Ersia: Raven Dawn

For a single, impossible moment, the world forgot how to breathe.

The roar that had been building in the Great Gardenia—thousands of voices wound tight with anticipation—collapsed into nothing. Not silence born of calm, nor of reverence, but a vacuum so complete it rang louder than any cheer ever had. Sound did not fade; it was cut, as if reality itself had recoiled from what it had just allowed.

Haerang Seoryun’s body lay upon the dueling platform.

The head was separate now, eyes still open, expression frozen somewhere between resolve and surprise. Blood spread outward in slow, deliberate rivulets, dark against the pristine stage that had been conjured to promise fairness, safety, spectacle. The water encircling the arena reflected it all—red bleeding into blue, truth staining illusion.

Above the platform, the magic barriers still shimmered.

They had not fallen.

They had not intervened.

They stood intact, humming faintly, indifferent witnesses to a death they were meant to prevent. In that contradiction—barriers active, life extinguished—something fundamental cracked.

The referee remained on his elevated platform, one hand half-raised, the other clutching the whistle that had already done its duty. His body had forgotten its role. Intervene? Declare a foul? Flee? His knees trembled, but he did nothing. The system had given him no script for this.

Around the arena, the mirrors Haerang had summoned still floated, but only for a brief moment.

Black and white disks hovered at their ordained positions, reflections warped and fractured. They slowly begin to vanish with their master’s death. One by one, they slowly began to crack and disperse like dust in the wind.

Viena did not scream.

Her breath caught in her throat, thin and sharp, as if her lungs had suddenly cry for air in the face of a fresh fear. Her hands tightened around Lisabelle’s sleeve before she realized she had moved. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, were fixed on the stage.

She had seen blood before.

She had seen death in stories.

But this—this was different.

This was a place where people promised you could not die.

Her father’s stories surfaced unbidden: of masks, of crowds, of lies told loudly enough to sound like truth. The papier-mâché mask she held felt suddenly heavier, its edges biting into her palm. The manslayer who is standing in the arena right now was someone who had helped her gently, the one had kept her and Eleanor from harm that night in the dim streetlight.

The others, they fare no better. None among the spectators had the chance to utter a single word, when the arena’s barrier suddenly cracked.

At first, it was subtle—thin fractures creeping across its translucent surface, spreading slowly, patiently, as if the magic itself were hesitating, reluctant to admit defeat. Then the fractures multiplied. Lines intersected, pressure mounted—

And at last, the barrier shattered into countless fragments.

Instinctively, the audience shielded their faces, bracing for a storm of falling shards, certain they were about to be pierced by raining glass. But instead of crashing down, the fragments dissolved midair—fading like morning mountain mist, scattering into motes of light that shimmered briefly, glittering like summer fireflies, before vanishing entirely.

Then chaos erupted from the western side of the podium.

A commotion rippled outward as someone forcibly seized Bill Drury’s horn of resonance. The man revealed himself moments later—slender in build, with pale blond hair braided tightly along one temple. A half-mask covered the right side of his face, leaving the left exposed, where a distinct tattoo lay etched beneath his amber eye.

He inhaled deeply.

Slowly, deliberately, he brought the horn of resonance to his lips.

“Sit,” he commanded.

“And watch—calmly.”

What followed defied reason.

In an instant, every person within the arena—everyone—was immobilized.

Commoners, nobles, knights, seasoned warriors—none were spared. Even Randia, and Rudan, the disciple of Argenis watching from afar, found themselves frozen in place. It was as though an immense, invisible force pressed down upon them, binding their bodies to the earth. Limbs refused to move. Legs would not rise.

And most terrifying of all—

their mouths would not open.

The silence that followed was absolute.

At the same moment, the price was exacted.

The man’s right arm twisted violently, every joint rotating in the wrong direction with sickening force. Skin tore open as bone displaced flesh. The horn of resonance almost slipped from his grip due to the inexorable pain.

Blood sprayed outward, splattering the stone, horrifying those closest to him—including the two commentators he had moments earlier shoved aside.

"(Dictum?!)" Randia whispered inside his mind.

Even carrying within himself the divinity of the Seltis Pantheon, the power of Dictum showed him no mercy. It did not negotiate. It did not acknowledge resistance.

It commanded.

And Randia obeyed—locked in place, forced into silent submission.

Now the entire Great Gardenia was plunged into a stillness so complete it felt unnatural. Every soul present—peasants, aristocrats, elite knights sworn to protect the event—sat upright, eyes open, fully conscious, yet utterly unable to speak or act.

Then, movement returned—though not to any living person.

The scroll and brush lying beside Haerang’s corpse began to stir.

They lifted gently from the bloodstained stage, rising into the air as if guided by unseen hands. Slowly, gracefully, they floated—circling once—before settling into the grasp of a woman who now stood upon the platform.

Her face was obscured by a thin veil of black cloth, suspended from a dark circlet shaped like interwoven raven feathers. The veil concealed her identity, yet allowed the elegant silhouette of her features to remain visible—beautiful, sharp, and deliberate. She wore a long gothic gown adorned with lace and feather-like patterns, its sleeves faintly translucent. Her fingernails, painted black, gleamed faintly as her hands rested together, fingers gently clasped.

She stood with effortless poise. An omen given form.

Thus, the man with the destroyed arm spoke once more, his voice strained but resolute.

“This is the day that reveals everything.”

He hurled the horn of resonance—shaped like a goat’s horn engraved with gold and silver—toward Mr. Sunday, who caught it with ease. The two exchanged a slight bow, a subtle gesture of mutual acknowledgment.

Then—

Mr. Sunday stepped forward.

The performance truly began.

His voice carried across the immobilized arena—steady, sharp, utterly fearless.

“That is how long the hunt has begun.”

He paused.

The crowd shifted as much as the binding would allow.

“Before your grandfathers were born.

Before your gods tempered your fate through scriptures and sermon.

Four hundred years of fire, of leashes, of prayer.”

He laughed once—dry, broken.

“They call it a holy cause. A gallant sacrifice. A purification of a kind."

The silence imposed by Dictum pressed against every chest in the Great Gardenia, turning breath into weight and thought into captivity. Within that stillness, his words felt heavier than any shout.

“The deaths of red-eyed,” he said calmly,

“are forgotten as though they were never lives at all.”

He started to circle around the arena—not to command, but to ensure every syllable reached every corner of the arena.

"Mistari," he continued.

“A word spoken with fear, with disgust, sanctioned by the light bearers.”

His lips curved—not into a smile, but into something sharper.

“The Seltis Pantheon,” he said, voice steady, “did not merely give you gods.”

“They planted obedience. Absolute submission, wrapped in hymns and parables.”

He tapped his temple with two fingers.

“You were taught not to question.

Not to weigh.

Not to stand on your own thoughts—despite being fully capable of thinking, of doubting, of judging by your own accord."

His tone hardened.

“Tell me,” he asked quietly, “what kind of creature surrenders its mind willingly?”

The question lingered like a blade held inches from skin.

"Know that the most wretched thing a human can become,” he said,

“is not a sinner.”

His eyes sharpened.

"It is a person who refuses to stand on their own judgment.

A person who becomes a dog—for a false purpose,

the one who put leash on their neck, and giving the rein to hypocritical deities—"

His voice dropped.

“Gods who laugh at your willful servitude.”

Another pause.

“Gods who,” he added, “also bear red eyes.”

A ripple passed through the frozen audience—not movement, but realization struggling against enforced stillness.

“Yes,” Mr. Sunday said softly.

“The very gods you kneel to share the mark you are taught to fear.”

He straightened.

“And today,” he declared,

“I will prove the crimes of your gods—

and the dogs who bled for them—

before all of you.”

Then he asked, deliberately, unmistakably:

“Do you know the truth of The Night of Absolution?”

The Night of Absolution—

A revered tradition. A sacred hunt that only occured when the pantheon have chosen their champions.

A rite known in villages across Ersia.

“Every full moon,” he narrated,

“your heroes donned their masks.”

His eyes flicked upward, toward the stands.

“Along with their devotees. Their disciples. Their eager youths. Perhaps your very own sons or grandsons.”

He spread one hand.

“They called it a hunt for monsters.”

A step.

“A cleansing.”

Another.

“A chance for all to prove their courage and zealous faith.”

His voice sharpened.

“Villages would gather. Names would be offered. Torches lit. And finally, guided by masks and blessed water.”

The silence thickened.

“But monsters,” he said quietly,

“do not beg.”

His gaze burned.

“Monsters do not hide their children.”

Then—

The command was given.

The man who had wielded dictum lifted his ruined arm once more, blood still dripping, and invoked its power again—this time not through sound, but through silent authority and determination alone.

Masks rose from everyone's hands.

From vendors’ baskets.

From ceremonial racks.

From beneath seats and cloaks.

Papier-mâché. Wood. Bone. Painted smiles. Hollow-eyed caricatures meant for celebration rather than judgment.

Knights. Nobles. Merchants. Commoners and children. All distinctions dissolved beneath false smiles and blank expressions. The Great Gardenia became a uniform sea of anonymity; every individual reduced to the same faceless presence.

Only after the last mask had been secured did the man react.

His left hand—until now untouched, steady, normal—twisted violently.

There was no warning.

The joints rotated against their natural direction with a sickening sound, sharper and louder than before. Bone broke through skin. Flesh tore open. Blood poured down his arm, splattering against the stone floor in dark, uneven patterns. The damage was worse than what had happened to his right hand, as if the cost demanded escalation.

He did not scream.

His breath hitched once, sharply, and then steadied. Painkillers dulled the edge, but they could not erase it. Sweat beaded across his forehead as he clenched his jaw, standing upright despite the destruction of both arms.

.

.

.

Mr. Sunday slowly turned, taking in the sight before him.

Thousands of figures sat in perfect silence, faces hidden behind masks donned by their own hands. No banners were raised. No torches burned. And yet, the image was painfully familiar.

This was how it had always begun.

Not with screams.

Not with blood.

But with ordinary people wearing masks and calling it righteousness.

“The Night of Absolution was never about monsters.”

This was the night he remembered more clearly than any other.

Not this place, not these people—but this shape of silence.

The same obedience.

The same quiet horror that settled before violence ever did.

He had seen it once before.

On the night when laughter vanished from his home.

When names were torn from memory.

When those he loved were reduced to shadows and rumors, unworthy even of grief.

He then gestured slowly toward the crowd.

“It was never about monsters,” he said, his voice steady only because it had learned to be.

“It was about people who chose not to see.”

The words did not demand a response.

They did not need one.

They settled into the Great Gardenia like an ugliest and murkiest truth, heavy and inescapable.

The grand final match had ended long ago.

But something else had begun—something older than law, older than gods.

And as thousands of masked faces stared back at him in silence,

Mr. Sunday understood that the night which had taken everything from him had finally returned—

not to hide from,

but to be witnessed.