The soil before Eve’s grave was still fresh.
Luo Ling knelt there for three whole days.
He neither ate nor drank, letting the wind and sun batter him, like a lifeless stone.
Eve’s funeral was so simple it bordered on poverty.
There was no priest’s prayer, no clusters of flowers, only a small coffin hammered together from rough planks by Luo Ling and the pit he had dug with his own hands.
The sky was leaden gray, cold drizzle falling, matching the heaviness and despair in his heart.
Eyes that had once been clear now held only the ashes of death, reflecting no light at all.
Luo Ling had placed the coffin into the pit with his own hands.
Earth fell in handfuls, each muffled thud striking his heart, burying his last attachment to this village and to an ordinary life.
He did not cry.
Since the moment Eve’s warmth faded in his arms, his tears had dried up.
He simply stood there, rain soaking his hair and clothes, cold as ice, yet still not a tenth as chilling as the emptiness within him.
After the funeral, the villagers dispersed as if relieved, leaving only Luo Ling to keep watch before the small, new grave.
There was no tombstone, just a crude wooden marker, with two crooked characters burned into it with blackened charcoal: “Eve”.
He reached out and gently stroked the cold wood, as if he could still feel the warmth of Eve’s fingers.
He remembered her shy smile when they first met.
He remembered her tenderness as she bandaged his wounds.
He remembered her light steps chasing butterflies on the field, and her dreams of a simple, happy future while leaning by his side…
Those memories had once been the brightest light in his life.
Now, they had become the sharpest knives, slicing again and again through his shattered heart.
Behind him, the ruins of Fallen Wind Village lay silent.
The air was thick with the scent of burning and faint traces of blood—a peace he had once sworn to protect, now turned to ash.
In his arms was the black dagger he had pulled from Eve’s chest, its twisted serpent insignia carved into the blade.
The cold metal reminded him with every touch of his loss, and of a murderous intent tainted by conspiracy that still lingered.
Demons? Darkness?
Before Eve’s cold body, such words felt powerless.
He understood now—this was no natural disaster, but man’s doing.
Someone had used “demons”, used “prophecy”, to take everything from him.
“Eve…”
He whispered hoarsely, voice scraping like sandpaper.
“I promised to protect you… I broke my word.”
At last, tears fell silently, striking the cold earth and leaving a dark stain.
Those tears washed away his final longing for an ordinary life.
The Luo Ling who had wanted only to tend his cottage and herb garden died with Eve’s last breath.
Now, all that remained was a shell consumed by hatred.
He stood up slowly, brushing dirt from his clothes.
The motion was slow, yet filled with unyielding resolve.
He lowered his head, casting one last look at the tiny grave.
“Wait for me.”
His voice was soft, yet heavy as a thousand pounds.
“I’ll find them, and avenge you. With their blood, I’ll honor your soul.”
He turned away as he spoke, and his gaze no longer held emptiness, but the glint of two cold flames.
Those flames did not warm like sunlight—they burned with icy determination, like the frost of the Nine Hells.
He wanted power.
Power enough to avenge her, to drag the black hands behind the scenes into the light and crush their bones.
And the fastest path to that power—he knew—was the identity he had once rejected, and despised.
Hero.
Samuel Apostle, Saint Light Church.
Did you not claim I was the chosen Hero?
Fine.
I accept.
Luo Ling stepped forward, walking in the direction where Samuel had departed, as remembered.
His figure stretched long in the twilight, solitary and upright, carrying a madness that would walk into the abyss without hesitation.
The Saint Light Church possessed a magnificent cathedral in the capital of the Third Empire of Atlan—Saint Radiance City.
The cathedral soared skyward, its golden cross gleaming atop the spire in the sunlight, a symbol of the supreme glory and authority of the Holy Light.
At that moment, Apostle Samuel sat in his study, reviewing a confidential report from the frontier.
The report detailed the devastating attack on Fallen Wind Village by “demons”, but Luo Ling’s whereabouts were vague, stating only that he might have gone missing in the battle.
Samuel set the report down, his fingers tapping the desk as a faint, meaningful smile curled his lips.
“Missing? How interesting…”
He murmured.
“Did he hide out of fear… or…?”
He favored the latter.
The resonance of the Holy Light Crystal was never mistaken—Luo Ling harbored immense potential.
That “demon” attack, while not directly ordered by the Church, was within his expectations.
One might even call it a “catalyst” he was pleased to see.
Nothing awakens a person’s inner strength more than losing everything.