As the Golmol feysic express train hissed to a halt with a sigh of steam, and Abraham stepped down into the light of Sorchen City—the capital frontier of Johnersburg Country, and one of the few sanctuaries still untouched by the Kamurine invasion. As he touched down the station he fell into an environment filled with crimson and amber colors.
The heavenly display seemed indifferent to the wails reverberating from another continent, the air thick with the weight of that world's suffering. Marble structures, decorated with glowing runes, extended abruptly skyward.
Yet to Abraham, it felt suffocating. Every smile looked borrowed, every laugh sounded forced. The people walked in perfect rhythm, whispering like they feared the world might shatter if they raised their voices too high.
Soldiers patrolled the main square in polished silver armor, but their eyes darted at every corner shadow.
They act calm, Abraham thought, but they're breaking inside.
He passed a row of posters pasted over the pristine marble walls. Though varied in color, symbol, and language, each poster shared a common face is Lucius Hiemer "The Human God".
With his pale hair flowing and his fierce blue divine eyes, sharp jawline radiating handsome gentleman figure in the poster, Hiemer's image seemed to emanate from the paper. His name was emblazoned across every surface in diverse fonts, as if the city is worshiping him instead of their creator.
Some posters were painted by hand, while others were enchanted to come alive in mana and scintillate.
In one, Lucius raised a sword; in another, he stood cloaked in mist like a saint returning from the heavens.
At the bottom of the largest banner—twenty meters high and fluttering across the central square—were bold white letters painted over crimson silk:
"Only the Human God stands close to beating those Kamurine fuckers."
People stopped to bow their heads before it. Not as a joke. Not as propaganda. As faith.
Abraham tilted his head back, watching the way the light bent across Lucius's portrait. A god? No… just a man who fought louder than the rest.
He remembered that day at Murrchel Academy, the one and only time he had seen Lucius in person. The man had arrived unannounced, delivering a lecture that silenced thousands. He had spoken of courage, of war, of sacrifice—and every word carried the pressure of a divine decree.
Even Abraham, who had never knelt before anyone, had felt the weight of it.
Now, seeing his image everywhere felt strange. Like watching the world crown their last hero while still standing in ruins.
He kept walking through the market boulevard, his coat fluttering with the cold wind of Sorchen's evening. The Fallen City lay days away—a scar carved by the Kamurine attack, where an arena now stood in the wreckage of Lord Vashko Town, the chosen ground for the Tournament of Survival. That was where he had to go.
His ticket was still warm in his pocket, along with the few gold coins left from his midnight robbery of Maria.
He stopped at a carriage stand—a wooden platform where runic carriages floated above the cobbled road. Dozens of travelers argued with guards about fares and border routes.
Abraham adjusted his muffler and sighed. "Few hours... and then the tournament gates." He was just about to step toward the nearest coach when his eyes caught another massive banner—a moving one this time, enchanted on the glass wall of a magic theater.
Lucius Hiemer appeared again—this time, alive.
The scene projected showed him in his private training yard, somewhere high in the Feysich Empire. Lucius stood shirtless, tall and firm, his fair hair catching the morning light like frost. His sword, longer than most men and made of mana steel, crackled with blue aura.
Across from him stood humanoid beasts—training constructs shaped from mana to copy real monsters' strength in training.
The crowd around the glass watched quietly, full of respect and dedication watichin the glass screen as if the screen is decinding their fate. Even the carriages halted.
Lucius moved.
The mana around him flared like a collapsing star. His sword carved a crescent through the air, leaving streaks of blue that cracked the ground beneath his feet. One construct lunged, and he vanished—a flash step too fast for the eye. When he reappeared, the beast's head was already tumbling into light.
The second rushed him from behind, claws glowing red. Lucius turned without looking, his eyes erupting in a pale sapphire gleam, and thrust his sword backward—through the chest, through the air, through the silence.
The entire construct shattered like glass, fading into drifting motes of mana.
Lucius exhaled once and lowered his blade. Not a bead of sweat marked his skin. The blue energy seeped back into the sword, humming like a creature obeying its master.
The vision faded. All the civilian and people that surrpounde over the screen their all different person in surface but ther eyes are common glowing in hope of survival, the respect and beleive they hold on lucias was displayed in their eyes.
They were rushin towards the screen as if they were honoring a deity instead of a person, a deity who came from heaven to save humanity.
Abraham looked away, his jaw firming. "No wonder they worship him."
Just then, the glass display flickered again. This time, it showed Lucius from another angle—inside his quarters. A polished hall of obsidian marble, lined with mirrors that reflected an endless horizon of stars. Upon the central table sat a golden telephone—engraved with the crest of the Five Kings. It began to ring.
Rinngg… ringg… ringg…
Lucius didn't walk toward it. He disappeared in a blur, a blue shimmer flashing across the room, and in the blink of an eye, he stood before the telephone. He picked it up with one hand, his fingers curling around the receiver with divine calm.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"I'm in" lucias said with a cold tone that sound as he declare war against the kamurine by himself.
The screen faded to black.
Abraham stood in the crowd, motionless. Around him, people were whispering prayers—some even pressing their hands together in silent worship. The city had made him their hope, their savior, their divine sword. But all Abraham could think was how fragile that illusion was.
"A showing stunt in public so people don't give up, Jonathan he played well, indeed he know how to light the hope inside this hollow eyed civilian"
The sound of a departing carriage broke his thought.
Abrham upon seeing this he sigh and moved his hand in rhythm to fixed his coat, raised his muffler slighlty higher to cover his mouth, and walked back to where the carriages waited. The city lights shone behind him, seeming like a deceptive paradise. Ahead, the path led into shadow.