Arru was fifteen years old, and his life was supposed to be simple.
Wake up early. Pray. Train with a sword until his arms felt like they might fall off. Memorize ancient prophecy texts that always smelled like dust and melted church candles. Then sleep.
The problem was, life rarely cared about what it was supposed to be.
Arru was handsome—that kind of handsome. The kind that made The senior nuns not to notice and pilgrims quietly wonder whether the sun had decided to mess around and create a human being. His hair was jet black, permanently messy no matter how much he tried to tame it. His eyes were gold—not "golden-brown in the light," but actual gold, as if tiny flames refused to go out behind them.
And on his neck, just below his left jaw, was a birthmark shaped like the sun.
Not a simple circle. A sun with small rays stretching outward.
According to the Church, it was a sacred sign.
According to young Arru, it was just an excuse for people to stare at his neck way too long.
Arru had been raised in the church for as long as he could remember. He learned faith before he learned how to read. He learned how to swing a wooden sword before his hands were strong enough to grip it properly.
"Faith without strength is an empty prayer," Pastor Elion said every morning.
"And strength without faith," he added, "is a disaster waiting to happen."
Arru believed that.
He believed in prophecy.
He believed the world moved according to a grand script written long before he was born.
Until one night, when the stars decided to interfere.
Arru had always liked the night.
After the final prayer bell rang and the church sank into silence, he often slipped into the back courtyard—where wild grass grew without permission and the sky felt wider. He would lie on his back, stare at the stars, count the constellations he'd memorized, and think that if the gods really existed, they probably enjoyed showing off the sky.
That night, the air felt… different.
Warmer. Like the sun had forgotten it was supposed to sleep.
Arru had just taken a deep breath when something flickered at the edge of his vision.
Light.
He sat up.
Between the dark bushes floated a blue butterfly—its wings shimmering, glowing softly like cold fire. Not moonlight. Not candle magic. This light was alive.
And very much not normal.
"Okay," Arru muttered. "I've been staring at the stars too long."
The butterfly fluttered its wings slowly, then—as if confident Arru was dumb enough to follow—drifted away toward the ancient forest beyond the church grounds.
The forest that was very clearly forbidden.
Arru swallowed.
He was supposed to return to the dormitory. He was supposed to pray. He was supposed to be a good boy who believed prophecies would happen without being chased.
But the sun-mark on his neck felt warm.
Pulsing.
As if something—or someone—had just knocked on the door of his fate and said,
Your turn.
Arru stood.
He took his sword.
And he followed the blue light—without knowing that this step would lead him to the first relic, and shatter everything he believed about prophecy, the Church, and himself.
Above him, the sky glowed calmly.
As if waiting.
The ancient forest did not welcome Arru.
The trees stood too close together, as if whispering to each other about the foolish church boy who had just broken every rule. Moonlight barely pierced the canopy, but the blue butterfly kept glowing—calm, confident, and absolutely certain Arru would keep following.
"This is a bad idea," Arru muttered, stepping carefully.
The butterfly fluttered again, like it agreed—and kept going anyway.
They stopped before a small cave, hidden behind massive, twisted roots. The cave mouth yawned open, like it was holding a secret that had been waiting far too long.
The air around it felt cold. Unnaturally so.
The sun-mark on Arru's neck pulsed again—hotter this time.
The butterfly flew inside.
Arru took a breath, tightened his grip on his sword, and followed.
Inside the cave, the world changed.
The stone walls reflected a soft blue glow. In the center of the chamber stood a tall mirror—its surface not glass, but something like frozen water. Still, yet alive.
The blue butterfly floated toward it.
Then… merged.
The glowing wings dissolved into the mirror's surface, leaving behind a pulse of light, beating like a heart.
Arru stared.
"Okay," he said quietly. "This was definitely not in the church lessons."
He touched the mirror.
Big mistake.
Pain slammed into his head—not like a blow, but like shards of memory forced inside, sharp and cold, as if his mind were glass being shattered from within.
Arru screamed.
Then the world broke.
He saw himself—
Older. Much older.
His black hair streaked with gray. His face hardened, carved by war and loss. His eyes—those same golden eyes—looked exhausted, yet burned with anger that refused to die.
He was around forty-five.
He stood on a frozen battlefield, his breath fogging the air. Blood stained the white snow. Around him, demons moved—clawed shadows, glowing red eyes, voices like metal scraping stone.
The sword in the older Arru's hand was cracked. His arm trembled.
But he still stood.
"Come," he growled. "All of you."
They attacked.
The older Arru moved like the last sun in a dying world. Every swing of his blade burned the air. Golden light exploded from his body, tearing through demons one by one.
He won.
But the victory came at a cost.
He dropped to his knees in the snow. Blood poured out. His breathing grew ragged, his vision fading.
With the last of his strength, he looked up at the gray sky and screamed—a sound filled with despair, fury, and a final, desperate hope.
"LUNETH!"
The name echoed.
The Moon Goddess.
Silver light descended from the heavens, touching the snow—
and the memory shattered.
Arru snapped back into the cave.
He collapsed onto the stone floor, gasping for air, his head pounding like it had just been struck by a divine hammer. His hands shook. Cold sweat drenched his body.
The mirror before him was cracked now—veins of golden light crawling across its surface like a trapped sun.
"What…" Arru coughed. "What was that?"
The sun-mark on his neck flared brightly—then dimmed.
One thing was clear now:
Prophecies did not wait to be believed.
Fate did not ask permission.
And the name Luneth—somehow—had just bound him to a future of blood, snow, and darkness far greater than anything he had ever imagined.
Outside the cave, the moon shone full.