The Outcast of Accursed Blood.
There are kingdoms built on foundations more fragile than stone.
Not of walls, but of oaths; not of thrones, but of lies.
Beneath the towers and stained glass, where light seems pure, lies an older truth, more relentless, one no faith dares to name.
In the shadow of Edelstadt, chains gleam with gold, prayers are fed with flesh, and laughter echoes like the hymn of damnation.
Men do not kneel before virtue, but before what devours them.
Greed, lust, envy, sloth, gluttony, pride, wrath: a feast prepared at the table of an eternal banquet.
Each believes they belong there, but none question the one who watches from the darkness.
For there is always a spectator.
A silent gaze behind the mask, a breath suspended between life and death, a laugh rising between tears.
And that gaze seeks neither glory nor salvation: it seeks the fracture, the unseen wound of a world repeating and collapsing upon itself.
When kings cloak themselves in pride, when priests drown in lust, when heirs suffocate on envy, when merchants fatten on gluttony, when the mighty sleep in their sloth, when nobles are consumed by greed… then comes the final sin.
The one that refuses to be named.
The one that burns without end and feeds the circle.
And within that circle, there remain no heroes, no victims.
Only a naked truth, brutal, merciless:
the world was never saved—
it merely endured its own lies.