Year XXXX
Inside an enormous building—so grand it outshined even the kingdom's palace—two figures faced each other beneath the towering arches of the main chamber.
One man stood beside a golden throne, draped in layered white robes embroidered with sacred patterns. His large, square hat cast a shadow over his wrinkled face, and his body shimmered with an excessive display of jewels—some ancient, some clearly ornamental. The air around him felt thick, almost warped, bent by the strange energy radiating from his presence.
Before him, a boy knelt on the lower sanctum steps. He had tousled black hair tucked under a sharp military-style cap, trimmed in red and bearing a gold emblem at the center. His golden eyes remained closed despite the crushing weight of the man's aura.
His youthful face looked too innocent for a place like this, and his smile—gentle at first glance—felt disturbingly hollow, a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"How dare you defy the Holy Order!" the old man's voice thundered, bouncing off the marble walls.
He stepped forward, his cane clicking against polished stone. The glowing red gem at its head began to pulse.
"Speak, you lowborn guard! Or has arrogance sealed your tongue? You may be adored by that newly appointed Ordained, and feared by the Cardinals—but not by me!"
The pressure of his aura surged, oppressive and suffocating. Still, the boy didn't flinch. He just tilted his head, still smiling.
"Heiii, no need to get so angry, Koran-san," the boy said, his tone playfully drawn out, almost mocking.
"It was just a mistake, really. That man really overwhelmed both me and our Ordained~. If I hadn't reacted in time, I might've even gotten seriously hurt! But the Empire's aggressive expansion has stopped now, hasn't it?"
His words were light, almost cheerful, but underneath them ran a thread of sharp mischief—like a dagger wrapped in silk.
"Lies!" Koran snarled. "You're one of our finest warriors—the senior Holy Guard! Only second in power to the Ordained himself! Stop spouting excuses and admit it: you hold treason in your heart! You deliberately lost to him. You sympathize with our enemies. And for that—"
His cane blazed with crimson fury. "You will pay. Admit your betrayal, and I might even grant you a painless punishment. You… and that incompetent Ordained you protect!"
The moment the word "Ordained" left his mouth, the boy stood.
His smile didn't fade—but something changed.
It no longer carried the innocence of a mischievous child. Instead, it became hollow. Cold. Predatory.
Koran raised his cane, and in an instant, the chamber flooded with armored knights. They surged through the side corridors, each wielding weapons glowing with sacred energy. They surrounded the boy, blades drawn, spears leveled.
"Heiii," the boy said again, tone unchanged. "No need to get violent, Koran-san. Do you really think these guys can stop me if I wanted your corpse right now?"
He chuckled softly, lifting his hand.
Black smoke curled around his fingers—and then, with a ripple through the air, a massive scythe snapped into existence behind him.
It was twice his height, its curved blade gleaming with an unnatural black sheen.
He swung it lazily over his shoulder with one hand, as if it weighed nothing.
"Have you forgotten why your kind calls me 'The Tenth Bell'? Would you like me to prove how corpses can smile?" he asked, golden eyes flashing open for the first time.
Koran sneered. "Do you think that title still means anything? After your humiliation in the war? Your power is fading, boy. If you were truly what they claim, how could a single man from a backwater empire cut down the rest of your guard?"
He raised his cane, and the knights began to advance. "This is our chance to rebuild. Without you—without that indifferent, weak-willed Ordained—we can restore our land. We will reclaim the Church's former glory… and you will not stand in my way!"
"Now die, you arrogant little bra—!"
Koran's words cut off as a thick, unnatural mist burst across the chamber, swallowing everything in sight.
Darkness rippled outward like smoke made of silk and ash.
Before the haze completely engulfed the room, Koran caught a sound—something soft. A lullaby. Sung in a voice playful, almost childlike, yet disturbingly hollow.
It echoed through the chamber like a nursery rhyme played on a cracked music box.
Then came the screams.
The once-pristine marble floor, lined with lavish fur carpets, was now drenched in blood.
The cries of armored knights rang out through the dark, their glowing weapons useless in the mist.
Koran's hand trembled on his cane. He squinted, heart pounding, trying to make sense of the chaos. And then—
Thud.
Something landed in his palm.
He looked down.
It was a head.
One of his soldiers. The skin pale and bloodied, the eyes missing—plucked clean—and the mouth carved into a grotesque smile, frozen in terror. Fresh blood trickled from the neck, still warm, still dripping between his fingers.
Koran recoiled, hurling the head away with a strangled noise—somewhere between a gag and a scream. His heart thundered in his chest.
All confidence, all authority, was gone. He stumbled backward, breath ragged.
The screams continued, joined by the humming of that same sickening lullaby.
Through the mist, faint shapes flew—limbs, blades, heads—sailing through the air like paper scraps in a storm. He could just barely make out flashes of the boy's silhouette, his black scythe spinning like a windmill of death, every swing clean, every motion disturbingly calm. His soldiers' heads were severed one by one.
Terror gripped Koran. Once certain of his strength, his army, his invincibility—he now felt an emotion he hadn't known since before his rise.
Fear.
It blanked his mind. His legs turned to jelly.
The screams rang in his ears. He snapped back into himself, adrenaline flooding through him.
Abruptly, he turned and ran.
"Out of my way!"
he roared at the remaining guards, raising his cane and unleashing a red wave of power that vaporized them on the spot.
Their charred bodies collapsed without a sound, clearing his path to the exit.
He fled through the heavy doors, slamming them shut behind him as he barreled into his private chambers.
In a mad panic, he upended tables, bookshelves, cabinets—anything he could move—to barricade the door with trembling hands.
The lullaby had stopped.
Silence.
But the memory of the head in his palm… the smile… the blood… clung to him like smoke in his lungs.
He collapsed onto the floor, gasping. Cold sweat soaked through his robes.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
His legs were limp.
And when he caught sight of himself in the ornate mirror across the room, he barely recognized the pale, wide-eyed man staring back.
Desperation took over—not reason, not duty—just the raw instinct to survive. He reached for the golden scroll case mounted near the altar and yanked it open, summoning a single sealed parchment etched with holy glyphs.
"I need aid… I need someone… anyone…"
He activated the spell. The scroll began to float and burn, preparing to send his distress call to the other cardinals.
Just as the flames began to rise—just before the spell could vanish into the aether—
The lullaby returned.
Soft. Humming. Closer.
And then, a whisper beside his ear:
"You really should've listened to your friends."
His vision snapped upward just in time to see a blur of black and gold.
A clean slice as Koran's head was sent flying upward.
Koran's head fell, perfectly hit the stone floor with a dull, wet sound, rolling a few inches before it stopped—eyes still wide, mouth still open. His body slumped beside it, twitching once, then falling still as blood poured from his neck.
Across the room, the boy closing in casually, picking up the head , cradling it in his arms like a cherished relic, as He walked back to the main chamber through coutless headless corpses on floor.
When he reached the spot where he once knelt to the head, he's holding. He sat cross-legged on the chamber floor, setting Koran's head gently in his lap.
"I told you, Koran-san," he murmured cheerfully, golden eyes flickering beneath his cap.
"You should've stayed in your cushy little cardinal chair."
With casual care, he reached into a pouch at his waist and pulled out a thin blade. With it, he began to sculpt Koran's face—gently plucking out the eyes, dragging the blade along the cheeks, curving the lips into an obscene grin.
"You thought your friends wanted me gone? Heh. You're funny."
Blood gurgled softly from the lifeless head.
"In fact… it's quite the opposite. They wanted you gone—by not stopping you."
He looked down at the smiling face in his lap and let out a small sigh.
"You all really are so boring. These church politics… even in the face of annihilation."
And then, as if satisfied, he wiped his hands on Koran's once-sacred robes, stood, and returned to the main chamber—to continue beautifying the rest.
Ten minutes later.
A golden-haired teenage boy stood before the grand chamber doors. He had been knocking politely for nearly ten minutes, but no answer came from within.
Just as he turned to leave, a voice called out from inside:
"Haiii~! Please wait a moment—I' m cleaning things!"
He froze.
He recognized that voice.
He knew exactly who it belonged to. And the realization sank into his bones with cold, creeping dread.
Rarako.
The door creaked open.
Standing there was a shorter boy, cheerful as ever, his golden eyes aglow beneath his red-banded cap. His expression was playful, even innocent—but something in his aura felt wrong, like a field of flowers blooming over a grave.
Rarako' s body was spotless. No blood, no dust. The massive black scythe was nowhere in sight. In its place, he now held a broom in one hand and a bloodstained carving knife in the other. The juxtaposition was grotesque, but he didn' t seem to notice. If anything, he looked like a happy child finishing chores.
"Uwah! Long time no see, Tsukasa-chan!"
he said, throwing his arms open for a hug.
"I missed you so much! You know, I' m really grateful to you. After all, you took over that troublesome junior guard position. Though I still have no idea why you even wanted it."
He leapt forward, hugging the seemingly older boy with disarming affection.
"It makes me miss the old days, you know? Back when I wasn' t a senior yet. Living peacefully in the countryside… until I met him. The Ordained. That' s when everything changed. Rollercoaster ever since. Ahh, I miss the quiet…"
He paused only for a breath.
"Anyway! I heard you just got back from your mission. You must be tired! Want some water? Snacks? Maybe a—"
"My honor to see you again, Rarako-sama,"
Tsukasa interrupted politely, taking a careful step back from the boy' s embrace.
"But I don' t need anything right now. Thank you… for your concern."
His voice was steady, but his eyes flicked past Rarako, scanning the chamber. Despite the room appearing pristine, instinct screamed otherwise. Something was off. Something was wrong.
"If I may ask, Rarako-sama…" Tsukasa continued, his tone still formal.
"What exactly have you done here? Forgive my boldness, but as a junior guard, I feel compelled to say—such an act could destabilize our internal order. Even if the Empire has halted its aggression, the Church must remain vigilant. Its structure must remain whole."
Rarako tilted his head, his smile widening.
"Oho~! So our new junior really has potential, huh?" he mused.
"You can see through my illusion?"
In a blink, the truth was revealed.
The illusion shattered like glass.
The once-clean chamber transformed into a slaughterhouse.
Blood soaked the marble floors. Severed heads were strewn across the room, some twisted into smiles, others frozen in silent screams.
The air reeked of rust and decay. Flies buzzed lazily around the corpses—some still twitching.
"You should' ve come after I finished beautifying them all," Rarako said, cheerful as ever.
"It would' ve looked marvelous!"
Tsukasa staggered back a step, his throat tightening. His breath caught as he took in the horror before him. The heads… the eyes… all gone. The smiles, carved open. Each face staring at him.
"W-What happened here… Rarako-sama?" he managed, choking on his words.
"Don' t tell me you… you killed Cardinal Koran?!"
Panic crept into his voice.
"Without him, there will be a massive gap in the holy guard hierarchy! The cabinet will fracture! We' ll be vulnerable—there' ll be no coordination to counter the Empire' s—"
He stopped.
His eyes locked with one of the heads near the throne. A familiar one. Koran. Carved smile, eyeless sockets, blood crusting the throat.
Tsukasa stumbled forward, then fell to his knees. He vomited.
His instincts screamed—Run. Don' t turn your back on him. Don' t even blink.
"Hehe~ what' s wrong, Tsukasa-chan? Are you scared?"Rarako said sweetly.
"Don' t worry—I won' t kill you. I like you."
He smiled, stepping forward, and though the expression could have passed for warm, it was framed by carnage.
"And no need to stress about the Eternal Empire," Rarako added, as if discussing the weather.
"Their army won' t be making a move anytime soon. Just trust me. Salvation is coming."
"B-But we have to reclaim—"
"Ehhh, ehhh~ no buts, Tsukasa-chan,"
Rarako interrupted, wagging a finger.
"You and all those crusty cardinals need to accept that a new dawn is coming. The Church isn' t absolute anymore. And honestly…"
He leaned in close.
"Do you really trust the Church?"
Tsukasa froze.
"I-I… I loathe the Empire more," he said quietly. But his voice wavered.
"See?" Rarako sang. "Even you don' t have much faith in the Church. So let' s just be honest, okay?"
He turned his gaze to the stained glass window at the far end of the chamber, the evening sun casting golden rays across the blood-soaked hall.
"The Church' s age is over," he said softly.
"And soon… the world will remember what true fear is."
He smiled.
"The new world order is rising-The age of the Eterian—and this time, not even the gods will escape its chaos."