Gospel of Blood

Charlotte didn't know how long she had slept.

When her consciousness resurfaced, she was awakened by the sound of the wind howling and the biting cold.

Slowly opening her eyes, what she saw was not the lid of the coffin inlaid with luminous crystals. Instead, it was a roof made of grass, stones, and wood.

Charlotte was lying on a pile of dry grass, covered with a dirty, gray-black sheepskin blanket. The fierce wind caused the roof to creak as if it could collapse at any moment.

Flickering firelight cast a dim glow over everything, and she could hear the crackling of burning wood and smell the musty scent of burning wood and vegetation.

Snowflakes drifted in through the gaps in the roof and windows, landing on Charlotte's small face, cold and crisp, gradually waking up her sluggish thoughts.

Looking at the unfamiliar straw hut, Charlotte was confused.

Wait a minute...

Wasn't she sleeping in a coffin?

Charlotte tried to get up, but her limbs were so sore and stiff that it felt as if they hadn't moved for centuries.

Unwilling to give up, she attempted to use her magic, only to be shocked to find that her magic had disappeared.

This discovery sent a chill through her, and she struggled to get up despite the pain and stiffness in her limbs.

"Ah, you're awake."

A hoarse, deep voice sounded nearby, in an unfamiliar accent, instantly putting Charlotte on alert.

Like a startled rabbit, she looked toward the source of the voice.

By the burning campfire, she saw a tall figure clad in animal skins, carrying a bow and a hunting knife. It was a middle-aged man with a thick, forest-like beard and eyes of a deep blue that spoke of years of hardship.

"Don't be afraid. I mean you no harm. I found you unconscious outside and brought you in to keep you from the dangers of the wind and snow."

Seeing Charlotte's wary expression, the middle-aged man said.

Outside? Dangers?

Charlotte was puzzled.

She looked down at herself and found that she was still wearing the nightgown she had chosen before entering the coffin, but over it was an ill-fitting animal skin cloak.

Or rather, it was more like a primitive fur wrap than a proper cloak.

"Who are you? Where is this place?"

Feeling the biting wind, Charlotte tightened the fur wrap and asked warily.

"My name is Hafdan, a storm hunter. You can also call me Big Beard. As for this place... this is the northern border of the High Tower Kingdom, a place where the light of the Prophets scarcely reaches."

The middle-aged hunter replied.

High Tower Kingdom? Prophets? Light?

Charlotte was even more confused.

She understood each word individually, but together they made no sense to her.

Having studied the cultures and political landscapes of Myria, she had never heard of a High Tower Kingdom or anything about Prophets.

Her first thought was that she was still dreaming, but this dream felt too real.

She pinched her thigh hard.

Ouch—

It hurt.

This... didn't seem like a dream!

But if it wasn't a dream, how did she wake up in such a place resembling a northern tribe?

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"Hafdan, can you tell me the date and year today?"

Charlotte asked after a moment's thought.

"The date? No one in the North keeps track of such things. But the Prophets last sent someone ten days ago, so it should be the eleventh day of the Month of Cold Winds."

"And the year... it should be the year 466 of the Prophetic Era."

The hunter, Hafdan, replied.

Month of Cold Winds? Prophetic Era?

Charlotte was even more perplexed.

The Month of Cold Winds sounded like winter, which made sense since she went to sleep on Ninth Month 15, 1445, of the Holy Calendar and should have woken up in winter.

But what was this Prophetic Era 466?

She had never heard of such a calendar!

Since the establishment of the Yunette Empire supported by the Holy Court, even the stubborn elves had changed their calendar, so where did this Prophetic Era come from?

Could it be that she transmigrated again after falling asleep?

But that didn't make sense either. The language was familiar, albeit with a rough and obscure accent, it was indeed the Common Tongue derived from the elven language of Myria.

Or perhaps... she had slept for an unknown number of years?

Seeing Charlotte's bewildered expression, the hunter, Hafdan, hesitated and asked.

"Judging by your clothing and appearance, you... shouldn't be from the North. Are you a follower of the Prophets? Why were you unconscious in the wild?"

"A follower... of the Prophets?"

Charlotte was confused, not understanding what he meant.

After thinking for a moment, she lightly shook her head and said.

"I... don't know. It seems like I can't remember much."

"Can't remember?"

Hafdan furrowed his brows and asked.

"Do you remember your name?"

Charlotte was about to answer but hesitated, then shook her head again.

"I... don't remember either."

"Don't remember?"

Hafdan's frown deepened.

He carefully examined Charlotte and then said thoughtfully.

"Your clothing is certainly not from the North. It looks more like the attire of the Prophets."

"Not only that, you may not have the divine ears, but you possess a face almost like the Prophets. I think... your identity must be related to the Prophets, perhaps a follower or even... a blessed child of the Prophets."

"A follower? A blessed child? What does that mean? And who are the Prophets?"

Charlotte asked with a frown.

Hafdan looked both awed and respectful.

"A follower of the Prophets is someone bestowed with God-like powers by the Prophets, able to control fire and manipulate the snow..."

"As for a blessed child, that's a descendant of the Prophets and the chosen ones, possessing the bloodline of the Prophets and similar God-like powers."

"And the Prophets..."

Hafdan's expression became solemn and reverent.

"They are the descendants of the Gods, possessing God-like powers, the founders of the Divine Age, and the rulers of all beings... They came from th Divine Grace Continent, bringing extraordinary power and strength to the wild world of Myria!"

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