A young girl stands atop the needlepoint spire of a dilapidated high-rise, her silhouette backlit by a bruised dusk sky. Her bright blue pigtails whip in the wind, dress fluttering violently like a warning flag. Below, onlookers shout — a mix of panic and irritation.

She ignores them all.

Clutching the hem of her tattered pink dress, she raises her chin and declares with eerie certainty:

"I am Melissa Guildford — future master of humanity and the next God."

She closes her eyes, breathing calmly.

"Death does not oppose me. I have conquered it. There shall be no resistance to my utter control."

The crowd goes quiet. Not out of respect — out of discomfort. The word "God" is taboo. The arrogance, the absurdity of the claim, has drained their curiosity. They begin to walk away.

Melissa grins. Not in sadness. In revelation.

Her foot lifts. The wind howls louder.

She jumps.

A crackle of electricity.

Before she hits the pavement, she's caught — effortlessly — in the arms of a figure clad in gleaming white armor, a Saint of Floria.

He holds her aloft like a kitten and drops her unceremoniously to the ground.

"You got really arrogant up there," the Saint mutters with a cocky grin. "Letting you die might’ve been a good lesson."

He leans in, voice darkening.

"But that’d be bad for my image."

He flicks a card into her hand. It reads:

Miles Phillips – Third Saint of Floria.

Then he walks away, cape billowing, armor shining like a false halo.

Melissa doesn't call after him.

But her smile is gone.

Her fingers tighten around the card until blood trickles from her palm.

**"You should’ve listened."**

She walks through the slums of Flora — the true city beneath the towers and temples. A rot-smelling alleyway of rusted pipes, broken homes, snarling dogs. The air stings like ammonia.

She passes neighbors who pretend not to see her, and feral children gnawing bones. The city is dying.

The Saints do nothing.

They chase ghosts and myths while the red-haired imp — the real threat — slaughters contestants in the Trials. Melissa scoffs.

They should have seen her.

She arrives at her home — not a palace by design, but by will. A mansion of marble and impossible geometry, out of place among the filth.

She slams the door behind her, retreating to the heart of the house. Her breathing calms. She walks to a mirror and stares.

Her face twists. Changes.

The girl is still there.

But so is something else.

Ancient. Terrifying. Timeless.

"They should have paid more attention to a God."