It was a day just before graduation.

  Hulim Heyerar stared at the mountain of envelopes spread out before her, her eyes clouded with faint confusion.

  She picked up one letter at random, her fingers brushing against its gilded, ornately decorated seal, a quiet murmur escaping her lips:

  “Why is there so many of these…”

  Her gaze drifted back to the table.

  Nearly every envelope laid out before her was just as grand, just as lavish—emblazoned with the crests of great factions and empires, sealed with gold and silver wax.

  “I thought graduating seventh would mean fewer recruitment offers…”

  Manacos was one of the foremost magic academies in the world. Its graduates were always courted by countless powers upon leaving the academy’s walls, without exception.

  As a rule, the higher one’s rank, the more invitations they received.

  And Hulim’s final graduation rank was seventh.

  In any other year, a seventh-place graduate would have received plenty of offers—but never this many. Never enough to stack into a mountain on her desk.

  After a long moment of hesitation,

  Hulim sighed softly, resigned to her fate, and began to sort through the letters one by one.

  “I suppose I should at least see which factions these are from.”

  Whether she accepted their offers or not mattered little. She had to write back.

  These were no petty guilds or minor lords—they were great powers of the realm, extending formal, solemn invitations. To ignore them would be an unforgivable slight, a mark of disrespect she could not afford to leave.

  “......Hm. This one is from the Royal Family of the Pasara Empire... this, the Indam Federation... and this? The Holy Church?”

  She frowned faintly, her brow creasing with mild surprise:

  “The Church recruits graduates now? I thought they always trained their own acolytes…”

  Her fingers brushed another envelope, its seal a stark white spire etched into black wax.

  “This is... the White Spire?”

  A flicker of recognition crossed her face:

  “I have heard the name. It is said to be an incomparably powerful mage’s order—yet I have never heard of them extending invitations to fresh graduates of Manacos.”

  “Hmm... I suppose I will read the rest later.”

  “?”

  Amidst the sea of gilded envelopes, one stood out, plain and unadorned—its paper rough, its seal a simple iron crest of a sword and shield, no gold, no silver, no grand emblems.

  She pulled it free, her curiosity piqued.

  “A letter from the Adventurer’s Guild?”

  Her confusion deepened, a quiet murmur escaping her lips:

  “That makes no sense. I am already a registered adventurer. Why would the Guild send me a formal letter?”

  Something about it felt off. This was no recruitment offer.

  She tore open the seal at once, unfolding the parchment inside and scanning its neat, formal script.

  【To the Honorable Lady Hulim Heyerar,

  This missive comes from the Central Headquarters of the Adventurer’s Guild.

  It has come to our attention that you attained the qualifications for promotion to High-Rank Adventurer one year past. We hereby formally invite you to journey to the Guild’s Central Headquarters, the Adventure Capital of Bongisto, to undertake your Promotion Trial.

  Should you accept this invitation, please send word to your nearest Adventurer’s Guild Branch prior to your departure.

  Headquarters shall make all necessary arrangements for your trial upon receipt of your reply.

  With sincere regards,

  The Central Headquarters of the Adventurer’s Guild.】

  “......The Central Headquarters wishes me to undertake the Promotion Trial?”

  Hulim held the letter in her hand, her gaze thoughtful, her mind piecing together the unspoken rules of the Guild:

  “I suppose it makes sense. All High-Rank Adventurers must be formally recognized by the Central Headquarters, not the regional branches.”

  She folded the letter carefully, tucking it into the pocket of her robes, her resolve hardening with a quiet decision.

  “Very well. I shall journey to Bongisto, in the Far East, first.”

  ...

  ...

  Some time had passed since the Faith Pillar’s assault on Manacos.

  Word of the fall of one of Gulos’ Three Pillars had spread across the realm—but the Academy had never revealed the truth of how Cassim had died.

  The world outside had made its own guesses: that Holstin Ming Dawson, Headmaster of Manacos, had led a cadre of A-Rank professors to corner and slay him in a brutal siege.

  Naturally, Gulos had learned of these rumors as well.

  Within a dim, shadow-shrouded hall, cold stone walls rising high into the darkness, no torches lit, no light to pierce the gloom.

  A single obsidian throne sat atop a raised dais in the hall’s center, solitary and imposing, its surface carved with twisted runes of shadow and death.

  Upon the throne sat a figure, motionless as a marble statue—its features hidden beneath a hood of black silk, its body draped in robes of shadow, no breath visible, no movement to betray life. It had sat there for an eternity, it seemed, silent and still, the very air of the hall thick with an oppressive silence, a dread so heavy it suffocated all sound.

  Tap. Tap. Tap......

  Footsteps echoed through the hall at last, slow and deliberate, crunching against the cold stone floor, sharp and clear in the endless quiet.

  The silence was broken, if only for a moment.

  Tap——!

  The footsteps halted, ten paces from the obsidian throne, and a figure knelt upon one knee, his head bowed in unyielding deference.

  He was an Elf—yet unlike any Elf the world had ever seen. Tall and broad-shouldered, his frame thick with muscle, a giant cleaver sword slung over his shoulder, its blade wide and jagged, its edge stained with the faint rust of old blood. His hair was a short, ragged crop of dark violet, his skin a weathered, sun-browned bronze—not the pale, unmarred ivory of his kin. One pointed elven ear was torn clean through, a jagged gash marring its tip, a scar of battle, of loss, of a life lived not in the forests of peace, but on the battlefield of blood.

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  If not for those pointed ears, no soul alive would have believed he was an Elf at all.

  The elven warrior spoke, his voice calm and steady, devoid of emotion, as if reporting a trivial matter, a simple fact of life and death:

  “Lord Darius, Cassim is dead.”

  The figure on the throne did not move. Did not speak.

  The suffocating silence descended once more, thicker than before, pressing down on the hall like a mountain of stone.

  The elven warrior knelt there, his head bowed, his posture unbroken, not a single muscle twitching, not a single breath wasted—waiting, patiently, for his lord’s command.

  “Is that so......”

  A voice spoke at last, thin and cold, like ice cracking in the depths of winter, echoing from beneath the black silk hood, no warmth, no anger, no grief—only a quiet, hollow resignation.

  “Cassim has failed us.”

  The figure on the throne fell silent again, as if lost in thought, as if weighing the cost of this loss, the ripples it would send through their grand design.

  The elven warrior waited, unflinching, unhurried.

  Moments stretched into an eternity before the cold voice spoke again, its words sharp and decisive, a command carved in stone, a fate sealed for countless souls:

  “Our plans cannot be delayed. Not for a single day.”

  The figure paused, uttering a single name, each syllable a whip crack in the silence:

  “Arudok.”

  “I stand ready, my lord.” The elven warrior replied, his voice firm, his head still bowed.

  “Journey to the Southwest of the continent.” The cold voice commanded, its tone unyielding, its words stained with blood and death, “Use the blood of the weak kingdoms there to forge the remaining Sacrifice Pillars.”

  A pause, a whisper of urgency, a hint of dread beneath the cold resolve:

  “No matter the cost. No matter how many fall. We must shatter the Tree before the New Demon Lord awakens.”

  “Your will shall be done.”

  Arudok answered, his voice unwavering.

  He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, his cleaver sword shifting on his shoulder, and turned to stride toward the hall’s dark exit, his footsteps echoing once more through the stone walls.

  Tap. Tap. Tap......

  The footsteps faded into the distance, vanishing into the blackness beyond the hall’s doors.

  And once again, the obsidian throne sat silent. The hall fell into its endless gloom. The figure upon the throne motionless, a statue of shadow and fate.

  ...

  Outside the dark spire, beneath a sky stained with the faint red of dusk.

  Arudok stepped out into the open, his cleaver sword slung over his shoulder, his dark violet eyes cold and sharp. A cadre of powerful figures waited for him there—mages, warriors, assassins, all clad in black, their auras thick with bloodlust and corruption, all loyal to Gulos, all ready to follow their leader to the ends of the earth.

  They swarmed forward at once, their voices low with eagerness, with bloodlust, with a hunger for revenge:

  “Captain! What did his lordship command?”

  “Shall we strike back at Langard? The Saint is gone now—we could burn the city to ash with ease!”

  “Silence!”

  A sharp voice cut through their clamor, cold and sharp—a burly man with a scar across his throat, his own sword drawn and pointed at the fool who had spoken, his eyes blazing with fury: Tanoklian, the Vice-Captain of Arudok’s cadre.

  “Do you think storming Langard is so simple? Fool! You speak of fire and blood without seeing the walls that guard it, the mages that stand watch! You would have us all killed for your petty vengeance!”

  “......Why not?” A voice muttered, quiet and petulant, a mage stepping back, his eyes narrowed with resentment.

  “What did you say?” Tanoklian snarled, his hand tightening around his sword hilt.

  “N-Nothing! I said nothing!”

  “Hmph. See that it stays that way.” Tanoklian spat, his anger fading into cold resolve, then turned to Arudok, his posture bowing in deference, his voice steady and firm:

  “Captain. Give us your orders. We stand ready to follow you anywhere.”

  All eyes turned to Arudok, all voices falling silent, all breath held in anticipation.

  Arudok’s gaze swept across his cadre, his lips curling into a faint, cruel smile—a smile that sent a chill down their spines, a smile that promised blood, fire, and endless slaughter.

  At the sight of that smile, every soul there knew exactly what was coming. Excitement blazed in their eyes, grins stretching across their faces, their bloodlust rising like a storm.

  And Arudok spoke, his voice loud and clear, a single command that split the air like a blade:

  “Lord Darius has given his order.”

  “Target: the Southwest Continent.”

  “Kill them all.”

  ...

  ROAR! ROAR! ROAR......

  Beneath a black sky stained crimson with fire and smoke, a tidal wave of monsters surged forward, their claws scraping the earth, their fangs bared, their roars shaking the heavens.

  The snarls of abominations, the screams of dying men, the cries of desperate women and children, the wails of a kingdom falling to ruin—all wove together into a single, horrifying chorus, a scene of utter hell made flesh.

  This had once been a small kingdom in the Southwest of the continent.

  Weak, poor, unremarkable—yet peaceful. Prosperous in its own humble way. A land of green fields and quiet villages, of people who knew nothing of war, nothing of darkness, nothing of Gulos.

  That peace had burned to ash in a single night.

  At the very peak of the castle, its walls crumbling, its towers ablaze, the last bastion of the kingdom’s defense.

  “Stay back! Do not come closer!”

  The King and his young Princess were cornered, their backs pressed against the charred stone of the castle’s battlements, no escape left to them.

  Their royal guard lay dead at their feet, their bodies broken and bloodied, their swords cast aside, their lives snuffed out by the monsters and the black-cloaked warriors of Gulos.

  “You devils! Why? Why destroy our kingdom? We have done nothing to you! We have never crossed Gulos!”

  The King roared, his voice cracking with rage and grief, his crown fallen from his head, his sword clutched in trembling hands, his eyes blazing with the fire of a desperate man.

  “Hahaha!”

  The black-cloaked warriors laughed, their voices cruel and mocking, their blades glinting with fresh blood, their eyes cold and empty of mercy:

  “Why? You just answered your own question, Your Majesty. Because we are devils.”

  “Hahaha!” another laughed, his boot prodding at the corpse of a royal guard, his voice dripping with malice, “Listen to them! Your people are screaming, dying, burning! Will you not go to their aid? Will you not save them?”

  “You monsters——!”

  The King charged, his sword raised high, his courage burning bright even in the face of certain death, his cry a final, desperate roar of defiance:

  “I will kill you all! I will die for my people!”

  “Father, no!”

  The Princess reached for him, her voice a terrified shriek, her hands outstretched—but it was too late.

  SLICE!

  A blade flashed, fast and cold, cutting through the King’s armor as if it were paper, slicing through his flesh and bone with effortless ease.

  Crimson blood sprayed across the stone battlements, painting the Princess’s face red, staining her white gown black.

  The King fell forward, his sword slipping from his hand, his eyes wide and empty, his body hitting the stone with a dull thud—joining his people in death.

  “No! Father!”

  The Princess sank to her knees, her voice a broken wail of despair, her hands reaching for his fallen body, her heart shattered into a million pieces.

  “Hahaha! Foolish old man! To charge us with nothing but a sword and a prayer!” the warriors laughed, their mocking ringing in her ears, their gazes turning to her, cold and hungry, their grins stretching into lewd, cruel smirks.

  “Well then, Princess. Your turn.”

  The Princess lifted her head, her face streaked with tears and blood, her eyes blazing with a hatred so deep it burned, a grief so raw it tore at her soul. She rose slowly to her feet, her gaze drifting over her kingdom—her home, her people, her world—now nothing but a sea of fire and ash.

  “You devils…”

  She whispered, her voice a curse, a prayer, a final condemnation, her words carried on the wind to the ears of her murderers:

  “You will all burn in the deepest pits of hell for this.”

  Then she leaned back, her body falling over the battlements, into the blackness below.

  THUD!

  A moment later, a dull, heavy sound echoed from the castle’s base—the sound of a body hitting the ground.

  “Tch. She jumped? How boring.” one warrior muttered, his grin fading into disappointment.

  “Not even a fight. What a waste.”

  “Let us be gone. There are other kingdoms to burn, other souls to harvest—more fun to be had elsewhere.”

  The black-cloaked warriors glanced over the battlements at the Princess’s broken body, their interest lost, then turned and strode away, their laughter fading into the fire and smoke.

  And scenes just like this played out across the kingdom, endless and unrelenting.

  Villages burned, towns fell, families were slaughtered, kingdoms crumbled—all for the sake of a single, terrible purpose.

  ...

  At the very heart of the fallen kingdom, in the ruins of its capital square.

  A single pillar hovered in the air, its surface covered in writhing crimson runes, spinning slowly, a faint black mist curling from its edges, a sickly aura of death and bloodlust permeating the air.

  Beneath it, a Giant Crimson Magic Circle blazed upon the ground, its runes glowing with the light of fresh blood, its edges stretching for miles, covering the entire square, the entire city, the entire kingdom.

  Within the circle, blood flowed from every corner, from every corpse, from every wound—streaming toward the pillar like rivers to the sea, pooling at its base, soaking into the earth, feeding the dark magic woven into its core. Faint, tortured wails echoed from the circle, the screams of the dead, the cries of the dying, the souls of the fallen trapped in the magic, their agony fueling the pillar’s power.

  Time passed, endless and slow.

  Then, the crimson pillar erupted in a burst of pure, unholy black light, its runes blazing bright, its power peaking, its purpose fulfilled.

  The black-cloaked mages standing guard nearby cut the magic at once, their hands moving in quick, precise gestures, the Giant Crimson Magic Circle fading to ash, its light snuffed out, its power spent.

  The pillar—now a plain, unadorned stone cylinder, its crimson runes gone, its black mist vanished—drifted slowly downward, landing softly on the blood-soaked ground.

  A Sacrifice Pillar, forged in blood and death, completed at last.

  “Captain. Another Pillar is finished.”

  Tanoklian spoke, his voice steady, his gaze fixed on the pillar, then turned to Arudok, who sat atop a throne of broken stone, his cleaver sword resting across his knees, his eyes closed, his expression calm.

  Arudok opened his eyes, his dark violet gaze sharp and cold, a faint nod of approval crossing his face.

  “Another one done. Efficient work. We should have done this long ago. The slave trade was far too slow, far too weak—harvesting kingdoms is far more satisfying, far more effective.”

  “Captain.” Tanoklian continued, his voice grave, his gaze sweeping across the ruined kingdom, “This land has no more blood to give, no more souls to harvest. It cannot forge another Pillar. Shall we move on?”

  Arudok rose to his feet, his posture tall and imposing, his voice a single, unyielding command, his gaze fixed on the horizon, on the next kingdom, the next target, the next harvest:

  “We press on.”

  “To the next kingdom.”

  And with that, the tidal wave of monsters stirred once more. The black-cloaked warriors marched forward. The dark army of Gulos surged toward the horizon—toward another innocent kingdom, another peaceful land, another harvest of blood and death.

  The dawn of catastrophe had come.