The Temple of the War God, the Dark Hall.
There was no holy light shining here.
The smell of blood in the shadows grew all the stronger.
People with cold expressions and icy eyes walked silently across the damp floor.
Occasional screams echoed through the corridors, but no one paid them any mind.
Because this place had been like this ever since it was built.
Chill gloom set the tone.
Screams provided variety.
Blood?
That was the mainstay.
Unlike ordinary priests and deacons, who needed gentle, approachable faces that inspired trust when preaching, the sword-bearing priests and blade-bearing deacons of the Dark Hall needed only two things.
First, strength.
Second, loyalty.
The order alone made it clear: strength came first.
As long as someone possessed strength, no one would complain even if their loyalty was only superficial.
After all, this was a world with gods.
Mortals could become powerful.
But they still fell far short when faced with a god.
Recently, however, things had begun to change.
Xiwalka, one of the blade-bearing deacons, felt that way.
He had not always belonged to the Temple of the War God. Fifteen years ago, he had been an ordinary mercenary. During one mission, his party had encountered an aberration. Everyone, including the commander and deputy commander, had died. Only he had survived.
It had not been because he was powerful.
It had simply been luck.
The hungry aberration had eaten its fill.
He had been saved for its next meal.
Then, before that next meal arrived, a team from the Temple of the War God's Dark Hall had appeared and driven the aberration away.
He had been rescued.
Moreover, he had inexplicably gained the ability to control the "remnant" the aberration left behind.
Naturally, he had become a blade-bearing deacon of the Dark