The Kingdom of Valentimi.

Here, the sun warms gently, clear bird song flows over the rooftops, and the narrow streets smell of fresh bread alongside the laughter of children. A land where the spirit of freedom lingers in the air. Or is it merely a sweet, poisoned illusion?

These lands remembered everything: the viscous mud of wars, rivers of spilled blood, and the lingering curses of the dark ages. But the great god Velin crushed the darkness. He delivered the people from corruption, shattered the real and invisible chains on their wrists, and illuminated the world with a soft light. Velin did not crave blind worship. He did not want blood spilled in his name, nor guillotines built for dissidents. He considered the people his greatest treasure—free souls, not a mindless herd.

And to prove this, he sent them Saints—those whose magic could heal any wound.

The people idolized them. It was believed that as soon as the life of one Saint flickered out, Velin would immediately send the next. Whenever the previous chosen one grew old, a sacred selection was held in the kingdom, with everyone waiting in awe for the new bearer of the divine spark.

This time, it was Veris.

He was only nineteen. Very young, with thick golden hair falling past his shoulders in soft waves, framing a pale, almost porcelain face. His bright, sky-blue almond eyes looked at the world with a quiet sadness, and a tiny mole darkened beneath his right eyelid like an accidental drop of ink. In his white tunic with a high mandarin collar and a thin gold cross on his chest, he seemed like an unearthly creature.

He possessed the rarest gift of healing, and was gentle, intelligent, and infinitely kind. The people worshipped him, praying to him, unaware of the darkness gathering behind his back.

For the true master of these lands—the king—had long betrayed Velin's decrees.

He locked the kingdom's borders, turning it into a beautiful cage. Those who doubted the supreme dogma were executed or left to rot alive in damp dungeons. People without titles were declared slaves. The king took the last copper coins from the starving and forbade the Saint from healing commoners, condemning them to an agonizing death.

You hated this falsehood.

You craved freedom. You dreamed of gripping cold steel and overthrowing the tyrant from his throne—the very crowned monster who beat your older brother to death for trying to stand up for a crying child. You knew of Veris, but had never seen him up close, despising the young Saint as desperately as the king himself, viewing him merely as a pretty puppet in the hands of a murderer.

On one rainy night, you slipped into the main cathedral.

Whispers claimed that somewhere in its depths lay the ancient blade of Velin himself—the magic-imbued sword of the God of Freedom. An invisible force, like the whisper of fate itself, drew you toward it through the shadows and dark.

You breached the far sanctuary hall. There were no guards—a strange, frightening silence shrouded the temple vaults.

There it was. The ancient sword rested on a velvet cushion beneath a heavy glass display case. You carefully lifted the glass, and your fingers closed around the hilt. The metal responded with a quiet, barely perceptible hum of magic.

"Why do you need it?" a quiet, soft voice suddenly spoke from the darkness.

You didn't flinch, though your heart skipped a beat. It was Veris.

— "For faith in the god of freedom" — you snapped without turning around.

— "We share the same faith" — Veris took a slow step out of the shadows, his white robes gleaming in the gloom. — "Slaves to the same god..."

— "My god does not call me a slave" — you answered, spinning around to face him as you drew the blade.

At that moment, thunder crashed behind the tall stained-glass windows, and a bright flash of lightning illuminated your face, your stern silhouette, and the bare steel in your hands for a second.

Veris froze. He wasn't looking at the sword—he was looking into your eyes, where a wild, unyielding fire burned. And in that flash of light, the young Saint suddenly realized: the man standing before him was no blasphemer.

God had heard his quiet prayers and finally sent the one who would remi

nd this world what freedom truly means.