Chapter 1: The Fallen Priest
In the year 127 of the Western calendar, a biting wind swept across the Rust Plains of New Orleans, carrying the metallic tang of rust and the heavy stench of blood.
A thousand li beyond the border of the Belial Empire, the battlefield where humanity and demon army clashed had already become a meat grinder.
After months of fighting, the demon army surged forward like an endless black tide, yet each time it smashed against the unyielding human defensive line, shattering into pieces, unable to advance even an inch. Exhaustion and irritation spread like plague through both camps.
The night was ink-black.
Deep within the human main encampment, the commander’s tent blazed with lamplight, yet the atmosphere inside was colder than the frost outside. Voices of argument tore through the oppressive silence.
“Your way of fighting is completely wrong!”
The silver-haired man’s voice was hoarse. Dark red bloodstains soaked his white priest’s robe. His finger stabbed heavily at the rough edge of the tactical map.
This was Parse, captain of the healing team dispatched by the Church. Right now his face was a mixture of fury and crushing fatigue.
Standing opposite him was the supreme commander of this expedition — Maca Charlemagne.
The hero renowned for his doctrine of attrition warfare had, relying on the vast and highly efficient corps of priests and logistics personnel behind him, forcibly pinned the main demon force to this plain. His strategy was simple and brutal: using the enormous population base of the Belial Empire and its ceaseless stream of supplies, he intended to wear the demons down to death on this scorched earth.
Among the common folk it was derisively called “the method of exhausting the Demon King across generations.”
The tent was thick with gunpowder tension, on the verge of exploding.
The other generals and staff officers did not dare make a sound. Their eyes darted back and forth between the two men.
Parse’s accusation rang out clear and forceful. What answered him was a long, heavy silence from Maca. That silence pressed down like a boulder on everyone’s chest.
“Lord Maca!”
Parse’s voice carried a faint, almost imperceptible tremor — the sign of someone whose mana and spirit had both been pushed far beyond their limits.
“My team members have exhausted every last drop of magic power. They’ve burned their very lifespans to heal the wounded! And the result? The front has been frozen in place for months! What we are paying with is lives — and all we get in return is deadlock! This has already…”
“Parse.”
Maca finally spoke. His voice was low and weary.
He braced both hands on the tactical table, leaning slightly forward. His gaze passed over the map and settled on Parse’s face, which had gone pale from agitation.
“I know you’re tired.”
The tone was flat — yet it felt like a dull, ice-cold blade sliding precisely into Parse’s heart.
Parse’s body swayed almost imperceptibly. A chill raced up his spine.
He understood exactly what was hidden behind that seemingly simple word “tired.”
“Go back.”
Maca’s voice remained completely even, as though he were stating some trivial, irrelevant matter.
“I’ll write a letter to the Cardinal’s Office of the Church tonight. They can send another priest captain — one better suited to the needs of the front line — to replace you.”
Disobedience? Then replace him with someone obedient.
Parse’s heart sank into an icy abyss. Maca’s intention lay naked on the table.
“Perhaps the imperial monasteries have greater need of you, Priest Parse.”
Maca’s gaze drifted away, as though bringing the conversation to a final, irrevocable close.
“There are devout citizens whose prayers need to be heard, whose confusions need answers, whose wishes need soothing. Compared to this hopeless battlefield, helping believers find inner peace inside a church might bring you a greater sense of fulfillment.”
“No…”
Parse’s throat tightened. He could barely force out a complete sentence.
He knew any argument would be futile.
He bit his lower lip hard, suppressing the surging emotions. His brows knotted into a dead tangle. In the end he could only squeeze out a few strained words.
“Please… reconsider carefully, my lord. I beg your pardon — I need to step outside for some air.”
He practically stumbled as he turned, lifted the heavy tent flap, and plunged into the freezing night.
The wind cut like knives across Parse’s face — yet it was nowhere near as cold as the ice inside his chest.
Ever since King Belial issued the subjugation order, Parse had been among the very first priests to march with the army, following Maca to the front lines. The brilliant first victory at Phoenix Tail Gorge — driving the demon elite back onto the plain — still shone vividly in memory. But afterward, when demon cadre-level combatants entered the field, Maca stubbornly clung to attrition tactics and lost all desire to advance.
Back then it had been Maca himself who stepped into the monastery, speaking with sincere urgency, personally inviting Parse to leave seclusion and join the national crisis. Now, with a single light sentence, he was being dismissed?
The enormous gap between then and now, combined with the fury of being so completely misunderstood, sent Parse walking aimlessly. Before he realized it he had left behind the clamor of the camp and the glow of the bonfires. All that remained was the dead silence of the wasteland darkness.
Exhaustion surged over him like a tide. A wave of dizziness struck.
In his blurred vision, he caught sight of a small, tranquil patch of lake water not far away, faintly glimmering under the dim starlight.
…Wash my face. Clear my head a bit.
Parse thought dully.
Maybe once Maca’s anger cools, he won’t insist on sending me back. Perhaps he’ll just replace me with another priest to take over the work.
Still sullen, Parse walked to the lakeside. The frigid air helped sharpen his senses a little.
He crouched down, dipped both hands into the bone-chilling water, scooped some up and slapped it forcefully against his cheeks. The sting of the icy water jolted his mind awake.
Ripples spread outward from where he disturbed the surface.
Right at the center of those ripples, a strange, profound black-purple radiance — carrying an ominous aura like the eye of an abyss — flashed once and vanished.
“?!”
Parse froze instantly. His pupils contracted sharply.
The light had disappeared too quickly — so quickly he wondered whether extreme exhaustion had conjured a hallucination.
“…An illusion?”
He muttered, shaking his head, trying to dispel the creeping unease.
The cool water had indeed cleared some of the fog from his mind.
He stood up, preparing to leave this unnaturally still body of water —
Without warning, the muddy ground beneath his feet erupted with blinding black-purple light.
A gigantic, intricately patterned magic circle formed instantly under him. Runes flowed and revolved, releasing spatial fluctuations that made the heart palpitate.
Oh no!
“Teleportation array?!”
Parse’s expression changed drastically. He instantly understood that the earlier strange gleam in the water had been no illusion — but it was already far too late.
An irresistible suction force locked him in place. His vision was completely swallowed by the violent magical radiance. Icy lake water enveloped his entire body. Amid violent spatial distortion he vanished completely from that spot.
Splash——!
Bitter cold and a thick, nauseating stench slammed into him, snapping him awake.
Parse choked and coughed violently, struggling up from the icy, viscous liquid.
The scene before his eyes stole his breath.
A vast, gloomy, deathly silent space built from enormous black boulders covered in slimy moss. The high dome dripped cold water droplets. The turbid water surface floated with unnameable chunks of flesh and shattered bone, releasing a stench that blended intense blood with rotting entrails.
To Parse — who had long grown accustomed to the horrors of the battlefield, who had handled countless wounded and corpses — the smell itself was not unfamiliar.
But this place carried an additional layer of hellish chill and unmistakable evil.
The anger he had felt toward Maca’s tactics surged even more fiercely at this moment.
It was precisely this kind of meaningless attrition that caused more and more lives to rot away in forgotten corners, unseen by anyone.