The bells never rang in the East.

They never had.

Every child in the world knew what the bells meant. When they rang, a hero had been chosen. Light would descend from the heavens, a divine name would be spoken, and somewhere—far away but close enough to matter—evil would be erased before it could take root.

But the East had no bells.

Arata learned this before he learned how to read.

His village existed beyond the borders of blessing. No banners flew above its gates, no knights passed through its roads. The earth was dry, the houses old, and the people lived with a quiet understanding: if monsters came, no one would come after them.

Still, they prayed.

They prayed to gods who had never answered.

Arata stood at the edge of the fields when the sky darkened.

It wasn’t sudden. Darkness never was. Clouds gathered slowly, heavy and red-tinted, as if the sky itself had begun to bleed. The air grew thick. Birds fled. The ground trembled once—just enough to be felt, not enough to warn.

Then the screaming began.

From the forest emerged creatures twisted beyond reason. Clawed limbs dragged across the earth. Eyes glowed with hunger, not rage—hunger. Monsters that had names in books written by people who would never see them.

Arata ran.

He ran past neighbors he had known his entire life. Past homes already burning. Past prayers shouted into a silent sky.

“Where are the heroes?!” someone screamed.

Arata looked up as he ran.

The heavens were empty.

No light descended. No bells rang. No divine voice spoke his village’s name.

By the time the sun rose, the East was quieter than it had ever been.

Smoke drifted where homes once stood. Bodies lay where people had fallen praying, running, fighting with bare hands against claws meant to tear steel. Arata stood among the ruins, his hands shaking, his chest hollow.

They came later—the holy knights.

Not to save them.

To investigate.

They walked through the ashes with clean armor and indifferent eyes. They spoke of “unfortunate timing” and “regions outside divine priority.” One of them looked at Arata and said something that would never leave him.

“The gods do not choose everyone.”

That was the moment something inside Arata broke.

Not with rage.

With understanding.

If the gods would not choose him…

Then he would survive without them.

And if the world was built on lies powerful enough to abandon entire lands—

Then one day, he would burn those lies down.