There comes a point in every hero's journey where they must face great darkness, a moment where truth pierces illusion, and they finally grasp the reality of the world around them.
Mine happened while I was hiding in a broom closet, listening to a priest argue with a goat.
I'd woken up that morning with a very clear plan: sneak out of the temple, find someone who could confirm whether or not I was going to be sacrificed, and then fake a horse injury and flee the village. Unfortunately, this temple was a maze, and my stealth skills were comparable to a drunk squirrel in a bell shop.
I crept through side halls, ducked past shadowy figures in itchy robes, and eventually found myself somewhere off-script: an overgrown side wing of the temple, long-abandoned, judging by the moss and complete lack of ominous chanting.
Which, in this place, meant it was probably important.
The air was thick and humid. The walls were cracked, the torches flickering low. A few statues lined the corridor—figures I didn't recognize. One had three left hands. Another looked like someone had sculpted a man mid-nosebleed.
I paused. "Okay," I whispered to myself. "Either I'm in the temple's basement fan fiction, or this is where they keep the really creepy stuff."
There were symbols on the ground—chalk runes, candles, and one bowl filled with something... moving. I took a careful step back. My foot creaked against a loose tile. Somewhere in the distance, something growled.
Nope.
I turned to leave.
That's when I heard it—metal footsteps. Slow. Purposeful.
I spun around, heart pounding.
That was when I saw her
What stood before me wasn't a priest. It wasn't a cultist. It was a statue come to life.
Tall, gleaming, with ash-black hair pulled into a flawless high ponytail and steel-gray eyes that looked like they could stare down fate itself.
She stood in full plate armor—polished, ornate, as if forged from knightly legend. A navy cape fluttered behind her like a battle flag. And in her hands, casually resting against the ground, was a greatsword the size of my life expectancy.
She stepped forward with purpose. I stepped back with panic.
Before I could say a word, she went down on one knee.
"At last," she said, voice rich with unwavering conviction. "I have found you, Blade-Bound Star."
I blinked. "I'm sorry, the what now?"
She rose. Slowly. As if gravity bowed to her.
"I am Iria Halbrecht, Knight-Errant of House Edelbrecht. Bearer of the Crestblade Edelbrecht, sworn to the preservation of sacred light, heir to the seventh vow of Aurellian Valor."
"That's a lot of nouns," I said.
"I have come," she continued, ignoring me entirely, "to pledge myself to the prophesied one. The Chosen Soul cast into this world by divine flame. He who walks unseen by the true gods, shielded by accident and misinterpretation alike."
"That last part sounds disturbingly accurate."
"I have studied the ancient knightly epics," she said. "The signs all align. The collapsed dungeon. The corrupted temple. The prophetic cloak."
She gestured reverently at my mildew-smelling cloak. I considered setting it on fire.
"You are he," she declared. "Kaname Hitoshi, the Blade-Bound Star."
"I—no, wait. I tripped on a banana peel. That's how this started."
She nodded solemnly. "A symbol of humility."
"No, I mean I literally slipped."
"To fall before you rise," she said, eyes shining.
"Oh my god."
"To be honest," I added, "I was just looking for a bathroom."
She placed a hand over her heart. "Your body follows necessity, but your soul follows destiny."
I looked around, hoping someone would jump out and admit I was being pranked. No such luck.
She took one step closer, dropped to one knee again, and presented her sword—its polished edge gleaming like legend made steel.
"By this blade, I pledge my life to your cause, no matter how dangerous, foolish, or... vaguely defined. From this moment forward, I am your shield."
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
Then muttered, "This is why I don't go outside."
"I... okay," I said finally, voice flat. "Sure. Great. Do you have a map? Or a concussion test?"
She stood at attention. "We must not delay. The temple hums with false light. We must uncover its shadow."
"Cool. Lead the way, shiny disaster."
And so began my next mistake.
The thing about being declared a holy figure is that people stop letting you do normal things. Like walk five feet without solemn commentary. Or breathe without being asked what "truth" you were inhaling.
I had assumed Iria was just another overly armored fanatic.
I was wrong.
She was a mobile wall of unstoppable sincerity.
We'd been moving through the temple for maybe twenty minutes. Iria led the way, sword slung across her back, eyes sharp, posture perfect. She moved like she was in a live-action adaptation of a storybook.
"This corridor is decayed," she muttered, inspecting crumbled stonework. "An omen. The divine presence here has been usurped."
I shuffled behind her, nearly tripping on my oversized ceremonial cloak. "Or maybe someone forgot to call the temple's janitor for five years."
She turned to me with glowing conviction. "You see what others do not."
"I see mold, Iria. I see mold and poor life choices."
We slipped into a room tucked behind a crumbling tapestry. Inside were candles, half-burnt scrolls, and a low, shallow altar carved with strange symbols.
There was also... a chicken. Sitting on the altar. Just... watching us.
I pointed. "That's new."
Iria drew her blade in one smooth motion. "A watcher spirit, no doubt."
"It's a bird."
"It guards the circle."
"Do you think maybe they just ran out of guards?"
Before she could answer, she stepped forward and her boot crunched something.
Beneath her was a shattered clay tablet—clearly broken on purpose. Scattered symbols sprawled across the floor.
I knelt beside it and tried to read one of the fragments. "Okay, this one says something about... flames of rebirth? And this one's upside down. Or maybe it's a menu."
Iria scanned the room like a soldier in enemy territory.
"These markings are not of the Light. Nor of any known god. They're fragments—pieces of multiple rites, forced together."
"You mean like a cult with commitment issues?"
She nodded grimly. "Yes. Or worse—a false god, made of scraps."
I picked up one scroll and squinted. "I think this part's written in... crayon?"
She took it from my hands reverently. "A child's hand, guided by corrupted faith."
"Or they let the intern write it."
Behind the altar, hidden in a cabinet, we found a parchment. A rough diagram of the main chamber, marked with circles, names, and—most importantly—tomorrow's date.
There were scribbled instructions:
"Vessel must stand at center. Artifact must rest on aligned node. Avoid fire symbols (still unstable?). Repeat chant three times. NO improv lines this time, Garven."
I looked at Iria. "So... I'm the vessel?"
She nodded. "Undoubtedly."
"I was afraid you'd say that."
We also found a second scroll. It was a log of arguments between cultists. One excerpt read:
Meeting Notes:
Garven wants to include the "Flame of Truth" again. Vetoed.
Tilly forgot to book the shadow musicians. Again.
Eldrin insists on black robes, but funding only allowed navy.
Reminder: STOP ADDING YOUR OWN LINES TO THE RITUAL. THIS IS NOT IMPROV NIGHT.
I looked at Iria. "You know... if they summon something, it's not gonna be a god. It's gonna be a bureaucratic error in physical form."
She said nothing, eyes burning.
Suddenly, footsteps. Murmuring.
Iria snuffed the candles instantly and pulled me behind a crumbling statue.
Three robed figures passed by the door, muttering in low tones.
One of them said, "Everything's ready. The 'Prophet' thinks he's being honored. The High Priest's going to trigger the convergence at dusk."
Another: "I still think he's too stupid to channel Umbravox."
The first: "Exactly. That's what makes him the perfect vessel."
They moved on.
As the sound faded, I turned to Iria, who looked ready to declare a divine crusade.
"So... yeah," I whispered. "They're going to sacrifice me."
She placed a hand on my shoulder. "Then we shall break their false ritual. Together."
"I really don't think together is going to be enough."
She drew her blade, resting it across her shoulder. "You doubt too much. You carry fate like a burden, but I shall carry it beside you."
I sighed. "Right. And I'll carry your lunch."
....
Together, they sneak out of the ruins, now aware that a major ritual is set for tonight, with Kaname as the centerpiece. Iria begins preparing for battle—polishing her blade, checking armor, reciting creeds.
Kaname starts drafting his Last Will and Testament, which is just a note that says "Told you this would happen."