There are many power-grade systems in different nations—some complex and scholarly, others crude and tribal. But in this land, there are only two categories that matter:
Holy and Unholy.
Imagine reality as a single stretched string—representing time, space, matter, and the body. Holy abilities are those that can pull and shape this string. Pull it lightly, and you enhance the physical body—speed, strength, senses. Pull harder, and you begin to bend the fabric of reality itself.
Take Sunfield, for example. Her mastery of holy power allows her to conjure arrows not from matter, but by stretching the very space around her. Each shot bends distance, curves paths, defies expectation. The more she stretches, the more power is required, but no matter how far the string is pulled—holy power cannot break it.
Then there are those like Aurelia, the Red Maiden. She doesn't pull or stretch. She senses. She walks along the thread of fate, adjusting its flow without touching it directly. She can shift outcomes simply by knowing where the thread leads.
And then—there is the Unholy.
Unholy powers do not pull the string. They tear it. They rip through timelines, sever natural laws, rewrite the stage entirely. Nito, for instance, can discard a timeline like old parchment and conjure a new one from its ashes. The unholy does not merely act upon the body—it reshapes the very world around it.
And then... there's me.
I don't pull. I don't tear. I erase. My blade, forged of Nihilon, negates all force—holy or unholy. Space manipulation, time distortion, even the fractured timelines of Nito—all rendered void. Nothing stands where I strike. My power does not belong to the spectrum others understand. That's why they call it nihilon. Because when I act, nothing remains.
The title nihilon only belong to my tribe powers which i inherited or say imposed now.
That is why the world fears us. Not because we wield power, but because we can undo it.
The Unholy Civil War broke out because of that fear. Not of what unholy power could do—but that it couldn't be stopped. The world tried to bury us.
They failed.
Now, about our memories… They weren't erased. Merely suppressed. That tells us something important—this was a holy ability, not unholy. Temporary. Reversible.
But that raises the question...
Who cast it?
---
CRACK!
The campfire popped, sending sparks up into the night sky.
Then—
"AND MOST IMPORTANT OF ALL—SUNFIELD, WAKE UP!"
Stan's voice cut through the night like a blade.
Sunfield stood upright, eyes closed, swaying gently as if in a trance.
"…Honey chilli potato…" she murmured like someone halfway through a pleasant dream.
Stan threw his hands in the air. "Unbelievable! We agreed—not even an hour ago—to stay up and keep watch, and here you are, asleep on your feet!"
Sunfield's eyes blinked open slowly. "I wasn't asleep. I was... meditating."
"Right," Stan replied flatly. "Meditating about dinner?"
Before Sunfield could respond, a second voice spoke behind him.
"Honey chilli potato."
Nito. Calm as ever. Completely serious.
Stan turned around, squinting. "That's what you noticed, Nito? Out of everything?"
"It sounded delicious," Nito answered.
Visceria smiled faintly, adjusting her cloak. Even Yoma, ever the silent observer, allowed himself a brief breath of amusement.
Sunfield, now fully awake, stretched her arms overhead. "Well, if someone was kind enough to dream about food, I'd call that a public service."
"Public idiocy, more like," Stan muttered.
Sunfield glanced toward the fire. "Still... does anyone check the food packs?"
"No" stan remarked.
---
And so the laughter faded, replaced by long shadows and colder thoughts.
The fire burned low.
But even in the silence, the question remained.
Who tampered with their minds? Who feared the truth enough to bury it?
Because some strings can be pulled.
Some torn.
Some rewritten.
But sooner or later, all threads lead to the hand that holds them.
---------
The golden crisp of honey chilli potato cracked under Sunfield's bite, the sweet and spicy glaze still steaming. She leaned back against the low stone bench, a subtle victorious grin dancing on her lips.
Across from her, Stan sat with his arms draped over his knees, eyes heavy with thought.
"Really… I still can't believe I lost. To that topic," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, more to himself than anyone.
Nito walked up to him, the firelight glinting softly in his eyes. "It's been two days since you joined our team. Feels longer, doesn't it?"
Stan gave a tired laugh, "Thanks to your time tricks, it felt like a damn week."
They both chuckled. The fire crackled in response, casting long, dancing shadows over their faces.
"That was one long night too," Nito added, gazing up at the moon-veiled sky.
"It is," Stan agreed, then leaned in slightly, voice dropping. "Hey… who do you think is the odd one out? Visceria or Yoma?"
Nito blinked, caught off guard. He hesitated, then said cautiously, "Why are you so sure it's one of them?"
Stan didn't answer immediately. His eyes remained locked on the fire as if it held answers he hadn't yet understood. Then, slowly, he spoke.
"You know… my powers—they weren't inherited the usual way. I've always been a loner, preferred the quiet. I used to spend hours wandering the woods near my village. One day, I sensed… something. My instincts, they don't just warn me of danger. They can feel presence, potential, power…"
He leaned forward.
"That day, I felt something incredible buried beneath the earth. I couldn't ignore it. I dug with my bare hands. And there it was—a scabbard, etched with my village's crest."
Nito's eyes widened slightly as Stan continued.
"I brought it to my mom, full of excitement, like a kid showing off a treasure. She took it to the village elder. He said it matched records but… barely. Like someone wanted it hidden. When he tested it, it was just a blunt piece of metal. Harmless. So he gave it to me."
Stan raised his hand, palm open. A ripple of black liquid oozed from his skin, swirling upward before crystallizing into a dark, glassy blade. It hummed with a quiet resonance.
"This… is my weapon. The first time it revealed its true form was when civil war reached our village. I was running. A swordsman attacked me—I panicked, held onto the scabbard. And somehow, the sword formed inside me and appeared in my other hand. It blocked the attack."
He gave a faint smile. "It's pure defense. Literally zero offense. It cannot cut. Cannot harm. Just… protect. A shield in sword's form."
"Whoa… that's actually amazing," Nito said, leaning forward in awe.
Stan nodded, but his gaze grew distant. "When the elder gave it to me, he mentioned something odd… the name Nihilon. That word was etched into some forgotten scrolls."
He didn't tell Nito the full truth—that after fleeing his ruined village and becoming a vigilante in the outer provinces, he had spent months illegally combing through forbidden sections of the Royale Library. That he had found Nihilon mentioned as a lost artifact, a mythical defense weapon unseen for centuries. A weapon said to defy all laws of force.
No attack. Only survival.
He had never told anyone that part.
"Stan… Stan?" Nito's voice brought him back.
"Yeah—sorry. Got lost in thought."
Nito wasn't looking at him anymore. He was pointing toward the road beyond the firelight.
Stan turned, squinting into the darkness. The wind had stilled. The trees stood like sentinels. There, in the middle of the road—silent, unmoving—stood a figure. Just standing. Watching.
Their form was slender, robes fluttering in the night breeze. Face obscured beneath a dark hood. Not a flicker of movement.
"That…" Stan's breath caught. "That isn't one of ours."
Sunfield stood up, brushing crumbs off her coat, gaze sharpening. The warmth of her victory faded instantly.
Nito was already pulling fingers glowing faintly.
The figure didn't move. Didn't speak.
It just stood.
The fire flickered violently for a second—then calmed.
Stan felt it in his spine. Not danger. Not bloodlust.
But presence.
And somehow… this one felt older.
Like it's coming from somewhere else.
---