From the moment the meeting ended, everything changed.
Even those who once vowed to live quietly, to build homes in ash and sing to morning winds, began to stir. Something had shaken loose in them. The air had changed. The sky hung lower. And the word "war," spoken by the divine, sat differently in the chest. Heavier.
No one had told them what kind of war.
No one needed to.
They felt it anyway, bone-deep, instinctive. The kind of knowing that couldn't be taught or preached. Like a shadow that fell before the sun itself moved.
What Simon, Gabriel, Mike, and Luca saw, what they remembered, was not the same. The war was not near. Not for them. To Simon and the others, a thousand years might as well be a deep breath. A blink. But for these people, these reborn souls, the countdown had already begun.
Time did not bend for mortals the way it curled around beings like them. Not even close.
But something had changed in the villagers, too.
They felt it when Simon walked past. A pressure. A weight, like the sky thickened just slightly around him. Mike bore it like heat. Gabriel like silence. But Simon's was different. It pressed against the soul like Judgment, silent and absolute. And yet, none of them recoiled.
They bowed.
Only around Luca was the effect different. His presence soothed. When he wore the High Priest's mask, he felt like water held in trembling hands. Steady. Merciful. But when that mask cracked, when something older stirred behind his eyes, even the wind seemed to retreat from him.
The villagers didn't know their names, their pasts, their cosmic crimes and callings. But their spirits recognized them anyway.
They didn't need to be told.
They already knew.
From that day forward, names began appearing at the altar behind Luca's temple.
No one wrote them. No one admitted to choosing. And yet, fifty names from each branch were carved into the old stone every dawn etched not by blade, but by Grace.
The altar itself had been untouched during the seal-breaking. Gabriel's cleansing fire, Mike's shattering ascent, it had all spared this one place. As if Heaven itself remembered whose ground it was.
And so they came.
The strong. The broken. The ones with dreams that refused to die.
Two hundred and fifty warriors stood beneath a sky now faintly fractured, clouds turned glass-like, trembling with some divine tension. The wind smelled like the last ember of a sacred fire, sweet with myrrh, sharp with smoke.
They wore armor laced with prayer-thread. Tattoos of Grace marked their necks, their spines, their hearts. Each symbol different, each bound to one of the Five Ancient Branches.
They carried no scrolls.
Only weapons. Apostles – Warriors who wielded divine pressure like flame. Their steps carried commandments; their blades, judgment.
Irias Fold: Thin-eyed, ruthless, and calm. Could split lightning mid-air. had a sword with gold threading and the word "Let" carved into the hilt.
Dame Kess: Spear-wielder, known for chanting the name of the enemy before she kills. Her Grace erupts in blue flame, pure and cold.
Malsh: Born mute. Fights with an axe. His Grace loud enough to shake mountains.
▸ Healers – Combat-medics of old. They restore flesh, but their weapons dissect as easily as they mend.
Yulan Mercy: Grace so fine she could repair a sword mid-swing. Wielded dual short blades with veins of silver. She could heal and kill with the same motion.
Thorn: A child no older than 15. Used thrown needles of Grace. Never spoke. Rumored to have been trained by Luca before he left.
Praxos: Brutal. Used a maul. Smashes wounds open, then sews them shut with Grace-threads.
▸ Baptisers – Grace-masters who drown their enemies in revelation. They fight as if the battlefield is a river.
Ethen Solus: His Grace turns the air around his spear to water. Could baptize allies mid-battle and burn demons with boiling light.
Nali: Wielded a curved blade like a current. Her strikes cleanse or kill depending on her chant.
Koan: Carried a lantern in one hand, and a chain-blade in the other. Believes every fight is a baptism. He grins when struck.
▸ Interpreters – Diviners of combat signs. They read the flow of battle like scripture and act before others see.
Rime: Blindfolded, but never misses. She uses throwing knives and walks with a cane that doubles as a staff. Her Grace reads motion.
Ten Barrows: Heavy-set, laughs often. Can predict attacks ten seconds before they land. Wields a halberd made from sermon-wood.
Ela Creed: Youngest Interpreter. Her weapon is a whip of grace-fire. Doesn't speak, only writes on slips of parchment mid-battle to cast techniques.
▸ Preachers – Voice-bound warriors. Their words crack stone. Their hymns control breath. They command Grace by oration.
Harral Bright: Can make an enemy fall by speaking their full name. His sword sings when unsheathed.
Mina Delun: Uses a bell and staff. Her sermons summon Grace in waves. She can speak into a demon's mind and unravel it.
Jon Kas: Big. Heavy voice. Fights barehanded. Grace runs through his veins, visible under skin. Every shout slows time.
They stood before Simon, 250 warriors, each a cornerstone of something ancient, reborn, they knew each other's abilities as though they had seen each other in action before, it was instinctive.
Gabriel stood tall, arms folded, white robes stained with soot. Mike, iron-still beside him, eyes like smoldering coals.
And at the center, seated on a throne grown from the roots of the Hollow Tree, sat Simon.
He did not speak.
He only watched.
His gaze moved over each face slowly, as if weighing them against a memory only he could see.
Then, when the silence had stretched beyond what mortals could bear, he rose.
His voice did not echo. It didn't need to.
"I chose you."
A hush fell like snowfall.
"I chose you," he repeated, "because your potential is far greater than others'. You will not simply fight, you will lead. When this realm crumbles, we will not mourn it. We will move on. And you will go ahead of us. You will guard the next, less secure one. You will hold the line until your brothers and sisters from other realms reach you."
He looked to the horizon. It shimmered faintly, as if remembering a sun that hadn't risen yet.
"Others will come. But you are the first."
Gabriel stepped forward. "We've held back long enough. The Shepherd sleeps no more. What comes next, will not be clean. It will not be kind. You were chosen because you can bleed… and not break."
Mike's arms crossed. His face was unreadable. "And because Simon has decided. The time has come."
Someone in the crowd spoke, low, uncertain.
"For what?"
It was Nali. Her blade still hung at her side, untouched. Her voice was calm, but her fingers trembled.
Simon raised a hand.
From the ground, five black stones rose, one for each branch. They glowed faintly, humming like the breath of something buried.
"To awaken what has been sealed," he said.
A ripple of unease passed through the warriors. But no one moved.
Simon's voice dropped, becoming something darker. Older.
"There was a sixth path once," he said. "A forbidden one. The only branch not meant to be shared. It did not interpret. It did not heal. It did not preach or baptize or wield. It remembered. The future was not waited for, but spoken."
Gabriel's gaze darkened. "Prophets." He had been one of those against the existence of prophets in the olden days, he had believed mortals could not be granted such power, it broke balances when these words were spoken he had thought Simon was making human prophets, not that he could do something about it if it did happen,
The word cracked like thunder.
Some laughed. Others looked around, waiting for someone to deny it.
No one did.
Mike turned, facing the Shrine of Passing in the distance.
"There is one," he said. "Still alive. Still whole."
All eyes followed his.
No one moved.
But the air did.
Then, from the crowd, three stepped forward, uncommanded, unbidden.
▸ Irias Fold, gold-threaded blade humming in his hand.
▸ Yulan Mercy, eyes silver-bright and fingers twitching with unseen threads.
▸ Harral Bright, the Preacher whose voice could bend time itself.
They walked toward the path of stone.
Gabriel followed.
Mike nodded.
Simon remained still… then followed.
The shrine was older than the temple. Older than the village. Its tree was twisted, bark blackened, as if struck by lightning centuries ago. Its roots fed on silence and memory.
There, kneeling, was the old man.
His back was bent. His skin was cracked with age. But when he looked up, his eyes gleamed, the boy who usually tended to him nowhere to be seen
Simon approached last.
"Raphael," he said.
The old man smiled like a storm remembering how to breathe.
"So," Raphael whispered, "you finally remember."
His voice was cracked but unshaken.
Once, he had been an angel. A high one. His Grace had seen futures not yet born, and his words had warned of wars still sleeping.
He had tried to warn Heaven.
They had silenced him.
They stripped his name, burned his wings, and cast him from the sky.
But Raphael did not die.
He hid.
He waited.
Simon stepped closer. "I buried you for a reason."
"I know," Raphael said. "My Grace is a beacon. It draws eyes."
Simon nodded slowly. "Your grace is too loud. Too sharp. your words cut through veils meant to stay shut. The world couldn't survive another Prophet."
"But now it must," Raphael said. "Because now, the veil is already weakening."
He reached beneath the shrine, into its base.
From the earth, he pulled a scroll, wrapped in black cloth, pulsing like a heart in deep sleep.
Seven rings bound it, each bearing the mark of a branch.
The final ring, at the top, was blank.
Only a torn circle remained.
Raphael handed it to Simon.
"That's you," he said. "The one who walks all paths."
Simon nodded, then turned back to the warriors gathered at the edge of the shrine.
"To wield your Grace is no longer enough," he said. "Now, you must hear what hasn't been said."
A wind passed through the clearing.
"Do not ascend too quickly," Simon warned. "Lay your foundation strong. Seek these four in confusion—Gabriel, Mike, Luca, and Raphael. We will clarify."
Irias stepped forward. "Will we become Prophets?"
"No," Simon said. "There is only one Prophet. And one more… being forged."