Morvanyth rose from a months-long coma, her last memory a haze of a brutal beating and her banishment from the Divine Realm. She remembered falling into a strange forest, but now she was in a soft bed under a roof, comforts she had never known. As she took in her unfamiliar surroundings, a door creaked open, and she instantly snapped into a defensive stance. The moment the door swung wide, she struck. Her power ripped through the floor beneath her and shattered the roof above in a violent eruption of energy, a reaction born of pure instinct. Thankfully, no one was hurt.
On the eastern coast of the Tensen Continent stood Bayport, a small, independent town unaffiliated with any nation, country, or empire. Bayport was founded on the principles of democracy and diplomacy and was led by a mayor elected by the people, who would then assume the surname Bayport.
While hunting in the Nevric Forest with his soldiers, the current mayor, a giant named Gareth Bayport, came across a young girl. She was bruised and bloody, but what truly caught his attention were her wings. In his long life, Gareth had seen only a handful of angels, yet this one was unlike any he had ever encountered. Her wings were not white, nor any shade of it, and etched into both her arms were sigils, the unmistakable marks of a banished sinner.
Upon recognizing the sigil, Gareth tried to force himself to look away. Logic told him it was safer to pretend he had seen nothing; no good could come from bringing a branded sinner into his town. But his morals—and the fatherly instinct that had guided his life—would not let him.
A closer inspection made turning away impossible. The girl's body was covered in marks of abuse and torture, and her thin frame showed unmistakable signs of long neglect and malnourishment.
"Bandage her," he ordered at once. "Carry her to the estate."
The soldiers moved to obey, but as they lifted her, the girl stirred. Her lips moved, and a sound escaped her—soft, broken words in the Divine tongue, the language of Angels.
The air ignited. Bursts of energy exploded outward, striking at everything in reach. Rookie soldiers cried out in terror as the ground itself trembled. Gareth and a handful of his strongest knights surged forward, shields raised, forming a wall to protect the young and inexperienced.
The Angels called it the Divine tongue. Demons called it the Demonic language, and so did other realms. To Gareth, it was neither divine nor demonic—it was raw, uncontrollable power, and it was tearing the forest apart.
The divine tongue and her outburst of energy were unrelated, though Gareth and his soldiers, ignorant of the angelic language, could not know this.
"Change of plans," Gareth's voice boomed, steady and commanding. "The hunt is over, and not a single word of what just happened leaves this forest." He turned to his most trusted aide, Lloyd, the werewolf knight. "Take her to Marselt Castle instead."
Lloyd hesitated, his eyes clearly showing his protest. "My lord—"
"I know what you're thinking," Gareth cut him off. "But she's too powerful for the mayor's estate. After what we just saw, we can't risk it happening again. Only Marselt Castle can contain her."
Lloyd's shoulders sank in reluctant acceptance. "As you will, my lord." He turned to the others. "Lykin, Eltz, Mara, Dame—new orders. By command of Mayor Bayport, we transport her to Marselt Castle."
"Yes, sire!" they shouted in unison.
Marselt Castle, built by Gareth's father to restrain the overwhelming power of his giant children, would now serve to contain an angel.
Upon arriving at the mayor's estate, known as The Beacon House, Gareth was greeted at the gate by three elegantly dressed figures, with maids standing nearby. As he approached, they all bowed slightly.
"We welcome your safe return, Lord Mayor."
Gareth tried to keep a straight face as he returned their greeting, but it was no use—he burst into laughter, and they quickly joined him.
"Honey, darlings, please don't do this to me again," he said, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye.
"Nope," his two daughters chimed in together. "It's far too fun teasing you, father—even more than teasing uncle and aunt."
"Girls, stop it," his wife cut in with a smile. "You'll give your father a heart attack. Still, I must admit it's amusing watching him try to play the noble after all those years at sea. But tell me, dear, why are you back so early from your hunt today? And with so little game?"
"I encountered something strange," Gareth said, his tone shifting slightly. "Let's talk about it over dinner."
"Yes, dear." His wife and daughters stepped back in unison, bowing again with playful formality.
"Lord Mayor," they said together, "it would be our honor if you would join us in the dining room."
The family sat at the dining table, and before Gareth, the head of the house, could utter a word—as was the custom in Bayport—his youngest daughter of the twins spoke first.
"Father, hurry up and spill all those juicy beans."
His wife, Elira, immediately shot her a glare. "Mind your manners at the dining table, Astrid. You may only speak when your father gives you leave."
"But mother, you…" Astrid started to protest, but a slight tilt of Elira's head was enough to silence her instantly.
"You too, Elara."
"But Mother, I didn't say anything." The eldest twin complained.
"No, but you were about to until I spoke," Elira replied, and Elara looked down in defeat. "You twins have almost identical personalities; I knew what you were thinking and about to say."
Elara looked at Astrid, who was sitting across the table, and mouthed, "I'll kill you." Astrid stuck out her tongue in response.
"Honey, please calm down," Gareth said, trying to diffuse the non-existent tension. "Even though they're customary, no one truly abides by those rules."
"Is that so?" Elira said with a playful smile. "So tell me, what happened today?"
"Right, I almost forgot," Gareth said, his voice tinged with joy. "Like mother, like daughters."
"What can I say? I wanted to be the first to ask, but Astrid beat me to it. So a little scolding was needed."
"But, Mom—"
"SHHHHHHH!" Elira and Elara both shushed her.
"So tell us, honey, what did you encounter during your hunt?"
"Okay, okay," Gareth said, dropping his utensils. "But first, let me start with something we all know well."
"Okay, we're listening," Elira said, perking her ears.
"As we all know, two of the realm's passages to the Divine Realm are located near our town. One above the Nevric forest, and one in it."
"It's a well-known fact, Father, with even reports of angel sightings in our records," Elara spoke.
"You're right, darling. Even your uncle, aunts, and I have seen a handful of them. But this angel was different."
"How so, Father?" Astrid asked.
"First of all, she was bloody, bruised, and malnourished. With sigil marks of a banished sinner running across both arms. But what truly stood out were her jet-black wings."
"Did you just say black wings? Aren't angels supposed to have white wings?" Elira asked.
"Yes, but hers were black. And whenever she spoke the Divine tongue, the one similar to the Demonic language, bursts of energy were released. It seems like a defense mechanism."
"Wait, Father, did you just say the divine tongue is similar to the demonic language? Who told you that?" Astrid asked, confusion visible on her face.
"Why do you ask? The angels and demons, of course. But I didn't get the chance to learn and understand it. What's wrong, Astrid? Your face says I've said something wrong."
"As a bearer of the Universal Language, I can fluently speak and understand any language as long as I hear, read, or see it."
"Even though I haven't heard the Divine tongue or Demonic language before, the universal language gives me a description of all languages. And from their description, both languages aren't similar at all."
"Huh, what are you saying, sister?"
"According to the description, the Realm Language—called the Demonic language by demons and the Veylan tongue by angels—is the language spoken across all realms, separate from each race's own native tongue. The Divine tongue, however, is the true language of the angelic race. The two cannot be the same, Father."
"Wait—something just changed," Astrid said, her eyes widening in surprise.
"What's wrong, Astrid?" Gareth asked, worry creeping into his voice.
"No need to worry, Father. The description just updated. The Realm Language, or Veylan tongue—whichever name you prefer—is simple and easy to speak. All angels once used it so much that they eventually forgot how to speak the Divine tongue, even though it had been embedded within them by the Voice of the World. Embarrassed, they started calling the Realm Language the Divine tongue, to make it seem as though they were still speaking their original language."
Elara chuckled. "Quite funny, isn't it? A race so high and mighty, forgetting their own tongue."
"Thank you for the explanation, dear," Elira said softly. Then her gaze sharpened as she turned to Gareth. "But tell me—what did you do with her?"
"The logical choice would've been to leave her where she was," Gareth admitted, his voice heavy. "She bore the sigils of a banished sinner—the Seal of the Banished. But against my better judgment, I had Lloyd place her in Marselt Castle."
"Such a poor child," he went on, his tone softening. "Fourteen, maybe fifteen at most. To be beaten like that, cast out, and now lying in a comatose state…"
"I know your heart, love," Elira said gently. She rose from her chair, floated across the table, and perched on Gareth's massive shoulder. Wrapping her arms around his head, she pressed her cheek against his temple. "Even races the world calls divine carry secrets too dark to imagine."
The room grew heavy with silence—until Astrid broke it with her usual boldness. "So… can we go see her now, Father? I'd like to update my list of spoken languages."
"You idiot," Elara snapped, glaring at her twin. "Did you not hear Father? She releases bursts of energy even in her sleep. Do you want us blown halfway across the forest?"
Astrid smirked. "And what exactly are you worried about, dear sister? We're both in the High Vampiric Evolution Realm. Mother's a Veymir—a vampire-werewolf hybrid. What on earth could possibly harm us?"
Elara covered her face with one hand. "Please, just stop. I'm begging you. I don't need another one of your speeches about how powerful we are. It's embarrassing."
"Ohhh, is that so, my loving sister?" Astrid leaned across the table with mock sweetness, eyes glittering with mischief.
Elara groaned. "Don't—"
"Then forgive me…" Astrid said, her expression briefly turning apologetic—before breaking into a wide, sinister grin. "Because you'll have to endure my glorious rant once again about how amazing we are!"
Her theatrics sent laughter spilling across the table, dissolving the heaviness of the night.
Ten months passed. Morvanyth remained in her comatose state, still releasing bursts of energy. With Gareth and his family visiting from time to time, and thanks to Astrid's updated languages, they came to realize that her mumblings and the release of energy were unrelated; the latter was simply a defense mechanism. Thankfully, Marselt Castle and its inhabitants weren't affected by Morvanyth's bursts of energy in the slightest. To them, it was just a little entertainment. While Marselt Castle was built to contain the immense power of five growing giants, the inhabitants of the castle—the maids, servants, and other workers—were the ones who took care of and raised them. How much more could a single angel in a comatose state do?
Meanwhile, in the Roseblade Duchy, Veyriss had advanced in her swordsmanship, reaching the rank of a sword master and shield expert, using only the fundamentals. From the basic principles of thrust, slash, chop, parry, block, evade, advance, retreat, and pivot, she created three unique swordsmanship styles. All within ten months.
After a session of hard training, Veyriss heard clapping sounds behind her. Turning around, she saw Duke Jonathan standing at the entrance of her training room.
"I greet you, Lord." Dropping to one knee, she continued, "Please pardon my rudeness for not noticing you earlier. What may I be of assistance to you?"
Jonathan pouted in playful annoyance. "My sweet, fantastical, strong-headed daughter, why do you insist on calling me Lord or Lord Duke? Why can't you call me Papa?" Now looking at her with puppy eyes, he continued, "Please, pretty please, pretty, pretty please, just call me Papa for once. You'd make me the happiest man alive."
"I cannot grant that request of yours, Lord Duke. For I was a mere slave you bought on the streets of Avalon. Calling you Father, or whatever 'Papa' you want me to call you, is a breach of our master-slave relationship."
Jonathan, now looking like a deflated balloon, said, "I really thought the puppy dog eyes would work. Down the drain goes my acting career."
"You've never been an actor, so enough with the theatrics, Jon," Gard said, stepping into view. "How are you holding up, Veyriss?"
"I'm all but well, but I appreciate you asking, Lord Gard." Veyriss offered a slight bow.
"I can see why," Gard said, sizing up Jonathan. "With this clown around 28/11 (28 hours a day and 11 days a week), who wouldn't be?"
Jonathan, seeing his chance, immediately dropped and clung to Veyriss' leg, wailing with feigned tears. "Veyriss, you're not going to just stand there while this stranger insults your father, are you?"
Veyriss glanced down at him for only a second before her gaze returned to Gard. "For both Lord Gard and Duke Roseblade to be here in my training room, something important must have happened."
Gard let out a weary sigh. "Your foster father and I wanted to give you a gift to mark your breakthrough with the sword and shield. He should probably be the one to explain."
"Jon," Gard continued, exasperated, "can you stop being such an embarrassment and just tell her? You're about to be a father, man. It's time to grow up."
Duke Jonathan immediately stood, straightened his clothes, and cleared his throat, transforming his demeanor into one of formal presentation.
Before Jonathan could utter a word, Veyriss dropped to one knee.
"It is my greatest honor to learn the Roseblade Sword Style from you." Her voice carried pride and reverence. But when she looked up, she found only confusion on his face.
"What sword style?" Jonathan asked, clearly bewildered.
Rising, she continued, "The Roseblade Sword Style — the legacy of your house, passed down through generations. Do you not recall, My Lord? Ten months ago, you promised to teach it to me. You demonstrated it then—the most graceful and powerful swordsmanship I had ever seen. Your words were: 'My daughter Veyriss, this is the swordsmanship that has made the Roseblade Ducal family and duchy what it is today. But only those who have reached the rank of sword master and above can wield it. If you rise to that rank using only the fundamentals and create at least three styles of your own, I will personally teach you the Roseblade Sword Style. This is a promise from a father to his daughter.'"
She placed a hand over her chest, her gaze unwavering.
"My Lord, I have kept my end. I have become a sword master with only the fundamentals, and I have forged three new styles. I beg of you—honor your promise."
Gard, who had been watching from the side, was just as bewildered. "Jonathan," he said, the name, a serious tone of warning, "what exactly did you tell her? I've never heard of this swordsmanship style she's talking about."
"Gard, wait, I'm trying to remember," Jonathan replied, his hand rising to his chin in a show of deep thought. After a moment, a look of realization dawned on his face. "Ah, I see what you're talking about. I truly apologize for the misunderstanding. I thought you knew about the Roseblade family's schools of discipline."
"What do you mean, My Lord? What misunderstanding?" The confusion was now etched on Veyriss's face as well.
Gard shot Jonathan a look of pure exasperation. "You didn't tell her, did you?"
"Don't look at me like that, Gard! I thought she knew! She's been with us for nearly two years! And why is this all on me? You've been her primary instructor for real-world training. You registered her at the adventurer's guild, took her on monster hunts and dungeon raids, and this never came up?"
Jonathan took a deep breath, his bravado gone. He placed a gentle hand on Veyriss's shoulder. "I'm sorry to tell you this, but the Roseblade Sword Style doesn't exist. To be precise, our family has no formal discipline for any weapon."
Veyriss's shoulders began to tremble. "Please tell me you're joking, My Lord," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "You demonstrated it for me that day!"
"That style was something I created on a whim, in that very moment. It never existed before. I just wanted to look cool in front of you." He sighed. "I thought you would have figured it out. But if you truly want to learn it, I will teach it to you. But first, we need a history lesson on the Roseblade family, so you can understand."
He turned and walked toward the entrance, but paused and looked back at her. "What are you standing in a daze for? Follow me. It's time for a family lesson."