the familiar mask of cynicism falling away to reveal something like genuine affection. "No, Esther. Never. I don't resent a thing. In fact, I'm thrilled my little sister is the Heroine." He grinned. "Although what the Goddess was thinking, picking you of all people, is a complete mystery." The absurdity of it, the sheer, insane relief of seeing him again, caught Esther off guard. A watery laugh escaped her lips, the sound breaking the tension that had coiled in her chest all day. "I was just thinking the same thing." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't you worry. I'm here to help. Starting with your power. I'll let you in on it, though it's not exactly... flashy." Esther looked at him, intrigued. "It's not good?" He shook his head slowly. "You're immortal. If you die, you'll wake up the next morning, right back where you started the day before."
Esther's eyes widened. "Immortal? That's... that's probably the best power I could ever imagine." "Don't get too excited," he warned, his tone suddenly serious. "And try not to die. First, dying still hurts like hell. It's not an experience you forget in a hurry. I'd know. And dying over and over... that can break a person. Second, it's a massive drain on your divine energy. Abusing it, using death as a crutch... it will damage your soul, eventually." Esther's fleeting excitement evaporated, replaced by a grave understanding. "Is that all?" she asked quietly. "Not quite. Besides the accelerated growth potential if you actually bother to train, you have a... passive power. It's hard to explain, since the Goddess doesn't exactly send memos, but it seems to be something that makes people around you more... favorably disposed towards you. Even your enemies might not see you as much of a threat, face to face." Esther blinked, confused. "What good is that for?" "It keeps you from being the primary target in a fight," he explained. "It's a double-edged sword, little sister." He then added, "And a heads up: I can read your thoughts. When we're with others, just talk to me in your head. If you keep looking at empty space and talking, people will think you're crazier than you already are." Esther managed a weak smile. A comfortable silence settled between them for a moment. "I missed you so much," she said, her voice cracking. "Of everything that happened today... seeing you again is the only thing that feels right." Exhaustion finally claimed her. She lay back on the bed, her eyes drifting shut.