The story begins in Trosa — the Forest Land, the largest continent in the entire universe of Nara.
A realm ruled by endless woods, where ancient trees lift their crowns like the pillars of a forgotten cathedral, and sunlight struggles to pierce the shadows, barely reaching the thick roots buried beneath moss and legend.
Trosa was more than a continent.
It was alive — breathing through its leaves, whispering through the wind, sustained by the will of the Stag God, its divine protector.
At the heart of this land stood two settlements, bound together by fate.
The first was Rugum, the capital.
A city of stone and towering walls, of ancient towers where laws were forged and the crown decided which lives held worth. Rugum was ruled by King Mori, a man who ascended the throne at only eighteen years of age. After more than three decades of reign, he was known as calm and measured — yet his silence had grown more feared than respected. Now fifty, he carried not only the royal mantle upon his shoulders, but the crushing weight of decisions that had begun to rot the kingdom from within.
The second settlement was Rushum.
It was not a capital.
It had no imposing walls.
Yet it was the second-largest city in Trosa — developed enough to matter… and weak enough to be sacrificed.
In the universe of Nara, every continent was guarded by a god.
And every god demanded a price.
Once every five years, an altar had to be raised.
Once every five years, a human life had to be offered — not just any life, but one that had carried meaning for the land. Otherwise, the sacrifice would be deemed heretical, and the god would turn its gaze away from the continent… with consequences beyond imagination.
Early in his reign, King Mori made a decision that would seal Rushum's fate forever:
the sacrifice would never again be taken from the capital.
Every time, the chosen one would come from Rushum.
At first, there were minor revolts — cries in the night, secret gatherings, fragile hope. But Rushum had no strong guard of its own, and Rugum's Royal Guard intervened swiftly. In time, defiance turned into resignation.
And resignation into silent fear.
It was April 2nd.
The air in Rushum felt heavy, like the moment before a storm that refuses to break. People spoke in whispers, avoided one another's eyes, and locked their doors earlier than usual.
The altar was already prepared, deep within the forest.
The sacred wood had been cleansed.
The ancient symbols carved.
Only one thing was missing.
The sacrifice.
The city council — nine members, including the mayor — gathered within the central hall. None dared lift their gaze. After long minutes of suffocating silence, a single name was spoken.
Mikoto.
A woman of sixty-two years. Ill for seven.
A master physician, once renowned throughout all of Trosa.
A woman who had devoted her life to saving others.
But also a woman surrounded by whispers.
That she was a witch.
That she knew things no mortal should.
And perhaps most importantly…
a woman with no power left to defend herself.
Mikoto lived in a small house on the edge of Rushum with her grandson, Toru — a twelve-year-old boy she had raised after finding him abandoned at her doorstep.
Toru was thin and quiet, with brown hair and hazel eyes that rarely lifted from the ground. For seven years, since Mikoto had fallen ill, he had become her strength. He went to the market. He chopped wood in the forest. He endured the cold stares of villagers who never offered help.
The rumors followed him everywhere.
That morning, Toru followed his routine. An axe rested on his shoulder as he passed the council building, voices leaking through its closed doors.
He paused.
Lifted his gaze toward the stone walls, then scoffed softly.
"Always them… always talking. Endless words. Nothing for us."
He continued toward the forest.
Meanwhile, three men — former mercenaries, the strongest in Rushum — stepped into Mikoto's home. They were not heroes. They were closer to monsters. Not demons — merely men who had accepted a task no one else was willing to carry.
They enjoyed feeling powerful, superior. That was why, at the village tavern, they were always the first to strike down any gesture that failed to indulge their near-savage impulses.
When they emerged, Mikoto no longer walked alone.
The villagers watched in silence. Some with tears in their eyes. Others with their heads bowed.
The mayor clenched his fists.
If I refuse… the land will be punished.
If I accept… I lose my soul.
When Toru returned home, his arms were full of firewood.
The bed was empty.
The wood slipped from his grasp and struck the floor.
His breath caught in his throat.
"Grandmother…?"
No answer came.
Then he saw the blood.
His thoughts raced back to the voices at the council. To a single word he had overheard.
Doctor…
His heart began to pound.
Without thinking, Toru ran toward the forest.
Toward the altar.