The wind howled through the forest shrouded in murky mist, bringing with it a cold, razor-sharp breeze. The murmur of running water and the sounds of animals and birds composed 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 beneath the feet of a young woman. The sound of steel cutting the air echoes through the trees, with a precise rhythm. Launching firm, disciplined blows, reverberating even from a distance, where vision is completely obscured by the density of the mist.
No name was given to her. She was called only Eighteen.
Long dark hair, peach-colored skin, with a slight blush on her cheeks and the tip of her nose. Reddish lips, soft and delicate. 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 never lived.
On the palm of her right hand, a mark shone faintly under the moonlight. That sign linked her to the Bloodstain, the Sacred Weapon, 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 immortalized in the memory of others.
The Bloodstain was more than a weapon, it was almost a divinity. It was not only capable of killing demons, it devoured them. Absorbing their souls and purifying them, thus bringing them the just punishment for their sins. It protected the bearer from the corruption of darkness, from the souls eating and was the only key to crossing the mystical barrier of the Infernal Valley. However, the sword, in a mysterious way, was the one who chose its bearer.
When a hero died, the Bloodstain resurfaced on its stone altar. Its brightness shone and its chosen ones knew what they should do. There was no way to refuse the call, for the chosen one's life was directly intertwined with Bloodstain.
The mark on his hand burned and glowed. The cycle had begun anew. His time had come.
Separated from her parents as a baby. Isolated from the world. Trained and shaped for her destiny, Eighteen knew only this world.
Growing up being cared for by hooded priestesses who never showed their faces. She had never seen a face, except her own reflected in puddles or in fragments of broken mirror. She remembers once, looking through the cracks in the sanctuary wall, seeing the profile of a man. She had never seen a man before. Even if it had been just for an instant, she could not forget it. It marked her much more than her scars.
But today was a different day 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 broadsword and a map. And for the first time in her life, the great gate was opened before her, and Eighteen crossed the threshold and felt as if she were being born for the second time.