The ancient scroll pulsed with spatial energy as Mystic Mystic Moon accepted it from Pulin, the wizened elder whose true identity as a spatial archmage codenamed "Roundwood" was known to few. Though she bowed respectfully, skepticism coiled in her mind – this prophecy of them being the world's salvation felt like shackles disguised as destiny.
The Oracle's milky eyes shifted to Dunce. "Child of forgotten sorrow," his voice resonated in the vault beneath the Sacred Oak Temple. "Your mind is veiled by trauma. An orphan's past weighs heavy." Dunce stiffened, the casual accuracy striking like a blade. How could this tribal elder from the remote Riverwood Peaks see the fog obscuring his childhood?
"Recover your memories or not," Pulin intoned, pressing a withered hand to Dunce's chest where the soul-chilling aura of the Demon King's Sword festered beneath deerskin, "guard that innate kindness. It is why the celestial patterns bend toward you."
Before Dunce could process this, the elder raised both hands. The stone altar shimmered, revealing a silver chain bearing a teardrop sapphire. At its emergence, Mystic Mystic Moon's phoenix pendant blazed crimson in response, twin forces humming like resonant strings.
"The Blood of Vermilion Dragon," Pulin announced. "Forged millennia ago from the life essence of the Dragon Monarch. Its counterpart, the Phoenix Tear you bear, flows with fire-god essence." He placed the relic in Dunce's calloused palm. Blue warmth seeped into the young man's bones, soft as a whispered vow. "Level-B Divine Artifacts – tools against the Cataclysm's shadow. Use them wisely."
As Mystic Mystic Moon scoffed at "borrowing" divine heirlooms, the Oracle pivoted to their true purpose. His skeletal finger traced symbols in the air. "You wonder at the Temple Guardians – the Ironroot Sentinels whose hollow eyes watch eternally? They are our greatest sacrifice. Shamanic rites traded souls for invincible flesh during the Great Calamity. Our heroes now live as immortal weapons."
Horror dawned on the two youths. Soul exchange? *Purposeful* oblivion?
"276 warriors over ten centuries," Pulin murmured. "Eternal guardians… or cursed puppets? Control them only for salvation, never ambition." He pressed spatial incantations into Mystic Mystic Moon's mind and soul-bind runes into Dunce's awareness – keys to unleashing these lost warriors. "My time wanes. Secrecy is your armor. Even your Holy Church must not know the prophecy."
Outside Girln Shi's vigil hut, tension crackled. Girln Li scrubbed his battle-axes on moonlit steps. "If the killer shows," he growled, "I'll split his skull like firewood!"
Girln Ju leaned against cedar logs, eyes scanning shifting shadows. "Patience, little bull. Grief makes men reckless, and traitors clumsy." His gaze lingered on the chieftain's dwelling where Girln Shi lay in a grief-stricken coma. "Strange, how elders prioritize revenge over saving our future chief..."
Darkness deepened, swallowing stars. Inside the hut, Girln Shi's breath hitched – not from sorrow, but the silent footfall parting the reeds near his window.
Outside, Girln Ju tensed. A scent sliced the air: blood pine resin and moonflower. His axes barely cleared leather before the forest erupted.