All characters, names, events, and plotlines in this novel are entirely original and created by the author.
Any resemblance to real persons or existing works is purely coincidental.
This work is not adapted, copied, or inspired directly from any existing novel, manhwa, or media
___
Chapter One
The Festival of Final Atonement
Snow fell upon the city of Val-Eden without mercy—
cold white flakes descending over streets so filthy they no longer remembered the last time they had been clean.
Mud was mixed with blood.
Stone was soaked with the remnants of prayers that were never answered.
People sat along the sides of the roads.
Barefoot.
Without warmth.
Without dignity.
Their bodies were wrapped in old bandages—
missing arms,
lost fingers,
eyes covered with black cloth.
No one cried.
In Val-Eden, tears were a luxury.
At the center of the Grand Square,
the statue stood.
A statue of a woman,
carved from polished white stone.
Her features were calm—unnaturally so.
Her eyes were sculpted as if gazing at something beyond the city…
beyond time itself.
Leticia Yurinetsa Grave.
The greatest sacrifice in Val-Eden’s history.
The saint who—according to the Church—
saved the city with her own body.
They said her blood became a blessing.
They said her bones still protected the walls.
They said many things…
until the shape of truth was forgotten.
This day was not ordinary.
It was the Festival of Final Atonement.
The day when “sins are forgiven.”
The day when “burdens are lightened.”
The day when every person offers…
a part of their body.
A piece of flesh.
A tooth.
A finger.
An eye.
Delivered to the Holy Church.
Blessed.
Then cast upon the chosen one.
The sacrifice.
The execution platform stood at the heart of the square,
its wood blackened from how much blood it had consumed.
Ropes hung loosely.
And the smell…
it was not the scent of snow.
The crowd gathered—
whispering,
wondering,
exchanging hungry glances.
“Who is it today?”
“Will they choose one of the nobles?”
“No… the Church wouldn’t dare.”
“I heard he’s already lost more than one limb this month…”
Everyone wanted a sacrifice.
Not out of hatred—
but out of comfort.
Because when a single body is offered,
everyone else feels their sins grow lighter.
The bells rang.
Deep.
Heavy.
As if the sound rose from the belly of the city itself.
The High Priest ascended the platform with deliberate slowness,
each step measured,
as if the ground itself had been created solely to bear his weight.
He raised his hands.
The crowd fell silent at once.
His voice emerged smooth and warm—
the voice of a man who knew exactly how to lull hearts
before cutting them open.
“Children of Val-Eden…”
He spoke as if reciting a prayer.
“Today, we stand united.
We lift our sins to the heavens,
and we give thanks to Saint Leticia Grave—
the greatest who ever offered,
the purest who ever bled,
whose blessing continues to descend upon us,
year after year.”
Heads bowed.
Not in reverence—
but out of habit.
“Today,” he continued,
“we restore balance.
Today, we forgive ourselves…
through a single body.”
And then—
A side gate in the square opened.
The man was dragged out.
Not led.
Not escorted.
Dragged.
Both his arms were gone.
So were his legs.
A mutilated body,
wrapped in tattered clothes that offered no protection from the cold.
His eyes were bound with filthy cloth.
He gasped for air,
his breath leaving him in short white clouds,
as though the air itself caused him pain.
A thick rope was looped around his neck.
It tightened without mercy,
pulling him across the frozen ground
like a dead dog being hauled away.
Two saints in pristine white robes—
white beyond what was natural—
dragged him to the center of the platform
and placed him before the people.
Not as a man.
But as a thing.
Suddenly,
a single sound tore through the stillness.
Crying.
A woman broke free from the crowd,
her hair disheveled,
her face soaked with tears and snow.
“My son…! He’s my son!”
she screamed,
collapsing to her knees.
She crawled toward the platform,
stretching out her trembling arms.
“Please… take me instead…”
“I still have my body…”
“I can offer more…”
No one answered her at first.
Then one of the saints turned to her,
regarding her with a gentle smile—
Cold.
“Sacrifice is not chosen,”
he said calmly.
“It is granted.”
The other smiled and added,
“Thank the Church.
Your month has been purified.”
The woman gasped,
staggered back,
her eyes widening with animal terror
as she realized no one was listening.
On the platform,
the man was crying.
A muffled, broken cry,
as though his voice no longer belonged to him.
One of the saints bent down,
patted his head with practiced tenderness.
“We thank you for your service,”
he said.
“Your blessing will cover the entire city.”
Then the Executioner stepped onto the platform.
The whispers died down.
Her footsteps were calm—
calmer than they should have been.
Her silver-white hair drifted with the snowy breeze,
as though it did not belong to this world.
Along her neck and arm,
old red stitches traced her skin.
Her black dress was torn,
thin,
utterly unfit for weather like this—
as if the cold held no meaning for her.
Her eyes—
Dark blood-red,
fixed on the ground as she walked.
She did not look at the crowd.
Nor at the priest.
Not even at the statue.
In her hand,
a long sword.
Its blade brushed the ground,
dragging behind her with a low sound
like the groan of exhausted metal.
She stopped behind the mutilated man,
close enough
to hear his fractured breathing.
The High Priest began to chant.
His voice rose and fell,
like a wave that drowned
but never saved.
“O Saint of Val-Eden…”
“O you who accepted the body as an offering…”
“O you who forgive those who give…”
Behind him,
the voices of the people rose.
Not in prayer—
but in request.
Whispers slid into the executioner’s ears,
clear,
naked,
ugly.
“I want more money this year… more than my neighbor.”
“Let my son live… take someone else’s.”
“Let my husband sicken slowly… so I may inherit.”
“I want beauty… even if another body is cut apart.”
“I want a position… anyone but me can be erased.”
Overlapping voices.
Greedy.
Panting.
No one asked for mercy.
No one asked for justice.
They asked only…
that they would not be next.
The executioner heard them all.
She heard the woman who thanked the saint
while wishing for her sister’s death.
She heard the man who offered a finger
and prayed for ten others to lose their heads.
She heard even the priest himself
when his heart fell silent and said:
Let the system endure.
She stood behind the man,
looking down at him.
At his incomplete body.
At his trembling.
At a fear that no longer knew how to escape.
Did he deserve it?
she asked herself, without sound.
Then she lifted her gaze slightly—
not toward the sky,
but toward the stone statue in the square.
The saint.
The sacrifice.
The lie.
With a small gesture from the High Priest—
a motion barely seen—
the sentence was passed.
The man began to cry.
Not loudly.
It was a final fracture.
His trembling lips moved beneath the blindfold,
and he whispered…
a single wish.
“…Mother.”
Lythia did not hesitate.
She raised the sword.
One motion.
Clean.
Calm—like a trained breath.
Then…
she did not stop.
The first strike severed.
The second erased shape.
The third reduced the head to shattered fragments,
scattering across the platform
as if it had never been human at all.
There was no anger in her movements.
No mercy.
No pleasure.
She was performing a task.
She bent slightly,
leaned toward the body that could no longer feel,
and whispered words meant for no one but herself:
“The pain is over.”
“No one will touch you again.”
Behind her,
the crowd erupted.
“We are purified!”
“I feel lighter!”
“The weight is gone—gone!”
“The saint’s blessing is upon us!”
“A new year… without sin!”
Laughter.
Hysterical sobbing.
Prostration in blood.
The High Priest raised his voice,
drowning in ecstasy:
“Thank the saint!”
“Thank the sacrifice!”
“Thank the body that carried your sins for you!”
And the prayer rose—
not as worship,
but as collective madness.
Lythia remained where she was.
The sword tilted.
Blood dripping slowly.
Her eyes steady.
Empty.
Then…
she stood upright.
Her silver-white hair lifted with the wind,
as though it had never touched blood.
As though it did not belong to this insanity.
And in that moment,
they began to throw their offerings at her.
Severed arms.
Fingers wrapped in cloth.
Fresh cuts of flesh.
They carved their own bodies apart—
without hesitation,
without screams.
“Take it! Take my sin!”
“Choose me this year!”
“Give me your blessing!”
“Let me survive!”
“Make me rich!”
Blood poured over her.
The snow turned red.
The square became an open altar.
She did not move.
She stood there—
amid limbs,
amid screams,
amid madness.
The executioner.
The saint.
The curse.
Lythia Grave.
The woman whose name the statue bore.
Who granted no blessing.
No forgiveness.
Only—
the result.
Comments (0)
See all