Authors note: Thank you for your patience with this break. I am recharged and I will be getting back to the grind! 2/22/2026
----Narrator-----
In the far northeast corner of the Central Continent, where winter tightens its grip for three‑quarters of the year, a small village clings to life beneath an endless shroud of frost. Its people endure days ruled by biting cold and nights carved by winds sharp enough to flay the unprepared. Yet even in this unforgiving land, movement stirred, a small blue‑haired child darted across the snow, her oversized kimono trailing behind her like a banner. She ran with a lightness that defied the terrain as her feet barely sank into the drifts.
Her small breaths puffed into the cold air, each exhale briefly warming the space around her before vanishing into the winter chill. Snow crunched beneath her feet as she climbed the long staircase carved into the hillside, the faint tok‑tok of wood striking wood drifting down from above. The sound grew clearer with every step, urging her onward.
At last she reached the final stair. She lifted her head, chest rising with effort, and the scene atop the hill unfolded before her, a broad stone courtyard etched with intricate symbols, its surface swept clean despite the constant snowfall. Figures in kimonos like her own stood across the polished floor, each gripping a long wooden staff honed smooth at the edges. Their movements were sharp and disciplined, and the clash of their weapons echoed through the frosted air like a steady heartbeat.
"AGAIN!"
The shout cracked through the cold air like a whip. The girl snapped her head toward the hoarse voice, spotting a broad‑shouldered man with his arms crossed as he oversee the duel.
"HUU!"
"KUH—?!"
Wood clashed against wood in sharp, rhythmic bursts. The blue‑haired girl's eyes widened, shimmering with excitement as she watched the exchange.
"Nina?"
The voice pulled her attention away. She turned to see a tall man approaching, his presence as solid as the stone beneath their feet. A rough goatee framed his jaw, and a long scar cut from the left side of his chin up toward his cheekbone, giving him a permanently stern expression.
"What are you doing in the advanced dojo?" he asked, brow lifting. His gaze dropped to the oversized garment hanging off her shoulders. "And… is that my kimono?"
"I want to fight! With you!"
Her voice rang with a conviction far too big for her small frame. The man felt his chest warm with pride as he looked into his daughter's shining eyes—eyes that held the same fire he once carried at her age.
He reached out, intending to rest a hand on her head.
But his hand froze mid‑air.
His gaze snapped toward the distant horizon, brows tightening as a subtle tremor rippled through the air. Something was wrong—terribly wrong.
"Nina," he said, his tone shifting from fatherly warmth to iron command, "go inside."
She didn't argue. She knew that voice. She had barely taken two steps before an ear‑splitting screech tore through the dojo.
ROOOOOOOOOOAR—
A red dragon? Here, in these frozen lands where no such creature should ever appear?
The man thought for himself as he carefully watched the beast descend in a violent rush of wind and snow, landing before the man with a thunderous impact. Its massive form loomed over him, scales glowing like molten embers against the pale winter light. Hot steam billowed from its nostrils, filling the frigid air with waves of heat that warped the space between them.
The man's lips curled into a grin.
Slowly, deliberately, he placed his hand on the hilt of the sword at his waist.
-----
Across a land where golden‑brown fields swayed like a vast sea, a lone city rose from the earth as though it were an island anchored in the waves. Harbors encircled its perimeter, their docks stretching outward like grasping fingers, welcoming ships from every corner of the continent. Above it all, perched on a natural rise of stone, stood the city's most iconic landmark—a grand manor that served as both castle and seat of power, visible from every vantage point.
Within its inner court, the calm of the surrounding fields was shattered by the sharp, relentless rhythm of combat.
And behind a thick cluster of shrubs, a pair of curious eyes peeked through the leaves, watching every movement with breathless awe. The swordmaster's strikes were sharp enough to split the air, each swing carving through the wooden pillar until splinters scattered across the courtyard.
"Sigh…"
The woman halted mid‑motion. With a practiced ease, she slid her sword back into its sheath and turned toward the bushes, her expression flattening into something between amusement and resignation. Footsteps crunched softly as she approached.
"Lady Eris," she called, voice steady and unmistakably firm, "come out."
The leaves rustled, betraying the small redhead who had been hiding there all along.
Slowly, a young child with bright red hair pushed her way out from behind the bush. She stood tall—shameless, unflinching—and stared straight at the swordmaster with eyes burning brighter than her hair.
Before her towered the woman she admired: tall, muscular, wrapped in a revealing leather outfit that left her scarred brown skin exposed to the sun and wind. Wolf‑like ears twitched atop her head, and a striped tail swayed behind her with the lazy confidence of a predator at rest. She was unmistakably beast‑folk—raw strength and honed instinct wrapped into one formidable figure.
"Ghyslaine!" the girl declared, voice cracking with excitement and determination. "Please teach me swordsmanship!"
Ghyslaine briefled smilled at the young lady for her enthusiasm as she reached with her hand to give her a headpat but stopped herself from doing so.
"Lady Eris, you are-"
Her ears twitched and she immediately turned her gaze skyward, brows knitting into a hard line. Something in the air had shifted. The wind carried a pressure she knew all too well.
As she watched the horizon, a small red speck cut through the clouds. The distant roar of wind followed, growing louder, heavier, until the shape sharpened into something unmistakable. And then another. And another.
A pack of red dragons soared across the sky above the Boreas territory.
Ghyslaine's reaction was instantaneous. In a blur of movement, she scooped the young girl into her arms and rushed her inside the manor. Her voice snapped with urgency as she barked orders to the maids, instructing them to alert the lord immediately. The calm training yard had become a place of tension in a heartbeat.
Fortunately, the dragons did not descend. They passed overhead, their shadows sweeping across the land like a warning carved into the sky. No confrontation came—but the sight alone was enough to shake the stability of the entire Fittoa region.
-----
A city rose from the plains in a sweep of pale stone, its towers catching the sun until the skyline glowed like a polished crown. Even from afar, its symmetry was unmistakable—streets laid out in perfect lines, walls scrubbed to a sheen, banners of white and blue stirring in a disciplined rhythm. Nothing here grew by chance. Every arch, every spire, every measured block spoke of a place built on order, shaped by devotion, and maintained with almost ceremonial precision.
At the center stood a cathedral so vast it dominated the horizon, its spires piercing the sky with quiet authority. Light clung to its surfaces, turning the structure into a beacon that could not be ignored.
Only one city in the world looked like this.
Milishion.
And within its great marble doors, Bells hung high in the central tower, their deep tolls rolling across the city like the heartbeat of the living city.
No other building in the world carried such weight, as it was the seat of authority, the heart of a religion, and the place where a single man's word could shape nations.
Only one cathedral was built with this level of devotion and certainty.
The Holy Cathedral of Milishion.
At the far end of that vast chamber stood a statue of Saint Millis, carved from the same flawless stone as the cathedral itself. Soft light pooled around its feet, casting long, gentle shadows across the polished floor.
Before it knelt the Pope.
His robes, white and blue, draped around him like still water. His hands were clasped, his head bowed, his voice a low murmur swallowed by the cathedral's immense quiet.
But the quiet moment was shattered.
The great doors slammed open, their echo rolling through the hall like thunder. An elderly man in garments nearly identical to the Pope's hurried forward, breath ragged, urgency written in every step.
He slowed only when he reached the Pope's back, forcing himself to straighten. He bowed, still catching his breath.
"Pope Migurd… forgive my intrusion."
The Pope rose, turning with measured calm. His eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded the man.
"Cardinal Georg. To what pleasure do I owe this visit?"
Georg straightened, his expression firm, unwavering.
"Saint Milis has spoken."
The Pope's eyes widened with focused interest.
"A new Saint has descended in the Central Continent," Georg continued.
Migurd frowned, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "A Saint? Not a Hero?"
"I have confirmed it myself."
Silence settled between them. The Pope's gaze drifted past Georg, towards the soldiers standing at attention near the entrance and beyond them, the faint silhouettes of the saintess and the miko who had accompanied the Cardinal.
Then he turned, looking up at the towering statue of Saint Millis behind him. The stone figure stood serene and eternal, bathed in soft light, as though listening to the conversation unfolding at its feet.
Despite the political battles that often placed Pope and Cardinal at odds, both men bowed to the same divine authority. And when their God spoke, neither dared ignore His will.
Migurd finally faced Georg again, conviction burning in his eyes.
"Assemble a search operation."