Under the veil of Sanctified Stand, the team pushed into the nightmarish streets of the outpost—where the rain of sweat and blood had stained the cobblestones a sick iron red. The screams had shifted, no longer ones of pleasure or twisted hunger. These were cries ripped from the throat, raw and broken. The people had become beasts of wrathful lust—torn between urges, tearing each other apart in spirals of violence that seemed to have no bottom.
And amid it all… the children.
They were not untouched by horror.
Koda found the first, a small girl no older than six, huddled beneath the wreckage of a fruit stall, her arms wrapped around a stuffed rabbit soaked through with someone else's blood. Her face was blank—too blank. She didn't even flinch as he knelt beside her.
She blinked up at him, then reached out with mechanical instinct, gripping his hand.
He carried her.
Junen found two more beneath a porch where a fire still smoldered—twins, maybe eight. One had a gash along his arm where something had splintered and broken near him, and the girl with him was shaking, whispering to herself, "Don't look, don't look, don't look," over and over. Junen wrapped her cloak around them both.
Terron found a boy near the well at the square's center. The child had crawled behind the stone ring and clawed at his ears so hard the skin had torn, trying not to hear what surrounded him. Terron didn't say a word. He knelt and lifted the boy with a reverence rarely seen in the war-hardened man.
Maia moved gently, silently, gathering children hiding in stairwells, closets, or barrels in abandoned carts. She carried two, guided another three with warm light flickering behind her eyes. Her Sanctuary pulsed with each step, calming their minds as best it could.
Deker, of all of them, was the most delicate with his words—speaking soft encouragements, funny distractions, naming flowers and naming colors to draw the kids out of frozen terror. The youngest, barely able to walk, reached out to him with trust that survived even this.
Wren held the rear with Thessa, casting small containment barriers to keep back those still enthralled by Lust or consumed by Wrath. They didn't try to fight—just to guide, to delay, to hold the horror at bay long enough for the others to return.
Each child was brought back to the inn one by one, their eyes gently covered, some wrapped in blankets torn from beds, others holding hands tightly enough to go white-knuckled. Some walked. Some were carried. None spoke once they saw the others. They only stared at the floor or clung to whoever was near.
The inn transformed—no longer a refuge for warriors, but a last bastion of innocence. The children were tucked into corners, lined with cushions, chairs, and cloaks. The windows were blocked. Sanctuary was made near-constant.
And when the last child was brought in—an infant found alone in a bloodied crib—Koda stood at the center of the room, soaked in sweat, the stench of fire and flesh clinging to him, and he looked to the others.
"We protect this place," he said.
"Whatever it takes."
Maia stepped beside him without needing to be called twice. She felt it in him—whatever it was building. The air had turned heavy again, but not with sin or corruption. With intent.
Koda raised his hand. She took his.
And together, Sanctuary of the Heart was called forth.
The divine resonance between them swelled, white-gold light rippling out from where they stood like a pulse from a living sun. It reached through the walls of the inn first, and the children quieted completely—not just from fear, but because they felt safe. It flowed out into the street, seeping into the cracks of cobblestone like balm on an infected wound.
But only so far.
The city moaned beyond their reach. The twisting perversion of lust still slithered, clinging to broken minds and writhing bodies.
Maia winced. "It's not enough."
And then Koda gasped.
He turned, his eyes wide, breath caught in his throat like something ancient had just brushed against his soul. His hand trembled. Not from fear. From clarity.
He turned toward the door of the inn, stepping past the light of Sanctuary, and raised his hand again—but this time not for safety.
This time for understanding.
He invoked Kindness—not as protection, not as restraint, but as insight. It poured out of him like a whisper of silk against rusted iron. And he aimed it at the echo of Lust still hanging over the city.
How could he not understand Lust?
He had seen it twist his friends, turn Maia into something desperate, make Thessa beg without knowing why, drive Wren past her dignity, and touch even the untouchable silence of Junen. He had seen what it did. But deeper still—he had seen what it wanted.
To be needed. To be wanted. To be consumed, because the absence of intimacy was a wound too deep to face.
He understood.
And that understanding rippled out.
The system flared. Light engulfed the corners of his vision. The Guide—long shaped by balance, charity, kindness, temperance—shifted. The divine voice of the system whispered not a skill, but a concept, and Koda spoke it aloud as it bloomed within him:
"Chastity."
New trait: Chastity (Divine)
"To be whole without possession. To guard the self, that it may remain unbroken."
Not denial. Not repression. But purity in identity. The strength to remain untouched, even while being seen. The power to hold oneself and say, I am mine.
Chastity met Lust not with denial, but restraint.
And Lust calmed in its logic.
Maia's Sanctuary surged with new resonance, reacting to the birth of this divine form. It was no longer just protection. It became preservation. Not from harm—but from corruption.
Outside, the moaning stopped.
Bodies slowed, froze, some collapsing, others weeping as if waking from a fevered nightmare. Hands uncurled. Eyes blinked, wide with horror and dawning awareness. In every direction, the unnatural frenzy died, and in its place… silence.
Not just quiet.
Stillness.
Chastity had taken hold.
Koda lowered his hand slowly, breathing like he'd just sprinted a mile. He looked to Maia. She had tears in her eyes. Not from fear. From relief.
The town was still.
And for the first time since dusk fell, they could all breathe.
Koda blinked slowly, the aftershock of divinity still humming behind his ribs like a tuning fork struck too hard. As the light began to fade, the system responded—not with fanfare, but with quiet, resonant finality.
A soft chime sounded in his ears.
And then—his status window opened unbidden.
---
Koda of the Eternal Guide
Level: 67
HP: 1060
Mana: 1060
Stamina: 1060
Stats:
Strength: 106
Vitality: 106
Agility: 106
Intelligence: 106
Wisdom: 106
Endurance: 106
Traits:
Maia's Beloved (Soul Bound)
Balance (Divine)
Temperance (Divine)
Charity (Divine)
Kindness (Divine)
Chastity (Divine)
Chastity (Divine)
"To be whole without possession. To guard the self, that it may remain unbroken."
Fortifies the body and defends the mind from domination, temptation, or suggestive influence.
---
The screen hung before him, glowing softly with silver-black light—pale, unwavering, serene.
This wasn't purity in the way old myths meant it. It wasn't some vow of denial or prudish rigidity.
It was strength in self. The refusal to be taken—by influence, by desire, by need unchosen.
And it was his now.
Koda closed the window. Exhaled. And turned back toward his party, toward the children, toward a world still trembling on the edge of ruin.
The silence that settled over the outpost was the kind that pressed into the chest—thick, suffocating, and wrong. The divine presence of Chastity still lingered faintly in the air like the scent of smoke after a blaze. But it couldn't erase what had already happened.
Terron was the first to speak. No jokes now. Just a nod.
"I'll hold the line," he muttered, already moving, hammer resting over one shoulder. "They'll stay safe."
Deker, who had been fidgeting with the hem of his tunic since they returned to the inn, nodded as well. "I'll set traps," he said, too serious for his usual self. "No one's getting through. Not now."
Together, they ushered the wide-eyed children into a back room. Deker moved around the space, setting flares and rune marks at the door, muttering calculations and trap conditions. Terron stood at the entrance like a sentry carved of stone, one hand resting on the hilt of his hammer, the other adjusting a small blanket over a trembling child's shoulders.
Meanwhile, Thessa and Maia wordlessly took their leave through the front. Maia's aura of divine light pulsed gently at her back like wings held half-open, casting a soft, guiding glow through the ash-colored streets. Thessa, expression unreadable, walked beside her with determined grace, flames flickering from her fingers—not to destroy, but to illuminate the wreckage.
They moved from building to building, alley to alley, quietly calling out. Some survivors they found curled in corners, bloodied but alive. Others sat catatonic, their minds broken from the night. Maia healed what bodies she could. Thessa did what she could for the souls.
They brought them to the front parlor of the inn, one by one, laying them on cots and cushioning them with blankets. Some wept. Some screamed. Others stared at nothing.
And Koda, alongside Wren, walked the streets in a different duty.
They didn't speak much—there wasn't much to say. The job was grim, and exacting. They found the bodies in alleyways, in doorways, in collapsed buildings and beds.
Some were still locked together in death, twisted in expressions of pain or pleasure or both. Others had been torn apart. A few, mercifully, looked peaceful.
Wren cast small circles of containment and preservation, drawing elegant lines with shaking fingers. Koda bore the weight of the dead. He lifted them carefully, reverently, as though their names still mattered even if he would never know them.
He laid a woman across his arms who could not have been older than Maia. Her neck was broken. Her arms scratched bloody. He closed her eyes with trembling fingers.
They lined the bodies beside the inn. Quiet rows. No fire yet. Just a growing sea of silence beneath a rising sun.
This was the aftermath of Wrath's ascension.
Not conquest. Not survival.
Just loss—pure and choking.
And still, they worked. Because someone had to.
They left at dawn.
The outpost sat quiet behind them, the faint light of the pyres still bouncing off the walls, stripped of sound but not memory. No one spoke as the caravan began to move—just the low rumble of wheels over dirt, the steady creak of wooden frames, the faint clink of armor and tools. The survivors rode in silence, many staring at the horizon with eyes too hollow for tears.
Koda and his party led them, each riding or walking near one of the covered carriages. They had done what they could: fed the children, wrapped the injured, kept the scared from unraveling. But some wounds were beyond bandages and soft words.
Days passed slowly.
Thessa spent the long hours tending to fevers, soothing minds, letting her fire run warm over shivering skin. Maia rode near the children's cart, always humming something low and soothing, her presence a balm even when her words failed.
Terron and Deker scouted ahead, clearing obstacles and ensuring no danger would take them by surprise. Even Deker's normally boundless energy had quieted to a steady, focused rhythm.
Wren helped organize, building systems on the move—schedule, ration plans, a rotating watch. She didn't sleep much.
And Koda, he bore the weight of command silently. Every time a survivor looked to him, their eyes whispered the same thing:
You saw us. You saved us. Please don't forget us.
He wouldn't.
When they reached the capital, the gates opened solemnly. No cheering. No heralds.
Just a reverent hush.
The Holy Mother's Church opened their arms to the children. Cloaked sisters filed in like a tide of white and gold, guiding small hands and weary eyes inside. Some children reached back for Koda or Maia or Thessa, not ready to say goodbye.
One boy—barely a year old—was left with the sisters without a word. His mother, standing nearby, trembling, gave no name. She turned and walked away.
No one stopped her. Maia watched her go, a storm behind her eyes, but said nothing.
The adults were taken in by various temples—some to rest, some to scream, some to heal in whatever way time would allow. Priests and priestesses led them with open arms, but even divine care could only reach so deep.
The scars they bore would not vanish with prayer.
Koda stood before the Council later that same day. Behind closed doors, in a room of carved stone and etched banners, he told them everything.
Of Lust's corruption.
Of Wrath's arrival.
Of what happened to the town.
And what they had to become to stop it.
He gave his report plainly, without flare or embellishment. Just the truth.
And when it was over, the room was quiet. Council members shifted uncomfortably. Some bowed their heads. Others whispered to aides, taking notes with pale faces.
But Koda did not stay to comfort them.
He had already seen too much.
The house was quiet when they returned, a gift from the order to house their operations from nearly a year ago now.
A rare stillness settled into its wooden bones as dusk fell, cloaking the city in the soft, rose-colored light of the setting sun. For once, the air wasn't filled with tension or movement—just the faint sound of birds settling in trees, and the steady rhythm of footfalls on worn floorboards.
Maia was gone for the evening, answering the call of the Holy Mother's Church to aid the children they had rescued. She had accepted the request without hesitation, though the pain in her eyes had lingered. Koda had watched her leave with a silent nod, understanding the need—the urgency—of helping those young hearts find some sliver of peace before the darkness of night returned.
And so, with the house to themselves, Koda moved from room to room, checking on his team—not as a commander, but as something more intimate now. A brother. A guardian. A friend who had seen them all stripped to the soul.
Terron and Deker were first.
They sat side by side on the front steps, the lingering scent of cooked meat and smoke in the air, having just finished a shared meal. Deker was still in mid-story—something ridiculous about mistaking a nest of crows for a shadow beast—while Terron laughed with his arms crossed, head tilted back.
Koda approached, and they both quieted.
He didn't say much. Just thanked them for their steadiness, for holding the line, for defending the children when the world lost its sanity.
Terron nodded with a grunt of acknowledgment.
Deker grinned, but it was softer than usual. "Anytime, boss."
There were no wounds between them that required gentle words. Not yet.
Junen's door was slightly ajar.
Koda knocked anyway, lightly. She was at her desk, sharpening one of her small blades, her expression tight with thought. When she turned, she met his gaze with the calm intensity that defined her—but there was a fragility to it tonight, like glass just beginning to crack.
"Can I sit?" Koda asked.
She nodded, and they sat by the window, where the last orange rays touched her face.
They didn't speak right away.
Finally, Junen exhaled, low and long. "You saw it all. What we were like." Her voice didn't tremble, but it was quieter than usual.
"I saw what we were made to become," Koda replied. "Not who we are."
Her gaze faltered then, flickering to the floor. "I keep replaying it. The moment I opened that door… how I was dressed, what I was thinking. I didn't realize. Not fully." She shook her head, a rare hint of color rising to her cheeks. "It wasn't me, but still. It was me. And I hate that."
Koda didn't flinch. "You weren't alone. Every one of us was touched by that curse. But you were still you—you kept your mind when it mattered most. You followed me into that hell."
Junen let that sit in silence, the edge of her blade forgotten on her lap.
"I just… I needed you to know I was sorry. Even if I wasn't in control."
Koda gave her a gentle nod. "I know. And thank you for trusting me."
She gave a small smile—barely there, but real.
"I'll be alright," she said eventually. "But I think we all need time."
——
Thessa's room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a small oil lamp. Her armor had been neatly stored in the corner, and she sat on the edge of her bed, posture tight, hands clenched in her lap. She didn't look up when Koda knocked, only said softly, "You can come in."
He entered quietly, closing the door behind him, but didn't approach her right away. He gave her space.
She broke the silence before he could speak.
"I thought I'd be better than that," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I thought my faith, my training… the Holy Mother's teachings would shield me. But when the curse took hold… I wasn't a shield. I was…" Her lips pressed together. "Something else entirely."
Koda stepped forward then, slowly, like you might approach someone teetering at the edge of a fall.
"You weren't weak," he said, voice calm but firm. "You were cursed. None of us were untouched."
Thessa finally looked at him. Her eyes were glassy, holding back tears not from pain, but from shame. "I—I was raised where the creation of life was sacred. A bond of purpose, of soul and grace. But that night…" She swallowed hard. "There was nothing sacred in what I felt. It was hunger. It was need. Like I wasn't myself."
Koda knelt in front of her—not as a superior, but as someone willing to meet her where she was.
"And yet, when I found you," he said gently, "you looked at me and begged for help. You didn't give in, Thessa. You were trapped, and still you fought to hold on. That's not shameful. That's strength."
"But I—" she started, but he cut her off with a slight shake of his head.
"You're not alone in this. Every one of us was pulled under. You weren't lesser because of it. You survived it. You found your way back."
Her eyes brimmed over, a tear falling freely down one cheek. "I still feel… stained. Like I failed her. The Holy Mother."
Koda's expression remained steady. "You didn't fail her. You endured. You reached out, and someone reached back. That's faith, Thessa. Not perfection. Not immunity. Just the will to stand again after being broken."
She looked at him for a long time, and then, quietly, "Do you believe I can still be… that shield?"
"I never stopped believing it," he said. "And I think the children we brought home are proof enough."
Thessa wiped at her eyes with her sleeve and managed the smallest smile. "Thank you, Koda. Truly."
He nodded and stood, giving her a moment to breathe before quietly exiting the room.
——
Wren's room was still and quiet, its windows drawn shut, light only leaking in around the edges of the curtains. Books were stacked in tidy rows along the shelves—she had started reading again since returning—but nothing in the room moved now. Not until Koda knocked.
"Come in," came her voice, cool but not cold.
He opened the door slowly. Wren sat in a high-backed chair near the window, her legs crossed, a book unopened in her lap. She watched him enter, dark eyes unreadable, her posture impeccable. But there was a tightness in her jaw—something guarded.
"I figured we might talk," Koda said.
She nodded once, the gesture sharp and small. "Of course. I assumed you would."
He stood for a moment, unsure if he should sit. She motioned wordlessly to the second chair across from her. He took it.
"I don't believe in wasting time, so let's just say it," Wren said, voice calm. "You saw me. In a way I didn't expect anyone to. Certainly not you."
Koda didn't interrupt. He let her speak.
"I lost control," she went on, not looking away. "I don't blame the curse. Not entirely. I always thought I was above that kind of thing. Pattern, control, logic—they've always been my refuge. But that night… they abandoned me. Or I abandoned them. I don't know which."
Her fingers flexed on the cover of the book, not opening it. "I touched myself with no regard. I didn't care who saw me until I did. And when I did…" Her voice cracked, but only just. "I don't think I've ever felt more ashamed."
Koda leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice quiet.
"You're not weak, Wren. What I saw wasn't shameful. It was you, overtaken by something inhuman. You saw what it did to that town."
She met his eyes then, and the cool facade faltered for a moment. Just a moment. "But I lost control."
"You're human," Koda said. "You fought it, even if it didn't look like it. And when I touched your forehead, you thanked me. You came back. That matters."
Wren looked down at the book now, slowly opening it but not reading. "I think what frightens me most is how much of it felt… good. Not the pleasure. The surrender. The release from control."
Silence.
"I've built my whole life around understanding systems, mastering complexity. And for a moment, all I wanted was to dissolve into something chaotic and primal. That haunts me more than anything else."
Koda nodded slowly. "Wanting escape isn't a weakness either. You've carried weight few understand. I'd never hold that moment against you."
She shut the book again, resting her hand flat on it. "I appreciate that, Koda. I do. I'm not sure I forgive myself yet. But your words help."
He stood, and after a moment of hesitation, so did she.
"Thank you," she said, and this time, the mask slipped enough to show a glimpse of real vulnerability.
Koda gave a small nod. "You don't have to forgive yourself all at once. But don't shut yourself off because of it. We still need you."
She gave a slight smile—tight, but genuine. "I'll be ready."
——
Maia stepped through the front door as the first hints of dawn broke against the city's stone. Her cloak was dusted with sleep and starlight, and her steps, though quiet, bore the soft drag of exhaustion. She closed the door behind her with care and barely had time to slip off her shoes before she felt arms wrap gently around her.
Koda pulled her into him without a word, and she sank into his embrace like it was the first time she'd rested all night. Her head nestled into the crook of his shoulder, a content sigh escaping her lips.
"I waited up," he murmured.
"I guessed," she said, muffled into his chest. "You're stubborn like that."
He smiled into her hair, then pulled back slightly, enough to see her face. Her eyes were red around the edges, rimmed with fatigue, but she was still her—steady, whole, and warm.
"Do you want to talk about that night?" he asked gently.
She blinked slowly, then tilted her head with a smirk. "What, the Lust thing?"
Koda raised an eyebrow.
Maia gave a tired laugh, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I mean, sure—I felt it. The desire, the pull. But you've seen me when I really want you." Her eyes twinkled, even in her weariness. "It wasn't that far off from how I usually feel when we're together. Maybe a bit more intense. Like… hunger after a fast."
She took his hand and led him to sit with her near the hearth, where the embers still faintly glowed.
"It didn't feel invasive," she said. "More like something that stirred up things I already had in me. And if I'm being honest…" she paused, biting her lip in thought. "When you told me what you saw in the others, I wasn't ashamed or afraid. I was… almost jealous."
Koda blinked.
"Jealous?" he echoed.
She laughed softly. "You barged into everyone's rooms. Saving them, helping them. I don't know, maybe I wanted to be the only one who needed you." Her gaze softened, becoming more earnest. "I'm not saying it was rational. But maybe I was touched by Envy more than Lust."
He squeezed her hand, a comforting pulse of warmth passing between them.
"But I'm fine," she continued. "It didn't hurt me. And when you used your skill at the end—when you formed Chastity—I felt it. Deeply. It resonated with the sanctuary I cast. Like it wrapped around it and made it stronger. Like it was meant to exist."
Koda nodded slowly, thoughtful. "It was born of what I saw, of what I needed to protect everyone."
"And it worked," she said. "We saw a miracle, Koda. A new divine trait, forged through sheer will and purpose."
She leaned into him again. "So no, I don't need healing. Not from that night. I'm just tired, and I missed you."
He smiled and rested his head against hers.
"Then rest," he said. "I'll still be here when you wake."
And for the first time since the nightmare began, they both found sleep easily.