Orion woke in the middle of the night with no recollection of how he had fallen asleep. He stretched lazily, his limbs stiff from exhaustion, before pushing himself upright.
His gaze flickered to the corner of the room, where the red light of the security camera blinked repeatedly—a sign it had been turned off and then reactivated. Someone had been here. His eyes landed on the wooden box placed strategically on the desk. Nova.
The realization sent a chill down his spine. Not only had Nova delivered the weapon, but he had done so without Orion noticing. The ease with which he moved through the facility, unbothered by its security measures, confirmed it—Nova was someone important. He wielded influence within the Temple, slipping in and out undetected.
"Someone walked into your room, left a package, and you didn't even stir." Orion ran a hand down his face, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "Get it together. This pity act will get you killed."
Shaking off his unease, he slid out of bed and approached the desk. He lifted the lid of the wooden box, and immediately, a wave of warmth spilled into the room—a scent of ember and faint heat, like standing at the backdoor of a forge. Startled, he shut the box, cutting off the flow.
"Did he have these made today?" He murmured, reopening it with measured curiosity.
Inside lay a pair of black blades—long, sharp, and single-edged, precisely as he preferred. He traced a hand over the steel, his fingers gliding across the delicate star patterns etched into the surface—the constellation of Orion. His breath caught.
"Just who is he?"
Ordering a custom-enchanted weapon on short notice wasn't just expensive—it required power. Influence. Connections. The more he learned about Nova, the less he understood.
As Orion wrapped his fingers around one of the thin blades, a memory surged to the surface—the cold pit of the Church of Atonement, the scent of damp stone, the instructor's voice ringing through the darkness.
"Your weapon is your lifeline. Most of you will only have one ability—one you cannot abuse because of its cost. When that time comes, your weapon will be your rampart."
He had chosen twin blades that day.
First, because he was ambidextrous. Growing up with broken limbs had forced him to adapt—to wield a knife with whichever hand remained unshackled.
Second, because of their versatility. Whether in attack or defense, twin blades were adaptable, relentless.
And third, because of Abiel Charles, heir of the Church of Atonement, the Virtue of Hope: Light Sovereign. A dual-blade wielder, a legend in the making—Orion had modeled himself after him, chasing an ideal he would never reach.
He swung the blades a few times, testing their weight. They were perfect. Balanced. Deadly.
Sliding them back into the box, he muttered, "I'll need to ask for a scabbard next time."
Then, settling into the chair, he powered up the laptop.
Right now, what Orion needed most was information. His fingers danced across the virtual keyboard, moving in perfect rhythm. Within seconds, a trove of data on the Temple of Wrath filled his screen.
The Temple of Wrath was one of the seven major Sinbound factions on the planet. They held dominion over the northern regions, maintaining a delicate balance of power alongside the Order of Justice. Though they had hundreds of divisions worldwide, their true stronghold lay in the north, where their influence ran deep.
They boasted a Sinbound force of over a thousand registered members and five designated heirs—individuals who stood as potential successors to the faction's supreme ruler.
Founded during the Cataclysm, the Temple had carved its name into history with legendary feats, the most notable being the creation of the Sacred Citadel of Wrath—one of humanity's oldest and most formidable fortresses.
Their guiding philosophy was simple:
"Anger is the driving force of change."
Orion exhaled, leaning back in his chair. "Like all the other Sinbound factions, they practice the Dao of Indulgence."
Unlike more disciplined organizations, the Sinbounds did not believe in restraint. They embraced their impulses—wrath, greed, desire, pride—all to fuel their power.
The hierarchy of the Temple was straightforward:
The Eminence sat at the very top, overseeing the entire organization.
Arbiters governed vast regions under the Eminence's command.
Wardens led individual divisions, enforcing the faction's will.
And then there were the Envoys—the executioners of the Temple, sent out to fulfill its most crucial missions.
The Heirs were a special case. The title didn't belong to a single person. Any heir had the potential to become the next Eminence, but they had to prove their worth, rising through the ranks by power, influence, and survival.
Orion frowned as he scrolled further.
They were currently in the southern region of the continent—a place where the Temple of Wrath's influence was nearly nonexistent. If an heir had been stationed here, it could only mean one of two things:
They were weak and held little influence.
They had angered the wrong people.
Neither option was reassuring if he was to be a nexus to such heir.
The rumors about this heir were numerous—and none of them good.
A lecher. A bloodthirsty murderer.
In the past year alone, there had been six selection events for a Nexus, and each time, the selected individual had turned up dead within days.
Orion's stomach twisted. His grip on the desk tightened. "Why the hell is Nova sending me to this bloodsucker?" he muttered, his voice laced with unease.
Then—his breath hitched.
His body stiffened as memories clawed their way to the surface. The sting of whips. The dull crunch of a boot against his ribs. The metallic taste of blood pooling in his mouth.
His hand shook. He curled his fingers into a fist, forcing them still.
"Calm down, Orion." He inhaled sharply. "You're not five anymore. If he hurts you… you can just kill him."
However, while there were countless articles about the Church of Atonement, there wasn't a single mention of that night.
Orion's eyes narrowed. The Church had buried the incident, erasing every trace of it from public record. A scandal of that scale could have shaken their foundations, so, of course, they covered it up.
He was abandoned.
No parents. No background. No name that mattered.
The moment he lost his value—the second they deemed him worthless—they discarded him without hesitation.
Such was the fate of the powerless.