Is It Wrong Wanting To Be A Hero?
The world had long since forgotten the meaning of day and night. Light and darkness were no longer separate-they bled into one another, leaving a sky that never fully burned nor fully slept. The air was thick with unease, carrying the faint scent of ash and wilted flowers. Rivers ran sluggishly, forests groaned as if in pain, and the earth itself seemed weary.
Humanity clung to life by a thread. Villages huddled behind walls, towns kept their markets small, and travelers moved cautiously, always fearing what lurked beyond the horizon. Crops failed without warning, beasts of unnatural size and strength prowled the forests, and storms of strange cold and fire swept the land with little mercy. Survival had become a daily struggle, a constant battle against a world that seemed to turn against its people.
Amid this fragile existence, shadows stirred from afar. From the distant Demon Continent, dark forces emerged at irregular intervals. Once human, its people had surrendered their compassion and mercy, pledging themselves to the Dark Lord. They wielded powers no ordinary man could withstand, bending fire, shadow, and even the earth itself to their will. Their motives remained unknown, their attacks unpredictable. Entire towns disappeared in a night; whole regions were left silent, scorched, or drowned in blood. The people whispered of the Dark Lord's armies like a nightmare that might touch them next-but whether for conquest or something far stranger, no one could tell.
And yet, in the midst of this twilight world, there existed a fragile sanctuary: Luna Village.
Luna is the only place where the darkness cannot enter, the only ground where the monsters it gave birth to cannot set foot. Its unseen borders hold firm, a fragile line of hope in a world swallowed whole.
No one lives here but the **nuns of the Holy Church**. They are the sole inhabitants, bound by a vow that leaves no room for doubt or hesitation. Draped in pale robes, they tread the worn stone floors of the great church, beneath walls marked with ancient blessings. And within that holy hall, their voices rise together in unending song.
It is not a prayer for themselves.
Not for peace, nor safety, nor even for tomorrow.
It is a **summons**-a cry to the heavens for salvation.
They call for a hero.
A hero strong enough to cut down the monsters born of darkness.
A hero who will sweep away the shadow that devours the world.
A hero who will become the answer to prayers that must never be silenced.
Day turns to night, and night to day, yet their chorus does not falter. They take turns, one group falling silent as another begins, their voices weaving into a single melody. A fragile, desperate hymn that has never ceased-not for a breath, not for a heartbeat.
The sound fills Luna like lifeblood, echoing against stone, trembling in the air, reaching ever upward. A prayer so heavy with longing it shakes even the silence of the heavens.
For if the song stops, hope itself will end.
And if hope ends, there will be no tomorrow.
Until the hero answers the call,
Until the destined one arrives,
The prayers of Luna must never cease.
This is their vow.
This is their burden.
And this is the last hope of the twilight world.