At the farthest edges of the Arknights world, far from bustling cities, far from the endless noise of war and the cries of science, stood an ancient church, silent and immobile, as if deliberately forgotten by all. Its stone walls were grey and rough, scarred by time and weather, yet never crumbling. Moss and wildflowers crept along its edges, and the windows were coated in ancient dust, allowing only narrow, fractured beams of sunlight to pierce the interior. The place was gloomy, cold, unnaturally still, as if time itself had stopped within its walls.
The massive cross hanging above the altar was not a symbol of salvation or hope. It was a witness, silent, eternal, observing every movement, every breath, existing for centuries, waiting for something unknown to happen.
---
House of the Lord
The bells rang only rarely, and when they did, their sound was muted, hesitant, as if the universe itself restrained them. Candles were lit sparingly, flickering weakly, as if even light was too precious to waste on a world that had long ceased to care. The spiritual atmosphere was one of silence, but not the absence of sound—rather, a silence filled with presence and awe.
The air inside the church was heavy, mingled with the smell of incense and dust, and when someone whispered a word, it seemed to grow, echoing through the vast hall as if carrying meaning far beyond its source. Every movement, every noise, even the subtle beat of a small heart, seemed to carry weight, as if something older than God Himself was observing, patient and watchful.
---
The Priestess in the Church
At the first light of dawn, a figure entered the church. Her hood was low, shading her face, and her steps were measured, precise. She knelt before the altar, her hands folded in front of her, but her eyes did not meet the cross. She stared at the stone beneath her knees, at the cracks worn over centuries.
"O Lord… if this is a test, grant me understanding," she whispered, her voice low and steady. She did not cry. She did not plead. She did not ask for mercy. She sought only justification, a framework that could allow her to understand what she was being asked to witness.
The church seemed to respond to her presence. Shadows bent slightly, and the air became heavier. Silence was not just the absence of sound—it was the feeling of judgment, something lurking in every corner, waiting.
---
The Sacred Records
Behind a heavy wooden door that opened only to priests lay the church's oldest records. Religious texts, theological interpretations, warnings written in shaky, almost trembling script. Some were centuries old, some more recent, but written with the same meticulous care and fear. Among these, one page had never been read aloud, never displayed. Its words were whispered only in the presence of the priestess herself:
*"When a child is born, heaven does not answer to its name. Not every birth is a blessing, and not every blessing is salvation."*
The priestess closed the record carefully, the weight pressing on her chest. She knew the meaning; she did not need anyone else's confirmation.
---
The Birth
The child's birth did not happen in a hospital, nor in a laboratory, nor before any witnesses. It happened quietly, in a small side room inside the church itself. There were no screams, no chaotic blood, no miraculous signs. The air was still, cold, heavy with the smell of old wood and stone. A simple wooden cradle had been placed in the center, unadorned and plain.
And then the child arrived. His eyes were open. Purple. Steady. Silent. He did not cry. He did not flinch. For a moment, the room itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
---
The Baptism
A priest approached, holding a small vessel of holy water. His hand trembled slightly as he raised it.
"I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit—"
He stopped. The water did not ripple. It did not freeze. It did not evaporate. It fell perfectly still, as if it had never been sacred at all.
The silence that followed was heavy, almost unbearable. No one dared speak. Even the priest felt the weight of something immense, something beyond ritual, law, and prayer.
---
The Sacred Fear
The priest stepped back quickly, making the sign of the cross over himself, murmuring prayers of protection.
"This… is not natural," he said, voice trembling.
The priestess did not move. She looked at the child as one would look at a living sin—not his sin, but hers. Something had shifted. A presence had anchored itself to the world in a way that no prayer could undo.
---
The Religious Decision
That night, the church closed its doors. The bells did not ring. The candles were extinguished. An unwritten decree was made:
*"He will live… but far from the House of the Lord."*
No one called him demon, nor angel. He was simply given a name to mark his passage into existence: a name without protection, without blessing, without sanctuary.
---
The Name
When asked what the child would be called, the priestess hesitated. A weight pressed on her chest, almost physical. Then she said:
"Raven."
No saint. No martyr. No apostle. No divine protection. Only a name. Only a witness.
---
The First Days
Raven slept in silence. The air around him felt heavier than the cradle itself. The shadows in the corners leaned closer, observing. He did not cry. He did not flinch. His purple eyes opened occasionally, following the ceiling, the cross, the priestess.
She did not touch him, nor did she leave entirely. Her presence formed an invisible boundary, firm and unyielding. She had been ordered to care for him, yet feared that even attention might awaken forces beyond understanding. She whispered occasionally, small neutral words, nothing demanding love, nothing demanding obedience.
Even at four years old, Raven's awareness was growing. Not as thought, not as language, but as perception. Every sound, every movement, every flicker of candlelight was absorbed, recorded. The shadows leaned slightly toward him—not friends, not enemies, but witnesses.
---
Conclusion
In that church, no child had ever been expelled before. Yet meaning was buried in silence. From that day onward, prayers no longer carried the same assurance. Raven's presence changed the air, the stone, the shadows. Everyone, even deep in their hearts, knew that something had been born unblessed, unbound by heaven, and that it would return one day—not for vengeance, not for salvation—but to remind the world of what it had done when it chose fear instead of mercy.
And the cross above remained silent, watching. Waiting.