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In a pure white space, 12 silhouettes sat at a circular conference table.
They were draped in immaculate white robes, glowing with a milky radiance that exuded holiness.
If one looked closely, there were actually 13 chairs around the table. Only one sat empty.
That was the Torch Church’s Sanctuary.
Simply put, it was the place where the Pathfinders inside the Sanctuary convened.
At the center of the circular table stood an old man in a gray robe.
His face was lined with wrinkles, his eyes clouded, his skin and robe devoid of luster, completely out of place in this sacred chamber.
His name was Arzu, and he had just returned from Brocade Lake Municipality.
Facing the Pathfinders seated before him, he spoke with reverence and gravity, like a prayer recited during worship, recounting all that had transpired.
“Brocade Lake Municipality has fallen. We have lost all contact with the remnants in Singularity...
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