Richard's POV
It took a while for the exclamations in the church to calm down.
Whispers flew across the cathedral like scattered leaves in the wind, hissing and slithering from ear to ear.
The blinding golden light from the orb, tho diminished, still lingered in people's eyes.
At some point, Ben had been taken away into an inner room by some crusaders, their armor clanking with urgency as they moved like bees swarming a precious flower.
Hmph.
Ben. A hero candidate.
I knew of them. Hero Candidates were one in a million. They were exceedingly rare. They were usually the next likely individual to become the hero if something were to happen to the current one.
Clink–clank
The sound of the closing door behind them had barely echoed before people began speculating.
My ears twitched, not from interest but rather from sheer annoyance.
Of all places. A backwater hole like Began Hills birthing a hero candidate?
Ridiculous. Or so I thought.
But... if I trace back the years. Ben–Alice–Reid–Beatrice. All of them. They've most likely played together since childhood.
And even I seemed to have joined at some point.
And from then, we were always together, like naive ducklings waddling through mud. At least that's what I was told.
And now, all of them awaken high talents? Hah. Seems a little convenient. Too convenient in fact.
But with how that orb flared like a miniature sun, it made sense.
Ben. That bastard was most likely the catalyst.
Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps it was resonance. Or perhaps just some ancient divine joke.
A child fated to become a Hero playing tag with the one destined to become the Demon King.
No. Not destined.
I am the Demon King.
Deivaros Veirs Crimson. First of my name. The one who united the fractured, warring clans of the Demon race under one banner.
The one who burned the Holy Nation to ash. My mere presence silenced even those mad, proud Archdukes.
And yet, here I am. Surrounded by wide-eyed children, adults and some whispering fools, watching some kid be called a Hero?
Tch.
I grit my teeth, biting down the urge to laugh. Or perhaps cry. It's hard to tell these days.
Anyway another question just popped in my head. Ben is a commoner right? Scratch that. Peasant. How is he a Hero's Candidate.
Knowing that damned goddess, she wouldn't pick someone of low lineage to be a candidate.
Could it be... Ben's not the true child of his father? Did his mother climb into someone else's bed and birth a bastard child blessed by fate?
Haaa... So many unknowns. Too many unknowns. My mind was burning with questions I didn't have the luxury to ask.
But one thing's certain.
He–Ben–was now a potential threat.
Not now. But someday in the future.
When I reveal myself... when I go to reclaim my throne... that brat will definitely stand before me, sword in hand, eyes full of the that heroic resolve.
The same look Lucia and her party had worn the day they struck me down.
Should I just kill him now?
I shifted in my seat.
No.
Too risky.
The Order is still around. No way in hell are they leaving a Hero's Candidate unguarded.
The Holy Nation might be dust beneath my feet, but the Order's influence still lingers like the stench of rot.
Ben's awakening is definitely a shocker for them. He'll be whisked away, hell he's probably already being whisked away, trained and molded.
Killing him now... just isn't feasible.
Still, the thought lingered in my mind like poison on the tongue.
A Hero Candidate, born in my backyard.
A sick joke.
That dawned bishop soon walked put from the inner room, his face pale but composed, like the dying flame of a candle refusing to flicker out.
He raised his hand. "Praise the goddess Lumina." His voice rang out, practiced and calm.
The crowd fell quiet once more, sheep ready to be herded. "The situation is under control. Please, let us return to the final awakening."
The final awakening.
My turn.
About time.
I stood up, annoyed beyond reason. My eyes roamed the cathedral.
Vaulted ceilings stretched like outstretched wings, painted in hues of white and gold.
Stained glass windows spilled golden light across marble floors–images of the goddess Lumina smiling "benevolently", hands extended as if she were cradling the world.
Crusaders stood like statues, silver-gold armor glinting beneath enchanted chandeliers.
The atmosphere felt heavy–not from just reverence–but from the weight of foolish belief.
If this were a thousand years ago, I would've incinerated this place. The altar, the bishop, the orb, the fanatics... the lot of them.
Snap!
My neck cracked slightly as I rolled my shoulders.
Afterall they dared make me wait. That much would've been a given.
I was already halfway to the altar when–
BOOOOOOOOM!
An explosion rocked the cathedral, sending a tremor through the marble tiles. Dust and small fragments rained down from the ceiling.
The lights in the hall flickered, some of them sparking and popping.
"What was that!?" someone screamed.
Before anyone could react, the cathedral doors burst open with a loud CRASH. A guard stumbled in, face pale, blood dripping down his temple.
"The town!" He screamed, panting like a dying dog. "We're under atta–!"
SHHHNK!
The sound of a blade slicing through flesh. His head separated from his body, blood spurting like a geyser as his body crumpled.
THUD
The head rolled forward... then thump–thump–thump–stopped before the altar.
The silence was deafening.
A man stepped through the threshold. Black hooded cloak embroidered with silver threads–arcane symbols spiraling like serpents across his shoulders and down his sleeves.
His face was obscured, but his presence...
It was suffocating. For the current me.
He held a longsword in one hand, blood dripping from its edge like crimson tears.
"W-what the hell...?"
Gasps. Cries. Screams. Chaos.
Time paused for a moment.
Then it all unraveled.
"KYAAAAH!"
Someone screamed, and the entire hall descended into panic. Children fled. Parents grabbed their sons and daughters. Crusaders rushed forward to form a defensive wall.
CLANG!
Their blades rang out as they drew them.
"Protect the Bishop!" Someone shouted.
But it was pointless.
SHHHNK–SHHHNK–THUD–THUD–THUD!
In a blur of motion, the hooded man moved. Heads dropped like autumn leaves. Crusaders–warriors trained by the Order–fell like cattle to the slaughter.
Their bodies hit the floor one after the other. Metal changed against marble. Blood pooled beneath them like offerings.
Then the man stopped.
He turned to face us, and with a slow, mocking bow, he spoke.
His voice was laced with menace and cruel amusement.
"Greetings," he said. "I am but a humble servant... of the Demon Cult."
Demon Cult?
What?
My brow twitched.
I don't know them. Never even heard of them.
And I'm the damn Demon King!
Looking around I saw the fear in the audience's eyes as he mentioned being a member of the Demon Cult.
Seems like they know what the cult is.
He raised his sword and let it's tip rest on the ground.
"Now then..." he said, his voice suddenly sharper than steel, "Which one of you... is the Hero Candidate?"