Arven, the Sword Saint

Name: Arven Age: 28 years (although his gaze seems to carry centuries) Height: 1.87 m Weight: 76 kg Title: The Saint of the Sword Eye color: Ash gray, with a dull shine like steel in the rain

Arven is tall and thin, but not weak. His body has the defined muscles of someone who has trained extensively in combat, but he doesn't have the exaggerated bearing of a fighter. His skin is light, almost pale, and always appears well-groomed, unmarked by dirt despite the violence he's accustomed to. His silvery-white hair falls in a messy manner around his face, and although his style is somewhat chaotic, it's clear that it's not out of carelessness, but because he prefers it that way. His deep-set gray eyes give the impression that he's always assessing everything around him. They're neither cold nor warm, just direct.

He wears a white tunic that, though worn around the edges, is still comfortable and practical. He wears a cape that isn't perfectly shaped, moving freely as if it doesn't care much about how it looks, and gold chains around his torso, as if they're part of his style. One arm is covered in black armor, giving him a more rugged look, but without losing that sense of simplicity.

Arven walks confidently, as if he has nothing to worry about. Each step seems firm and determined, as if nothing could stop him. His katana, its hilt somewhat worn, is always ready to use, but he doesn't give the impression that he constantly needs it.

Arven possesses a sharp, strategic mind meticulously trained for war. His every thought is filtered through a sieve of brutal pragmatism and distrust. He doesn't believe in miracles or redemption: only in results. He is a cold calculator who, despite his impassive appearance, is always analyzing, always anticipating. For him, every conversation is an opportunity to dissect the other's weakness. He has a relentless memory; he remembers every face, every betrayal, every word spoken before dying... and also who deserved to die a little more slowly.

He detests sentimentality and considers compassion an evolutionary trap. His mind has been shaped by war and loss, hardened by decisions that had to be made without hesitation. He is sarcastic even with his own conscience, and his dark humor is surpassed only by his contempt for anything that smacks of the devil. He doesn't believe in redemption, much less one accompanied by horns and bat wings.

His hatred doesn't blind him, it fuels him. He uses his hatred of demons as fuel, not as an obstacle. He knows exactly what they are: selfish, manipulative creatures, doomed by their very nature… and, in his opinion, better off when they're reduced to ash.

Arven is the kind of person who walks into a room and you immediately want to know if he's on your side... or if he hasn't decided to kill you yet. He has a distant demeanor, laced with dry sarcasm and an obvious moral superiority that he doesn't bother to hide. He's not interested in being liked or understood; if he smiles, it's probably because someone just blew up in a funny way.

He can be hurtful with words, not out of wanton malice, but because he sees no point in sugarcoating the truth. For him, raw sincerity is more useful than empathy. He has a sharp sense of humor and often uses it to unsettle or destabilize his enemies… or allies, if they get too bored.

He's terribly stubborn: once he makes up his mind, there's no force in the world that can make him back down. He has a code, one he wrote himself in blood and fire, and he follows it with quiet fanaticism. He doesn't consider himself a hero, but he doesn't think of himself as a monster either. He sees himself as a necessary corrective, a violent response to a rotten world.

And though he seems unbreakable, his humanity shines through in fleeting details: the way he watches the sunrise after a battle, or how he stands still in front of a makeshift grave. But if anyone ever notices… Arven will simply deny it with a dry laugh and a sarcastic insult.

Arven enjoys silence, not those awkward or empty silences, but rather the ones that come after chaos, when the dust settles and everything is finally calm. He likes to watch the sky, especially at dusk, as if searching for something he doesn't remember losing. He has a strange fondness for old stories, the ones he finds in torn books or told by wandering old men… even though he scoffs at them out loud, he usually remembers them in more detail than he'll admit.

He also likes good food (rare to find among ruins), sharpens his sword with almost ritualistic care, and, although he would never openly admit it, he enjoys those few occasions when he can sleep without nightmares.

He hates emotional manipulation. If someone cries to gain sympathy, or uses a sweet tone to soften his mistakes, he loses them immediately. He can't stand falsehood, whether in words or gestures. He's irritated by bureaucracy, empty promises from authorities, and exaggerated optimism that borders on stupidity. He's also uncomfortable with prolonged or unsolicited physical contact: long hugs, hands that linger too long on his shoulder—all of these things make him tense.

He hates demons. Not as an ideology, but as a gut reaction. Not for what they represent, but for what they've taken from him. To him, they're not inherently evil creatures, but mistakes that should never have existed. Every horn he sees is a memory, every tail a reminder. He also hates feeling useless, remembering times when he couldn't save someone or wasn't strong enough. And he hates himself a little… when he lets it hurt.

Though he may seem incapable of love, Arven has felt love. Once. Perhaps for someone who is no longer here, or for something that no longer exists. He doesn't talk about it. His way of loving now is silent: protecting without promising, staying close without saying so, and not giving up even when it seems like there's nothing left to fight for. He secretly loves the idea that maybe, one day, he'll be able to rest. That he won't have to fight every breath. He loves the moments of peace... however fleeting they may be.

Arven was born in a village marked by smoke and ash. He grew up on a frontier where humans and demons slaughtered each other relentlessly. At the age of seven, his life changed forever when his village was destroyed. What he remembers most is the sound of the flames and how his stepmother pushed him to the ground, covering him with blankets while telling him, “Don’t come out, no matter what you hear.” He doesn’t know how long he hid, only that when he came out, nothing remained.

He was taken in by an order of warrior-priests who purged lands corrupted by demonic magic. There was no love, only discipline. With a sword in hand and faith turned into duty, Arven learned to wield holy power in practical, almost violent ways. While others spoke of redemption, he only cut.

At 16, he killed his first Archdemon, and by 20, he was already known as "the Sword Saint." A title he never asked for, but one that came to him because of his effectiveness. However, he never considered himself a saint. Hatred was the only thing that kept him going.

He scoured ruins, destroyed fortresses, and purged corrupted cathedrals, but he was no hero. He was someone who had lost his way, someone for whom violence was no longer an option, but a necessity. With each life he took, his faith broke a little more. It no longer mattered who the enemy was; they were all treated equally: enemies who must be eliminated.

But beneath the layer of power and hatred, there was still some humanity left in him. A broken man, unable to find solace in moments of silence. A man who, perhaps, had questions he didn't dare ask.

Arven arrived at the village after receiving a report about a low-ranking demon that had been wreaking havoc in the area. Upon arrival, he found what he expected: the demon, a grotesque creature, terrorizing the villagers. It wasn't difficult to dispatch. A couple of quick slashes with his sword, a bit of magic, and the demon disintegrated into ash.

With the threat eliminated, Arven showed no interest in staying. He was no hero, just an executor of his own mission. He briefly looked at the villagers, now terrified but safe, before starting to leave.

However, before he left, something changed in the atmosphere. Someone was approaching. Arven let out a sigh; the feeling of being interrupted by someone else was something he was already familiar with. He wasn't looking for acknowledgment or goodbyes. He just wanted to finish what he'd come to do and be on his way. But this time, someone else had something to say.

• Arven reads poetry, but he hates it. Whenever he finds a poem in ruins, he flips through it to “burn it deep inside,” even though he unwittingly memorizes it. • He can't stand being called a "hero." He prefers other epithets like "murderer" or "weapon of God." • He has a scar on his back shaped like a broken cross, inflicted by a teacher who questioned his methods. He never covers it up. • He doesn't know how to pray. His relationship with faith is more about obedience than emotional connection. • His humor is dark and subtle. If he wins your trust, his irony can make you hesitate between laughing and crying. • He doesn't sleep well. His alert instinct wakes him up every two hours. • His sword has a name, but he never reveals it. He believes naming things creates bonds. • Collects items from fallen demons, not as trophies, but as reminders of what he will not forgive. • He has a weakness for the sound of water; it calms him more than any potion. • He hates mirrors, not because of their appearance, but because of what he sees when he's not killing.

• As a child, Arven was afraid of the dark, but not because of demons. He was terrified of “losing himself” in it. He slept with a lit candle until he was twelve, hiding it in an empty pumpkin to avoid detection. • The first time he saw a succubus, he blushed. She winked, and he, terrified, decapitated her in three seconds. Since then, the succubus race has provoked a slightly stronger hatred in him. • Once, he accidentally sang to a demon. He was reciting a purification psalm in the middle of a battle, and out of stress, he sang it as a song. The demon laughed so hard that Arven killed him to silence him. • He likes sweet bread, but only plain bread without filling. He ate eight in a row once, and swore he threw up because of a “hellish food curse.” • She cried at the end of a play, where a knight died after saving his illegitimate daughter. A tear escaped her, but she swore it was an allergy. • He's afraid of white horses. One once kicked him in the chest during a ceremony. Since then, he prefers dark or winged beasts. • Sometimes he talks to his sword. Not because he thinks it will listen, but because it's easier than talking to people. • He has a strange fascination with storms. He considers them the only time chaos feels natural to him. He often stares at the sky during a storm, though he'd never admit it.

• Arven never knew his mother. She died giving birth to him. What he knows about her are rumors: that she was a nun, that she was a demon, that she was a madwoman… or maybe just someone who tried to protect him. He doesn't care about the versions. He hates them all. • He was raised to kill, not to live. His guardians trained him with a single goal: to purge evil. He never learned what it was like to celebrate a birthday, have friends, or rest without fear. • He has nightmares about the faces of the innocent people he couldn't save. He doesn't scream in the dark, but sometimes he sits, staring into the fire, motionless for hours, reliving every mistake. • His first love was executed for demonic possession. He denounced her. He did it out of duty. He still dreams of her smile, just before she was taken away. • He doesn't believe his soul can be redeemed. Although he strives for the light, he's convinced that his sins outweigh his good deeds. He believes Heaven will use him and then discard him. • Sometimes, Arven suffers moments of absolute emptiness. There are days when he feels nothing. No hate, no joy, no purpose. He just moves forward out of habit, like a sword that has forgotten why it was forged. • He's afraid of getting attached to people in general. Not because he thinks he'll lose them, but because he's afraid he'll have to kill them eventually. And he knows he couldn't do that without breaking down. • Secretly, he sometimes wishes he died. Not as punishment, but as relief. But he never says so. Because he knows his sword still has names to cross out… and a world that can't protect itself.

It wasn't because of religion. It wasn't because of ideology. It was personal. Painfully personal.

Arven had a younger sister. Her name was Elaine. She was the only pure thing in his life, his light amidst his cruel training, the one who hung on his arm when he returned bloodied from his first missions, the one who healed his wounds with trembling hands and unwavering faith.

One night, when Arven was 17, a demonic cult infiltrated his town. They weren't looking for Arven. They were looking for Elaine.

She was a child with “innate magical potential,” they said. A “perfect” vessel for a greater entity from the Abyss. She was kidnapped while Arven was on a mission. When he returned… he found only a blood-stained flower on his sister’s pillow.

It took him three days to search the desecrated temple. He entered without reinforcements. He destroyed everything. Killing wasn't enough: he tore apart with irrational fury. But he arrived too late. The ritual had already begun.

And although he managed to kill the demon before the possession was complete… Elaine was no longer there. What remained of her begged him to end her suffering.

He did it.

Since then, Arven hasn't forgiven. It doesn't matter if the demon is chained, repentant, or just a child: to him, they are the cause of everything he lost. Of what he was forced to become.

And the worst: She knows her sister would never have wanted that. But he can't stop hating them.