The crowd cheered as the pyre was lit.
Flames roared to life, licking at the wooden cross where the heretic was bound. Smoke curled into the blood-red sky like the claws of some ancient beast. The city square was packed wall to wall—priests, nobles, beggars, soldiers—all gathered to watch the spectacle.
Their entertainment for the day.
Kael Draven didn't scream.
He stood tall despite the broken bones beneath his bloodstained cloak. His wrists were chained above his head, his silver hair matted with ash and dried blood. His golden eyes, dulled but not broken, scanned the crowd.
"Any last words, traitor?" the bishop shouted from the balcony above, voice booming across the square.
Kael didn't answer right away. The flames at his feet flared hungrily, but they had not yet touched him. Only the dry wood sizzled. The scent of smoke filled his lungs.
He closed his eyes.
This is justice?
He heard a child crying in the distance. A mother hush her quickly. No mercy. No pity.
"Speak, if you have breath left," the bishop snarled, lifting a staff carved with the seven holy symbols of Sin—Wrath, Greed, Lust, Envy, Gluttony, Sloth, Pride. "Repent, and your soul might yet be cleansed."
Kael looked up.
And smiled.
"You think sin makes you divine?" he said softly, voice cutting through the fire's roar like a blade. "Then may the divine choke on its own pride."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The bishop's face twisted. "BURN HIM!"
The pyre exploded upward. Fire surged around Kael's body, a vortex of heat and light. Wood cracked. Iron groaned. People screamed. The executioners stepped back, shielding their faces.
And then…
Silence.
The fire froze in mid-air.
Every ember. Every spark. Suspended. As if time itself had been sliced open.
Kael's eyes opened.
They glowed.
[Virtue Detected: Patience +10]
[New Skill Unlocked: Stillness Zone Lv.1]
"Time slows within a 5-meter radius. Duration: 3 seconds. Cooldown: 30 seconds."
He took a breath. Inhaled stillness. Exhaled fire.
And the flames turned.
They didn't burn him—they bent around him like wind around a mountain.
Chains shattered.
Kael stepped down from the burning cross, unscathed.
The crowd erupted into screams—not of celebration, but of terror.
"He's… he's a Virtuous!"
"Impossible! That power was purged a century ago!"
"He should be dead!"
Soldiers rushed forward with blades drawn. Kael walked through them as if they were ghosts, time still lagging around him. One man swung a halberd. Kael side-stepped it before the blade finished its arc.
He reached out with one hand and touched the soldier's chest.
[Mercy Given: +1 Virtue Point]
The man collapsed—not dead, but frozen in place, eyes wide.
Kael walked on.
The bishop on the balcony backed away, clutching his staff like a lifeline. "Y-You were supposed to burn!"
Kael looked up at him with no hatred in his eyes—only understanding.
"You fear what you can't control," he said. "That's why you burned the scrolls. Hunted the virtuous. Buried the truth."
The bishop screamed. "ARCHERS! KILL HIM!"
Dozens of arrows flew through the smoke.
Kael raised a single hand.
[Skill: Stillness Zone – Activated]
The world slowed. The arrows moved like drifting feathers.
Kael stepped through the air, walking up the burning pyre like stairs, slipping past every arrow, every flame.
He landed on the balcony.
The bishop tried to speak—Kael hit him with the back of his hand. The man crumpled like cloth.
Kael turned to the crowd below.
They were no longer cheering.
Some knelt. Some fled. Others watched in silence, unsure if they were witnessing a miracle or a monster.
Kael's cloak fluttered in the heat. His boots smoked. Ash swirled like falling snow.
"I was a knight of the Holy Church," he said. "I fought for it. Killed for it. Believed in it."
He paused. Let the words settle.
"But faith built on fear is not holy. And a god who demands sin is no god at all."
Lightning cracked above. The cathedral spire in the distance groaned, weakened by fire.
Kael turned his back to the church.
"I will find the others," he said. "The heirs. The last bearers of the Forbidden Virtues."
He stepped off the balcony—and landed gently, as if gravity itself dared not disobey.
"And when we return," he whispered, eyes burning gold, "we will not kneel."
Then he walked into the flames.
And the flames parted for him.