The Villainess's Reputation [Kingdom Building]

The stage exploded into chaos. Painted backdrops shifted rapidly: burning cities, blood-soaked fields, forests aflame. Dancers collided in choreographed violence, blades clashing, bodies writhing in death throes. The cultists moved with inhuman grace, cutting down mortals as though they were reeds in the wind.

"Their power was not of this world. Otherworldly. Impossible for mortal armies to match. Humanity faltered. Kingdoms fell. And only the Twelve stood between annihilation and survival."

The drums beat like war-hearts. The scene shifted again, the violence fading into solemn stillness. The stage dimmed, lit only by a pale silver glow.

"Yet even the gods could not kill their creator," the narrator continued. "The Absolute being was eternal, omnipotent. Bound by the curse of their own origin, they could not strike him down. Their hands, even in defiance, could never slay the one from whom they were born."

A hush fell. Then, slowly, the actress portraying Herptian stepped forward. She was draped in translucent silks that left nothing of her beauty truly hidden. The fabric clung to her body, shimmering like liquid moonlight, her every step dripping with sultry authority.

"The gods conspired," the narrator said, her voice deepening, throbbing with promise. "If they could not destroy their father, they would weave a new being: one born not of the Absolute's will, but of their own. A child of divinity and free will. A weapon of flesh and spirit."

The stagehands wheeled out a great shadow screen, tall as a palace wall. A bed was set behind it, lit from behind with soft golden light. The audience hushed with anticipation.

The actress playing Herptian climbed onto the bed, her silhouette unmistakable as she let the sheer gown slide from her shoulders. Gasps rippled through the crowd of mainlanders as her shadowed figure: full, voluptuous, divine arched in invitation.

One by one, the apostles of the eleven other gods stepped onto the stage, each robed in their deity's colors. They moved behind the screen, joining Herptian on the bed.

The lanterns shifted, revealing their silhouettes: bodies entwining, hands grasping, lips pressing against shadowed flesh. The sound of moans, sharp gasps, and the rhythm of bodies echoed across the plaza. Herptian's shadow rose and fell, writhing with abandon as she embraced them all, her hunger without end.

The narrator's voice trembled like a prayer and a sin:

"Goddess Herptian took it upon herself to birth the vessel of freedom. She alone would bear the Saintess, uniting in her womb the power of all Twelve."

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For the mainlanders in the crowd, the display was almost too much to bear. The shadows behind the screen lingered, bodies moving with such raw passion that the audience could see the shapes of everything, thighs, the curve of breasts, the arch of backs, all swallowed in ecstasy. The cries of pleasure were not faked, at least it didn't seem like it, with a brazen intensity that blurred theatre and reality.

"And so," the narrator intoned over the din of indulgence, "the Festival of Lust was born. The night when gods themselves had to embrace desire, not to renounce it… but to wield it. For in that act, salvation was seeded."

The bed was wheeled away, the apostles and Herptian still writhing within, vanishing into the wings as though the act were eternal. The music swelled.

"Sixteen years passed," the narrator said, the stage transforming once more. Painted villages rose. Fields of flowers blossomed. "From Herptian's womb came a daughter. Flesh of the gods, yet soul her own. The Saintess, daughter who loved flowers"

The backdrop cracked open with a great roll of thunder. And from its heart stepped a girl: chestnut-brown hair gleaming under the light, flanked by twelve apostles. She was no mere actress.

It was Marie Leon.

For a moment, the city's breath stopped.

Marie stood in ceremonial garb, a Herptian gown bound with gold, a sword in her trembling hands. The nerves in her eyes betrayed her, but her voice rose clear, cutting across the square like a blade.

"I am the Saintess of the Gods!" she cried, every word amplified with divine resonance. "This world: infected or not, belongs to us, not to you!"

Gasps tore through the crowd. Her body glowed. A holy radiance burst from her, unmistakable, undeniable: the same light that had seared the sky when the Imperial Navy attacked the island. There could be no doubt.

The Saintess of this era stood before them and she was Ravenna Solarius's disciple.

"The Witch of the West rose to bar her way!" the narrator thundered. An actress cloaked in crimson stepped forth, shrieking with laughter as cultists swarmed. The apostles fought, falling one by one, their bodies crumpling in heroic sacrifice.

Marie raised her sword high, her real light shining with the stage flames. "Then fall to me, Absolute One! I will slay you myself!"

The cloaked actor loomed, but she struck him down in a blinding flash. The audience cried out, shielding their eyes.

But then, the Witch drove her blade into Marie's chest.

"I will return!" the Witch screamed, her voice a curse. "Again and again! I will revive my master until the end of days!"

And Marie, bleeding light, raised her hand toward the sky. "Then I too will return. In every era. Until you and your master are no more!"

Flames of stage-magic consumed them both. Wind machines sent smoke and fire whirling through the plaza.

The narrator's voice fell soft, solemn, final.

"And thus came magic, born of the flowers: the Saintess's gift to humanity, so they would never stand defenseless again. Thus came the Festival of Lust, the night when Herptian gave herself to all, to forge hope. And thus came the Saintess… who slayed the Absolute and gave man the right to choose."

The curtains fell.

And the plaza erupted. Cheers thundered like a storm. Nobles cried out in disbelief, commoners fell to their knees, and the Herptian faithful wept with joy.

The Saintess of the age had been revealed not in secret council, not in holy ritual but upon the stage, at the very heart of their city.

Marie Leon, disciple of Ravenna Solarius, was their Saintess of this era.