The celebration of the heroes lasted for days. Banners with their faces were raised across Lumeris — six portraits painted in divine colors, each surrounded by golden sigils representing their “blessings.” Arin’s image shone the brightest, his eyes painted in tones of holy light.

  Raizō wasn’t in any of them.

  He walked through the city once during the festivities, watching as merchants sold trinkets with the heroes’ names engraved, and children wore paper crowns with glowing runes. People shouted praise, not out of understanding, but devotion, blind and rehearsed.

  “Six heroes of prophecy!” they cried. “Our saviors!”

  No one mentioned the seventh. He turned away before the shouting reached him. It didn’t hurt exactly, not anymore. He’d learned quickly that pain dulls when you stop expecting fairness. Inside the palace, the mood was very different. The six heroes had grown used to the attention. They spoke louder, laughed longer, and began walking as if the world itself had to make room for them. Arin wore his confidence like armor. His posture, his words, even his smile had become rehearsed perfection. Yet beneath that calm exterior, something in his eyes had changed, a quiet arrogance that others mistook for leadership.

  Daisuke spent most of his time in the training grounds, showing off his strength to the guards, demanding harder duels, louder praise. His arrogance had skyrocketed. He was always laughing now, the kind of laughter that sounded more like a challenge than joy.

  Reina grew colder, spoke sharply, like she’s “correcting” people. She rarely spoke unless Arin addressed her, and when she did, her tone was clipped, precise. Her pride had evolved into distance. She now believed she was meant for something greater than the rest.

  Hiro remained stoic, but his silence carried weight now, not humility, but superiority. When he walked through the halls, soldiers stepped aside. When he spoke, he was blunt.

  Ayane’s prayers grew more intense. The King often invited her to the palace chapel, praising her purity, her unwavering devotion to the gods. She smiled each time he did, but it was a fragile smile, one that never reached her eyes.

  And Kaito… Kaito trained harder than any of them. He rarely slept, often found alone in the training yard. His strikes were sharp, desperate, like someone trying to erase something he couldn’t forget.

  Raizō saw it all. He said nothing.

  “Do you regret coming here?”

  Lyra’s voice broke the silence of the training yard. Raizō stood near one of the stone pillars, the fading light catching the edge of his worn armor.

  He didn’t look at her. “Regret implies I had a choice.”

  She leaned against a pillar across from him, arms crossed. “You could’ve left the palace. There are other places in Eryndor. Cities that wouldn’t look at you like you’re a mistake.”

  “Leaving doesn’t change the way people look at you,” he said quietly. “It just changes who’s doing the looking.”

  Lyra studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. “You’re different from them.”

  Raizō almost laughed. “That’s one way to put it.”

  “I don’t mean weak,” she said. “They rely on what was given to them. You rely on what you’ve built yourself.”

  He turned his head slightly. “You sound like you disapprove of them.”

  “I disapprove of anyone who mistakes power for purpose.”

  Her tone was calm, but her eyes betrayed her thoughts. She’d been watching the heroes too — how fame had dulled their reason.

  “They’re changing,” she said softly. “And I think my father wants it that way.”

  Raizō frowned. “Why?”

  Lyra hesitated. “He believes power without question is the easiest to control.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, but she didn’t elaborate. She straightened, adjusted her cloak, and started walking toward the gate.

  “Captain,” he called.

  She stopped. He looked down at his hands, they were calloused. “If the King wanted control, he picked the wrong person to bring along.”

  Lyra smiled faintly without turning around. “No, Raizō. I think that’s exactly why you’re still here.”

  Later that night, Raizō crossed paths with the six heroes in one of the palace corridors. Their laughter stopped the moment they saw him.

  Daisuke grinned first. “Look who’s still wandering around. Thought you’d be gone by now.”

  Raizō kept walking, saying nothing.

  Reina’s voice followed, low and sharp. “He doesn’t even flinch anymore. Maybe that’s his blessing — apathy.”

  Kaito didn’t say a word, but his eyes flickered, conflicted.

  Arin finally spoke. “You should be grateful, Raizō. You’ve seen more than most men ever will. That’s something.”

  Raizō paused for the first time, glancing back at them. “You really believe that?”

  Arin’s smile was calm, perfect. “Order is what holds this kingdom together. People fear anything that doesn’t fit into it… and they’ve decided you don’t.”

  Raizō’s gaze hardened. “That’s convenient.”

  No one said anything after that. He walked away first. His boots echoed against the marble until the sound disappeared completely.

  When he was gone, Reina’s jaw tightened. “He’s starting to sound defiant.”

  Arin’s smile didn’t fade. “He’s harmless.”

  But for a brief second, the calm mask cracked. And somewhere deep inside him, beneath the divine glow, beneath the practiced composure something began to twist. The more the kingdom praised the heroes, the less human they became. Every day brought a new mission: a monster driven mad by corrupted mana, a village plagued by famine, a dispute between nobles. Each time, the six heroes returned victorious. Each time, King Arathen would hold another ceremony, his voice echoing through the palace halls — calm, grand, rehearsed.

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  “The chosen by prophecy,” he would say. “The bringers of order to a world of chaos.”

  Raizō was always there, standing behind the crowd, unseen. He had stopped expecting recognition. What troubled him more was how the others were changing. Their movements, their tone, even their eyes, everything was sharper now, more controlled. They didn’t fight for survival anymore, they fought for worship.

  Arin, most of all.

  He stood beside the King more often than the others now, advising him in private meetings that Raizō was no longer allowed to attend. When they walked through the halls together, the nobles would lower their heads, not out of respect, but fear. And behind every victory, Raizō noticed the same pattern The King sent them into situations where diplomacy could have worked, yet violence was always the chosen outcome. At a council meeting one evening, King Arathen addressed the heroes in the great chamber. His voice carried effortlessly across the marble.

  “You are symbols,” he said, his gaze sweeping across the six. “The people believe the gods themselves watch through your eyes. You must be firm in judgment, unwavering in purpose. Mercy is a weakness the old world could afford, we cannot.”

  Raizō stood near the back, beside Lyra and her guards. He could feel the tension in the air, not reverence, but indoctrination.

  “Each of you,” King Arathen continued, “has been blessed to cleanse this world of its impurity. The light does not compromise. It burns.”

  Reina nodded. Daisuke grinned. Ayane closed her eyes and whispered a prayer. Only Kaito hesitated, his hands tightening on the hilts of his blades .Raizō looked at Lyra. Her jaw was set tight, her expression controlled, but her eyes were cold. When the King finished, Arin turned to the group.

  “The King is right. We’ve been given purpose. We can’t doubt that now.”

  Raizō couldn’t stay silent. “Purpose doesn’t excuse blindness.”

  The room froze.

  Arin turned slowly. “You weren’t asked to speak.”

  “I didn’t need permission,” Raizō said, his voice steady. “If your purpose requires someone else to tell you what’s right, maybe it isn’t divine.”

  For a heartbeat, no one breathed. Then the King smiled faintly, a smile that was neither amused nor angry. “You’ve always had a dangerous tongue, anomaly. Careful it doesn’t cost you more than words next time.”

  Lyra stepped forward slightly, her hand brushing the hilt of her sword. “Your Majesty—”

  King Arathen raised a hand. “Enough, Captain. The boy can speak if he wishes. His arrogance will be dealt with in time.”

  Raizō said nothing more. But as they left the chamber, he caught Lyra’s glance, quiet, firm, and full of warning.

  Later that night, Lyra visited the royal archives. The guards stationed at the door hesitated when she approached, but none dared question her. Inside, the air smelled of old parchment and mana residue. She unrolled scroll after scroll, tracing every record of divine summons throughout history. Most were vague, stories of saviors and calamities, heroes and monsters. But one passage caught her attention. It was hidden deliberately underneath newer scrolls.

  When seven are called, one is cast aside. The anomaly bears not the curse, but the truth. For light must first create a shadow before it blinds the world.

  Lyra’s eyes narrowed. The parchment was sealed with the crest of the gods’ temple — meaning the King would have known this prophecy long before the summoning. She leaned back, her heartbeat steady but heavy. He knew. He knew exactly what he was doing. The next morning, a small group of refugees arrived at the city gates, farmers from the southern frontier. They were escorted in chains, accused of defying the temple’s tax demands. Raizō happened to be nearby, assisting a mechanic with a broken mana gate. When he saw the guards dragging the prisoners, he stepped forward.

  “They’re unarmed,” he said. “They don’t look like rebels.”

  One of the guards sneered. “Orders from the crown. Anyone withholding tribute to the temple is a heretic.”

  Raizō frowned. “So being poor is heresy now?”

  The guard’s smirk faded. “You want to be next, anomaly?”

  Raizō didn’t move. “Let them go.”

  “Or what?”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to — his stare was enough. The guards hesitated just long enough for Lyra to appear behind them, her presence commanding instant silence.

  “Release them,” she ordered.

  The guards froze. “Captain—”

  “I’ll handle the report,” she said coldly. “Now.”

  Reluctantly, they obeyed.

  When the refugees stumbled away, Raizō watched them disappear into the crowd. “You didn’t have to get involved,” he said.

  “Neither did you,” she replied.

  He looked at her. “So why did you?”

  Lyra’s expression softened slightly. “Because you were right. Sometimes, light burns more than it heals.”

  That evening, word spread quickly, not of Raizō’s defiance, but of the captain’s “reckless disobedience.” The King said nothing publicly, but his silence carried a warning that reached them both. And for the first time since arriving in this world, Raizō felt something stir beneath the emptiness, not hope, but a quiet anger. Not loud. Not violent. Just enough to remind him that he was still human.

  The atmosphere in Lumeris had changed. Days passed since the refugees’ incident. The city’s devotion to the heroes had reached near-religious heights. Temples were built in their honor, murals painted of their victories. Each new depiction further removing the six from the people they used to be. And somewhere in the heart of the palace, King Arathen watched it all unfold with quiet satisfaction.

  Lyra was summoned to the King’s private chamber late one evening. The room was quiet, filled with the faint scent of burning incense and the soft hum of mana crystals embedded in the walls. Arathen stood beside the window, gazing out at the glowing skyline of Lumeris. Her mother nearby, refusing to look her in the eyes.

  “You’ve been visiting the archives often,” he said without turning. “I admire curiosity in my captains, but too much of it can be… inconvenient.”

  Lyra didn’t flinch. “I found something about the prophecy of the seven. It speaks of an anomaly, one who carries truth rather than a curse. It wasn't a coincidence, was it?”

  King Arathen turned slowly. The smile he gave her was small, almost kind. “Everything that happens in this kingdom happens because it must.”

  “You knew Raizō wouldn’t be able to use mana the way the others do,” she said. “You knew the people would turn on him.”

  He stepped closer, his tone calm but heavy. “Tell me, Captain — how do you keep the people loyal?”

  “By protecting them.”

  “No,” King Arathen said softly. “By giving them something to fear. Fear binds more tightly than faith ever will. The six represent order. The seventh…” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “…represents chaos. History remembers heroes, not those who walk in the margins.”

  Lyra’s jaw tightened. “You’re using them.”

  “I’m using all of them,” the King replied evenly. “Even you.”

  Silence filled the chamber. King Arathen’s voice softened again, as though explaining a lesson to a child. “We were given power, Lyra. I’m simply ensuring it remains where it belongs.”

  She took a slow breath. “Then you’ll eventually lose everything.”

  He smiled faintly. “If I do, it will be after the world has already bent to my will.”

  The next morning, Lyra learned of a new royal order. The heroes were being sent to investigate an ancient ruin beyond the western plains, a site long abandoned and avoided by travelers. The Ruins of Endless Thunder. She met King Arathen in the throne room, her expression controlled but her tone firm. “You’re sending them too far beyond the city’s protection. Those ruins are unstable. The mana storms there are lethal.”

  “The heroes can handle it,” the King said. “They’ve handled worse.”

  “And Raizō?” she asked. “He’s no hero.”

  King Arathen’s smile was cold. “No, he isn’t.”

  Something in his voice made her uneasy. “Then I’ll lead the escort personally.”

  “No.”

  Lyra blinked. “Your Majesty?”

  “You’ve grown too attached to the anomaly,” he said. “You’ll remain here. The lieutenant will lead this mission in your stead.”

  Her composure cracked for the first time. “You’re sending Garron?”

  The King’s smile widened slightly. “He’s loyal. Efficient. He understands the necessity of my will.”

  Lyra’s stomach turned. Lieutenant Garron, her second-in-command, was as ruthless as he was ambitious. He had always despised Raizō, calling him “the stain on divine order.”

  “Your Majesty, Garron won’t escort them,” she said. “He’ll—”

  “Do what must be done,” King Arathen interrupted.

  The words were final.

  The night before, in the shadows of the barracks, King Arathen met privately with Lieutenant Garron. The man knelt, head bowed, his armor reflecting the faint blue glow of the room’s mana lamp.

  “You will accompany the heroes to the Ruins of Endless Thunder,” the King said. “The anomaly grows bolder,” his voice low and deliberate. “The scholars call it misfortune. I call it infection. End it.”

  Garron with his head bowed. “And if the others resist?”

  “They won’t.” The King’s eyes glinted, cold and sharp. “The world cannot afford to question divine order. You will ensure that it doesn’t.”

  Garron rose, his boots echoing against the stone floor.

  “Consider it done.”