Crusader.
The title belonged to the holy knights of the Cross Order, those who served the “Son of Sin and Punishment,” one of the Seven Chief Gods. Born to execute the scriptural mandate that every sin demands a fitting retribution, they reigned as the absolute power over the once-peaceful Southern Continent.
Their full-body armor alone exuded an intimidating pressure. They possessed the overwhelming physical strength to swing maces capable of crushing a human skull in a single blow, and the divine power to command various mysteries. In the Southern Continent, where even a single knight was a rare sight, the Crusaders were the very definition of power.
To the people of the Southern Continent, who had lived lives far removed from conflict, the Crusaders were terrifying, yet equally reassuring. Because they loathed sinners and wielded the iron mace of justice, they had always been seen as the guardians of the weak.
However, that perception had shattered.
“As of today, offering prayers to Goddess Rebrua in this place is strictly forbidden.”
Everything changed when the Crusade of the Cross Order declared a “Holy War” against the Southern Continent. The knights of that army were no longer the maces that protected the weak. Their power was no longer directed at the wicked. Instead, it was aimed at anyone who did not belong to the Cross Order—as if being different was a sin deserving of death.
“To violate this decree is a felony. This land is the Holy Land of the Cross Order. To worship another deity on the sacred ground where the Son of Sin and Punishment once walked is an act of blasphemy against our God.”
“What kind of tyranny is this!”
They went so far as to prevent other orders from serving their own deities. Even the gentle residents of the Southern Continent could not endure such a slight. To them, religion held a special significance. It was their everything—the very essence of their souls.
“According to the scriptures, the Seven Chief Gods and the Nine Goddesses are equally great! There is no hierarchy among those of us who serve them; we simply pursue different values. Even the Holy Empire did not find fault with offering prayers to other gods at the Temple of the Sun! Furthermore, now that you have destroyed all the Sun Sanctuaries, if you block us from praying at the Statue of the Sun, where are we supposed to turn to our Goddess!”
The residents of Vicente, a port city in the Holy Empire, had silently endured the tyranny of the Crusade, but this was the one line they would not allow to be crossed. Upon hearing their outcry, the Crusaders immediately raised their maces. Then, they began to beat to death every person who had spoken out.
“This can’t be… this can’t be happening…”
The buildings of Vicente burned and crumbled. As the Crusade turned the city into a wasteland, the Crusaders desecrated the Statue of the Sun, the pride of the people. Now, when day broke over the city, the residents were forced to look upon the severed head of their Goddess and a hideous cross. Some of the most devout were so unable to bear the sight that they took their own lives.
“O Eternal Day, O Warm Sunlight, why do you grant us no salvation? They are stealing our sun and crucifying your servants. Sing of your wrath! If you cannot do that, then at least take our souls.”
A heavy gloom hung over Vicente.
Some desperately wished for the return of the Monks; they yearned for the return of Butcher, the greatest Great Warrior. But there was no salvation. There was not even a response from the Sun. Desperate rumors began to circulate that perhaps the Goddess had abandoned them—that she had discarded their utterly frail souls.
Vigorous young men attempted to ambush the Crusade, but they failed miserably. Their broken bodies were displayed in the middle of the plaza, nailed to crosses in the manner of the Cross Order.
The sense of injustice and helplessness felt by the residents of Vicente was beyond words. Anger, resentment, and emotions they wanted to scream to the heavens were boiling over, but their opponent would not engage in dialogue. There was only force. This feeling of being crushed by unreasonable power was truly, maddeningly horrific. All they could do was pray. A powerless, hollow prayer.
The Crusade was burning all the lands of the Southern Continent, including the Holy Empire. A single order was defiling the sanctity of the land. The Star Order had humbly accepted death, and while the Sun Order was resisting with the Holy Empire at its center, a war could not be sustained in the absence of the Monks. A shadow was falling—a shadow stained with despair and death.
“Ah…”
It was broad daylight, a time when Goddess Rebrua’s eyes should have been wide open. The masters of the cross who had trampled this city roamed fearlessly during the hours of the Sun, as if they did not fear the Goddess in the slightest.
Clang. Clang.
Hearing the metallic clanking of their armor, Oren, a Priest of the Sun who had lived his entire life in Vicente, shed hot tears. Why did the Goddess not reward their faith? Even if the doctrine stated that one must temper oneself to become the sun in one’s own life, could she not grant a single ray of salvation to her servants who were meeting such an unreasonable end?
To those of us who have followed and looked only to you our entire lives, can you not grant even a trivial miracle? What were we to you?
“O Goddess…”
Under the bright sun, Oren looked at the statue of the Goddess, its head torn off and an impure cross driven into the neck. The desecrated statue was so horrific it was hard to look at. But what was more horrific was the sight of the distorted port city—the ruined lives and shattered futures of the people.
“Goddess… O Goddess.”
Oren, who had been staring blankly at the Statue of the Sun, suddenly felt as if his mind had gone empty. Like an old man suffering from madness, he ran through the streets barefoot, drooling. His priest robes were blackened with dirt, his hair was greasy and disheveled, and his beard was scraggly. Seeing Oren running in such a state, the residents thought the Priest of the Sun had finally lost his mind. A few who remembered Oren’s former kindness followed after him, fearing he might cause an accident or meet his death at the hands of the Crusaders.
“Priest, where are you going! Stop, please stop!”
Oren did not stop.
The Priest of the Sun ran and ran, chasing the light. Finally, he reached the horribly desecrated statue of his Goddess. The cross driven into the severed neck of the statue was glowing red. The cross, sparkling in the sunlight, was a crimson brand, and around it, Crusaders with maces were looking down at him with dry, indifferent eyes. It was a ridiculous, tragic sight.
“Let’s go, Priest. You shouldn’t be here. This place is…”
“How strange,” Oren interrupted, his voice hollow. “This is where our Goddess resides. So why do you hold me back as if I have come somewhere I shouldn’t be? I am no uninvited guest. Furthermore, why are those things glaring at me so? Why is it that those who committed the wrong hold their heads high, while the victims must bow their heads, walk on eggshells, and tremble? What did we do so wrong under that sun? Under the Eternal Day, does there truly exist a reason for us to bow our heads?”
Oren traced the sign of the sun in the air with his thin hand.
“O Eternal Day. O Greatest Sun. Grant us a ray of light. Drive away the darkness that has befallen this place with your warm sunlight. Correct this contradiction where the wrongdoer is confident and the innocent must shed tears. Just as the sun rises in the day and the moon rises at night, the wicked must be judged and the righteous must be rewarded. Realize the logic of the world. Practice good and evil according to the Law established by the Nine Goddesses and the Seven Chief Gods. I beg of you, please do so!”
Oren’s voice rang out clearly.
It was the same magnificent voice he had used to lead worship services in the past. Some of the residents felt their eyes welling up. But while Oren’s voice echoed like a mantra, the sun gave no response. The sky was still the sky, and the sun was still the sun. The heavens did not budge. Under the unmoving sky, the Crusaders walked toward Oren, maces in hand.
“You have committed a sin,” one Crusader intoned. “And where there is sin, punishment must follow.”
He had prayed fervently, but nothing changed. Under the glowing red cross, the Crusaders drew closer. Oren sensed his end. At that moment, the residents rushed forward and blocked the path between the Crusaders and the priest.
“Please, please spare him!”
“Leave the Priest alone! Why must you go this far? If your own priests were in this situation, they would have acted just like Priest Oren! Please, show some mercy! Act like human beings!”
Sobbing voices filled the air.
Hunched old men, women, and even small children stood with their arms spread wide, protecting Oren. Looking at the residents who had stepped forward, Oren realized something.
The great heavens do not budge.
In the most desperate moment, the Sun turns away from her servant.
In the end, it is the lowliest who step forward in helpless, unreasonable, and desperate situations. The most insignificant, those with nothing. Only they help one another and willingly stand against a great threat. A light flickered in Oren’s eyes.
“Shielding a sinner is also a sin.”
The Crusaders raised their maces.
And then—
Snap.
Red, thread-like lines were drawn across the bodies of the Crusaders. A cracking sound echoed, followed by countless lines carving themselves into their armor like cracks spreading through shattered glass. In that instant, using those lines as the starting point, the Crusaders’ bodies began to fall apart.
“That was impressive.”
Red blood sprayed the pavement.
Like sandcastles collapsing, the bodies of the Crusaders crumbled. Their maces hit the ground, a chorus of metallic clangs ringing out. In the next moment, a young man was standing in front of Oren.
“But next time, do not seek the sun. Do not ask the heavens for help. It was the residents who saved you in your most dangerous moment. The Seven Chief Gods and Nine Goddesses you serve do not grant salvation. In this harsh world, the only one who can save you is yourself. If you had come here alone, you would have died because you did not believe in yourself.”
Beautiful blonde hair. Crystal-blue eyes.
A man as handsome as a sculpture stood there, holding a sword.
“But because those who love and cherish you stepped forward, you lived. It was your neighbors, not a god, who saved you. Not the heavens and the sun high above, but the humans who dwell here below with you.”
“…”
“Remember this from now on. In the face of a crisis, do not rely on the heavens; find the answer yourself. If you do not have the strength to overcome the crisis on your own, then build that strength. If you cannot build it alone, then join your strengths together. Do not just fold your hands and pray helplessly; find what you can and must do.”
Flames were flickering around the young man’s body. They were flames that felt almost sacred, resembling the Sacred Flame that symbolized Rebrua, the Goddess of the Sun. Looking at the young man wreathed in fire, Oren asked in a dazed voice.
“…Are you a warrior sent by Goddess Rebrua?”
“I am not.”
“Then are you the Great Warrior of the Sun who has come to protect us?”
“I am not that either.”
“Then… who are you?”
The young man caught his breath and brushed back his hair.
” Caravan. “
*
Gods exist.
It is a proven fact that the Seven Chief Gods and the Nine Goddesses are real. However, when these people suffered, the gods granted no salvation. They turned their eyes away from unreasonable violence. No matter how much the people wailed, suffered, or vented their resentment, there was no response.
Was it only for them? No.
It was the same the moment my territory fell.
In the year I turned fifteen, when a certain Swordmaster took the lives of the innocent, when my territory was erased and my family was wiped out, when those most precious to me left this world before the blade—even then, the heavens were just the heavens.
Blaming the heavens, wishing for salvation, praying for a far-off divine punishment, and yearning endlessly in one’s heart changes nothing. In the end, there is only one thing the insignificant people living in the low places must do.
Move forward.
Not just vaguely wishing, but acting for oneself. Doing what must be done, and what can be done.
‘You must not become a hero.’
Master’s words flashed through my mind.
Yes, my goal is not to be a hero. If I had aimed to be a hero, I could have pretended to be a champion sent by Goddess Rebrua while wreathed in the Flame of Doubt. I could have uttered grand, flowery speeches like those in a typical chivalric novel.
But I didn’t want to do that. Those saved by a hero cannot be saved once the hero is gone. If the object of their reliance disappears, they cannot stand on their own.
These people must know. They must know that they cannot survive in this harsh world by relying only on the heavens. They must realize that in the most desperate moment, there is no one to save them but themselves.
Just as I realized it in the past. They, too, must realize it.
“What is this?”
Around the desecrated Statue of the Sun, figures holding crosses appeared in droves. They were members of the Crusade who had been patrolling nearby. Their composition did not consist only of Crusaders. There were beings holding various weapons, beings exuding spiritual energy, and even those with an unfamiliar, alien aura I had never faced before. It felt more like looking at a well-organized army than a religious order.
Of course, it didn’t matter.
“That man! Capture him—”
I had no equal here.
“Uh…”
Not a single one.
