Since the first story was told around a dying fire, we've known that to conquer the unknown, we must give it a name.
A new discovery is nothing but a phantom until a label attaches itself to the concept, compressing a mountain of truth into a single, efficient word.
We've built our entire reality out of these linguistic bricks. Yet, what happens when we stumble upon a truth too vast for the dictionary of mortals?
Nay, the question has an intuitive answer. It would be more interesting to question whether or not humans can truly reach the peak of everything.
Do not take infinity lightly. One person, a trillion, even googol of souls are mere dots in an endless, blank void.
It is impossible for any creature to imagine such concepts, we can only make assumptions on them, eternally chasing a horizon we may never reach.
Though, there are existences that abandoned the limited path, chose to defy the heavens and may have seen for themselves what we could only dream about.
Beings that have left the realm of human understanding, disappearing into the unknown truth and rarely appearing in the eyes of mortals, they are known by the name "Immortals."
This brings us to the city of Wàn Shān Chéng. It's peculiarity lies in a singular fact: An immortal being, the supreme guardian, overlooking the small self-sustaining world etched deeply into a mountain range.
This immortal, Bellissima Celestia, has a strange hobby – changing her form to explore her city, blending into the canvas as another mortal.
She hops through shops with a bright smile, dresses like a girl following a trendy fashion, and infiltrating cliques were not off her schedule either.
There was just one flaw in her disguise.
Occasionally, when chatting with locals, she would slip into their minds. No matter who it was, one thought repeated like a video on loop: "Wow, it's Bellissima Celestia!" Which distracts the disguised maiden.
The last time she had walked these streets disguised, generations of normal humans had already lived and died. So how do these complete strangers see right through her?
You need not think deeper because the guardian herself knows the answer.
While people who she had once met may not have lived on, while her outer appearance constantly shifted, the legends left behind by the previous generations live on in the minds of others like a never-ending flame. In a way, those deceased continued to live on as a story, a thought or an idea.
She didn't pay attention when everything snowballed into the current situation, but it's clear that Bellissima Celestia had become a myth without her knowing.
While the immortal loved watching Wàn Shān Chéng evolve, Bellissima occasionally craved the essence of the past.
Amidst the eternally changing societal jungle, she sought out a pub that had stood unmoved for many millennia: "The million drinks."
Stepping inside, she was enveloped by a wave of nostalgia, the same familiar scent, the same roaring laughter that shook the pub she had visited long ago.
The people had changed, but the atmosphere was unmoved by the tidal waves of time. However, something was entirely new: the young lad greeting her at the door dressed as a maid.
He had long black hair tied neatly in a bun, held a welcome sign, and wore a full, frilly maid dress. His face was flushed with a tint of red, radiating pure energy of embarrassment. This was Amamuren.
A drowning sense of comedy mixed into her old memories. Bellissima chuckled at the blushing boy, who looked as though he might pass out on the spot.
"Good day to you, milady," a middle-aged man called out to the woman with inky-black hair as she slowly walked towards the counter. "We've updated the menu, but we kept the dishes you liked two hundred years ago." Mo Yingui giggled.
"And I thought my disguise was getting better," she smiled, shifting her eyes towards the boy standing at the entrance. "What did this kid do?"
Mo Yingui followed her gaze, which landed on Amamuren, a sinister grin spreading across his face. "Couldn't pay his tab. He's working off his sins."
"I know you well, you wouldn't charge someone who truly couldn't afford it," she sighed, then looked at the white haired man with amusement. "Is he your disciple?"
"… Hmm… He's good at washing the dishes."
"That's not what I meant…"
"You already know the answer to that question."
"But, as you can see…" He looked at the blushing man clutching the long black and white maid dress, occasionally lashing out at the sarcastic whistles casted by the men and women within the pub. "He's still too young."
Mo Yingui laughed, making sure his loud tremors could enter the maid's flustered ears. Amamuren was thoroughly miserable.
Every time the entrance bell rang, a new group of judging eyes jabbed at his pride. As Amamuren was contemplating his life's choices…
Ding, the bell chimed once again.
The door gave way to a modest creak. Amamuren braced himself, expecting yet another regular to step in and mock his outfit.
But expectations are often met with rejection. Two people striding modestly walked in with arms interlinked – A man and a woman.
Jet-black wavy hair like a stormy sea, a powerful gaze that of a hawk, and muscles tempered with years of built-up scars. The man looked like a high-ranking commander straight out of a royal court, though he wore ragged brown clothing that of a farmer's, refined into a fit meant for battle.
The woman had light brown hair covered by a straw hat, with a joyous face looking up at the man, delicate as a bright flower illuminating the meadow with their sole presence.
Their bubble of affection quickly popped the moment they locked eyes with a young man about their age in a maid dress. An awkward, heavy silence stretched between them.
"I guess… this is normal for the city?" The man looked over at the girl with confusion, noticing her curious, yet opinionated look. "We shouldn't judge, Mary."
Amamuren could only laugh at his predicament. The woman stared at him like a cat seeing a strange new toy, while the man awkwardly tried to make sense of the unfamiliar situation, trying, but not being able to resist making assumptions.
"It's not normal…" Amamuren sighed, "I'm just being punished."
"I-is that so?" Mary stammered, blinking with confusion.
"Yes."
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Wàn Shān Chéng was a distant dream in the eyes of many people. No matter how many horses were to their name, the city remained like the North Star – Unmoved, eternal, and entirely elusive.
Even more so for the starving children that looked like skeletons, drawing their final, shallow breaths. Old men and women, ravaged by beasts, crawled for survival in a desperate wasteland abandoned by the river.
They were the discarded remnants of the fleeing villagers, left behind because the sickly would only slow the group down.
Green eyes glared at the horrific sight, filled with absolute contempt for the tragedy. Emotions swirled like a raging whirlpool that could swallow up entire fleets. One moment it was blinding anger, the next, her brow furrowed as a wave of deep, paralyzing sorrow washed over her.
The person in question was Paloma.
She had always lived by the rigid code "Noblesse Oblige," valuing her country, her life, and above all, the people who served as the foundation for both.
Expressionless grief tells less than whaling, though it can go as deep as a bottomless trench. Paloma's heart bled for the commoners in such a miserable state, even if they belonged to the opposite side of the border.
She gritted her teeth and observed her warriors. Their sorrowful looks mirrored that of hers. Their eyes were wide with a silent, haunting thought: "Will this be our fate too?"
War is not fought by the fed nobility, but the starving commoners forcibly conscripted by the idea of protecting their country.
Before their minds could spiral into further despair, a sharp command pierced the air.
"Attention!"
The voice belonged to a young woman, but it carried the unyielding strength of a mountain. Paloma stepped into the picture, her youthful face portraying none of the hesitation usually expected of someone wet behind the ears.
"I will not let these people rot under the sunlight," she declared. "Help me bury them with honor."
A true leader needs only the right words to illuminate the dark path. Looking at Paloma, the soldiers didn't just see a 22 year old girl, but a commander worth bleeding for.
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