The wind howled through the foggy forest, bringing with it a cold and cutting breeze like a razor. The murmur of running water and the sounds of animals and birds created a lively and strangely solemn soundtrack.
The cracking of branches broken by the force of the wind brings an unsettling tension to the environment. Dry leaves dance under the feet of a young woman. The sound of steel cutting through the air echoes among the trees, with a precise rhythm. Delivering firm, disciplined strikes, reverberating even at a distance, where visibility is completely obscured by the density of the mist.
No name was given to her. Was simply called Eighteen.
Long dark hair, peach-colored skin, with a slight blush on her cheeks and the tip of her nose. Red, soft, and delicate lips. Her face had small discreet marks, scars from her brutal routine. Her light-colored eyes hid a disturbing depth, full of sadness and anguish from the weight in her hands. When she paused her movements, her gaze wandered to the horizon, as if searching for a time she had not lived.
On the palm of her right hand, a mark shone faintly under the moonlight. That symbol connected her to Bloodstain, the Sacred Sword, the ultimate symbol of resistance against the Demon King. Those marked by this stigma did not live for themselves: they were born to fight, die, and be eternalized in the memory of others.
The Bloodstain was more than a weapon; it was almost a divinity. It wasn't just capable of killing demons; it devoured them. Absorbing their souls and purifying them, bringing them just punishment for their sins. It protected the bearer from the corruption of darkness, from soul absorption, and it was the only key to cross the mystical barrier of the Infernal Vale. However, the sword, in a mysterious way, was the one that chose its bearer.
When a hero died, the Bloodstain would arise again on its stone altar. Its glow shone brightly, and its chosen ones knew what they had to do. There was no way to refuse the call, for the life of the chosen one was directly intertwined with the Bloodstain.
The mark on her hand burned and glowed. The cycle had restarted and her turn had come.
Separated from her parents as a baby. Isolated from the world. Trained and shaped to follow her destiny, Dezoito knew only this world.
Growing up under the tutelage of hooded priestesses who never showed their faces. She sees no other visage except her own reflected in puddles or in fragments of broken mirror. She remembered once, looking through the cracks in the wall of the sanctuary, having caught a glimpse of a man's profile. She had never seen a man before. Even if it was only for a moment, she couldn't forget. That marked her much more than her scars.
But today was a day different from the others. After all the years of isolation, the iron gate of the monastery would be opened. The feeling of anxiety could no longer be contained.
The priestesses prepared her. They dressed her in ceremonial clothes, a bag with provisions. They also gave her a common sword and a map.
And for the first time in her life, the great gate was opened before her, which Eighteen crossed the threshold and felt as if she were being born for the second time.