“—I see. That has become quite the predicament.”
“Yeah... honestly, it’s starting to make me sick.”
At the very summit of the Cathedral, Alnas Tower, lay the Holy Sanctum—the private quarters of the Saints. This space contained individual rooms for each of them, a refuge far removed from the world’s clamor. Past the elegant living room and up the open-ceiling stairs to the very end of the hallway stood a deep amber door leading to the room of Arcasiel, the Saint of Fortune and Woe.
Inside, Alka leaned against a massive cushion on her large canopy bed, her expression twisted with irritation. Her conversation partner was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a magic tool sat active on her nightstand—a "voice transmitter" similar to the projector Anze had brought out previously.
From the device came a man’s voice, characterized by deep thoughtfulness and practiced composure.
“Vampires... they certainly traveled a long way. I wonder how many years it has been since they last caused trouble in this kingdom.”
“Haa... I thought they’d finally settled down once the throne changed hands...”
“No matter his personal power, it would be difficult for him to control every single Vampire. I suppose they are not as monolithic as we hoped.”
As the name implied, the magic tool allowed voices to be transmitted between people in distant locations. Because it utilized delicate and sophisticated spell formulas, it was not for public use; it was cutting-edge technology possessed only by high-ranking officials and the Saints.
The distance over which one could converse depended entirely on the magical aptitude of the user. For instance, voice transmitters were issued to the Chrys Knights to enable rapid communication between the Holy City and its three outlying forts, but even then, the Church had to assign hand-picked mages specifically to maintain the link.
Even those elite mages would have surrendered with a bitter smile if asked to transmit a voice to a town far beyond the Holy City’s borders. And yet—
“Right now, the Cardinals are running around in circles...” Alka said. “They have to send a relief force to Luther, and the number of people wanting to evacuate is only going to grow. Then there’s the matter of security arrangements...”
“Hmm... Should I move someone from our Seven Flowers Canon?”
The person Alka was speaking with held one of the highest-ranking offices in the Royal Capital. Given that he referred to the Sevens—the nation's supreme decision-making body—as if they were his personal subordinates, his status was beyond question.
More impressively, they were maintaining a clear, instantaneous vocal transmission between two cities separated by a vast sea. If the Church’s sanctioned mages saw this, they would likely lose all confidence and keel over in shock.
“...”
Alka, performing this feat of magical endurance with total nonchalance, buried herself deeper into her cushion with an expression of extreme lethargy.
“...If you were to move someone, who would it be?”
“Hmm... How about the Seventh Seat? They live for combat and hold no strange prejudices against you all. Despite their personality, they have a reasonable amount of common sense.”
“Seventh Seat...? Who was that again? Have I met them?”
“I’d appreciate it if you remembered them eventually... Though they are likely the type you’re worst at dealing with, so I suppose your lack of interest is inevitable.”
“...Ah, I think I remember now. That loudmouth.”
“Otherwise, the only one I could spare would be the Fifth Seat. The Third and Fourth are indispensable here at the moment, and the Sixth isn't suited for combat. Finally, as for the Second Seat—”
“Absolutely not her. I wouldn’t take her if she begged.”
“Ahaha, I thought as much...”
To summarize: if reinforcements were to be sent from the Sevens, only the Fifth and Seventh Seats were available. The Sixth was non-combatant. The Third and Fourth were vital to the Capital’s defense.
And the Second Seat—the Canon of Creation, Elfiette—was out of the question. She was a nightmare Alka wanted nowhere near her. The fact that the Third and Fourth were deemed more "vital" than the Second suggested that the rankings of the Sevens were not based purely on destructive power.
“...It’s fine. We’ll handle it with our own people first. I’m just reaching out for old time’s sake.”
“Understood. I’ll ensure the information is shared on this end as well.”
Alka acknowledged this with a sigh. Then, murmuring, “I’m hanging up now...” she reached for the transmitter with the sluggish grace of a snail.
“—And, allow me to offer one piece of unsolicited advice. If you step onto the field, most problems would be solved instantly, but you must judge your timing carefully.”
Alka froze just before her fingertips touched the device. The voice from the transmitter continued fluently.
“The price of your power is too high. It will be even more so against the Demon Race. ...When you use your power, the situation must be brought to an absolute end with that single move.”
“I know...” Alka replied.
Her tone didn't change. She spoke with her usual drowsiness, as if she were a ghost floating aimlessly through the air.
“The only time I’ll step forward... is when there’s absolutely no other way.”
“I shall pray that it does not come to that.”
The communication cut off. Once the magic tool lost its faint glow and fell silent, Alka let out every bit of air in her lungs in a massive, weary sigh.
“I hate this... It’s just one thing after another... I don't want to do anything anymore...”
Spreading her hair—which was longer than she was tall—across the bed, she abandoned every ounce of strength and seemed to melt into the cushion. She didn't move for ten seconds, then thirty. A minute passed without a sign of life, and eventually, the sound of peaceful, rhythmic breathing filled the room—until a knock at the door shattered the silence.
“Lady Arcasiel. It is Roschehart.”
“............”
Her peaceful sleep disturbed, Alka felt a surge of irritation. However, she knew Roschehart wasn't the type to visit for trivialities, so she reluctantly decided he must have actual business.
“Come in...”
At her listless reply, Rosche entered the room and bowed respectfully.
“My apologies for disturbing your rest.”
“It’s fine, but... did something happen?”
“There is something I must consult with you regarding Wolka.”
In the Cathedral, all matters related to Wolka were technically Anze’s responsibility. She took her role as the patron of the Silvery Grey so seriously that whenever she was deprived of an opportunity to help him, she would pout and demand to know why she hadn't been consulted. She wore her possessiveness on her sleeve, often threatening to abandon her duties as a Saint entirely for his sake—a habit that frequently left Dia groaning in frustration.
Roschehart understood this dynamic well, which meant this was likely a problem Anze couldn't solve. Alka felt the weight of the day pressing down on her, but she decided to hear him out.
“...I'm listening. For now.”
“Thank you.”
It was a whim on her part. She thought that if it was something she could easily solve with her abilities, it might be worth having that man owe her a favor.
“Could you please show Wolka a ‘dream’?”
“...Hmm?”
“—Dammit!!”
Restardia, the Saint of Hakua, was the first to admit her personality didn't fit her title. She preferred her familiar sofa and her Ji-ya’s sweets a hundred times more than the vast halls and gourmet meals of the Cathedral. Yet, despite her private temperament, she had been raised as a Saint; she had no memory of ever acting so savagely as to shout curses or slam her fist onto a table in a fit of rage.
She had just done both. Her shout echoed through the room as her hand struck the wood. Slowly unfurling her fingers as a dull pain radiated through her knuckles, she covered her face with both hands.
“Why... Why does it have to be like this?”
She slumped onto her sofa, her head hanging low.
The news was a nightmare. Luther had been wiped out by a Vampire attack, and Ramsey had died after a desperate battle with the enemy. This horrific report had shattered the tranquility of the Holy Sanctum in an instant.
Ramsey. She remembered him. He was the man in the projection of Wolka’s duel. An ex-adventurer who had challenged Wolka, lost, and somehow ended up on good terms with him.
As a Saint, her first thought was the strategic severity of the report. The loss of an entire town was a catastrophic blow. She understood that the peace the Holy City had enjoyed for decades was officially over.
But as Dia, the individual, the only thing she could think of was Wolka.
“Why—why does it feel like everything happens just to make Master Wolka suffer?”
Anze’s voice, thick with dazed anguish, echoed her own thoughts. It was exactly as Anze said. The Clear Approval Accident had finally been resolved, and Wolka, armed with a new prosthetic, was supposed to be starting a hopeful new chapter.
And yet, this was the reality.
What would happen when Wolka learned the truth?
Ramsey was the adventurer who had shown Wolka the kind of man he could be. Luther was the town that had taken him in and nursed him back from the brink of death. If that young man, who already felt abandoned by God, learned that both had been erased from the world...
The depth of the disappointment and hatred that would rot his heart was something Dia couldn't even begin to calculate.
“...I have a bad feeling.”
Dia the individual and Dia the Saint thought in tandem. Her mind raced with a grinding intensity, unable to suppress a sickening feeling in her gut.
“The Vampire test subject that attacked the town... We just happen to have lost track of one vile woman recently, don't we?”
“—! No way...!”
Anze gasped. In the neighboring country, the knight squad escorting Alphana had been slaughtered. In this country, a "test subject" had destroyed Luther. At this stage, no one could believe those two events were unrelated.
Had Alphana crawled to the Vampires, gained power, and begun her revenge? Or had she been broken by a powerful Demon and turned into a disposable pawn? Either way—
“If that’s the case... it’s the worst-case scenario.”
Because Alphana’s punishment had been entrusted to the Saints by Wolka himself. If this was the result—if their leniency had brought about this irreversible disaster—
“It’s like this happened because of us...!”
“—!”
Of course, it was all speculation. Luther might have been destroyed regardless of what they did with Alphana.
But Dia had sworn a vow. In front of Wolka, by her own will. She had sworn that even if God had betrayed him, the Saints never would. She had promised him he would never be disappointed again.
She had sworn it.
I thought I would become someone Master Wolka could believe in—and this is the result?
Instead of saving him, they were pushing him closer to the abyss. If he lost faith in the world and decided the Saints were just as unreliable as the God he hated, he would truly have nothing left but to keep walking until his body gave out.
Dia felt the crushing weight of failure. She had betrayed his trust.
“I’m sorry, Master Wolka...!!”
The apology that escaped her lips was trembling and pathetic. She realized then that she might never be able to laugh at Anze’s emotional outbursts again. This pain, this suffocating guilt, was enough to make her feel as if her very soul were being torn apart.
I couldn't stay still. That same day, I went out to the inn's backyard and started an extra training session with Yulitia and the others.
I wasn't sure when I’d started using sword swings as a form of meditation, but whenever I felt a heavy weight in my chest, it was the only thing that worked. For a guy who had been an ordinary Japanese person in his previous life to find peace of mind by gripping a weapon was... well, a bit of a strange development. But thanks to Grandpa's "affectionate" training, I had been molded into a warrior through and through.
In a world with few distractions, being able to manage my stress with a single sword was a blessing. I tried to focus entirely on the blade, hoping to drown out the noise in my head, but—
“—Guh?!”
“Ah... S-Senior?!”
I parried Yulitia’s strike and tried to lunge for a counter, but my posture collapsed from the knee down. I managed to avoid falling flat on my face, but I ended up on the ground, bracing myself with my hands.
“Wolka, are you okay?!”
“I-I’m fine... Ouch.”
My Master rushed over immediately. She’d been spending every day at the Griffith Workshop lately, but she had returned much earlier than usual today. The news about Ramsey and Luther had hit her just as hard.
Apparently, Claesta hadn't tried to stop her when she left the workshop. According to Master, Claesta radiated a terrifying intensity, as if she were prepared to stake her entire life on fulfilling the promise she’d made to Ramsey.
In comparison, look at me. Groaning pathetically over a leg injury. I knew the stump would hurt after long walks, but this was on another level. When I tried to stand, a dull pain shot through me again, and I was quickly supported by both Master and Atri.
All three of them gave me an immediate "stop" order.
“R-Rest! You must rest!”
“Senior, please don't overdo it...!”
“No. Rest a little... please.”
I tried to tell them to calm down, but the collective pressure was overwhelming. They all looked at me with such heart-wrenching pity that I had no choice but to comply.
With Atri lending me her shoulder, I limped over to a nearby bench. Once I removed the prosthetic, the problem was obvious. The stump was red and swollen. Whether training or walking, the constant pressure between the limb and the prosthetic eventually caused inflammation.
Still, it hadn't even been an hour... Perhaps because this new prosthetic was more rigid than the last, the burden on my leg had increased. It made sense why Claesta was obsessing over load-distribution spell formulas for the final version.
“...Dammit. Is this all I can do?”
A quiet curse escaped me. It wasn't just the physical pain; my mind was so scattered I couldn't find my center. Ramsey, Luther, the original plot, the derailed timeline, Vampires, Glen, the prosthetic, the peace of the city, everyone’s future—the noise was constant.
I didn't have the luxury of sitting around. Even though Glen had killed one Vampire, the mastermind was still out there. In this hellish world, the Holy City could be the next target. If I wasted my time like this, Ramsey would probably climb out of his grave just to kick my ass.
I wanted to burn away these emotions, but I couldn't even find the focus to swing my sword.
“Wo-Wolka, you mustn't push yourself like this...!!”
I looked up to find my Master on the verge of tears. Wait, pushing myself? What was she talking about? Yulitia and Atri crowded in from both sides.
“Senior, please don't brood...! It’s wrong for you to suffer like this...!!”
“Wolka did nothing wrong. You're working so, so hard. You don't have to hurt yourself anymore.”
They were definitely misunderstanding something. I realized my mutterings must have sounded more self-destructive than I intended. And Atri was getting uncomfortably close again.
I gently nudged Atri back and tried to clear the air.
“No, you've got it wrong. I was just trying to clear my head. I’ve always done this, remember?”
“I-Is that true...? Really...?”
“Really.”
I wasn't trying to punish myself. I knew everyone was hurting right now, and I didn't want to be the only one getting special treatment. I needed to get my own head on straight.
“Sorry for worrying you. I’ll be fine in a bit.”
“Wolka...”
Master sniffled. I’d completely ruined the atmosphere. I’d started training to avoid making them worry, and I’d achieved the exact opposite result.
I looked up at the sky, feeling trapped. Just once would be enough. I didn't need my leg to be healed instantly, and I didn't care if it wasn't real. I just needed to cut through this fog. I wanted to go all out, just for a moment—
“—Well, well, Wolka! So this is where you were hiding! I went to your room and found it empty!”
I felt the tension leave my shoulders. That boisterous, theatrical voice was exactly what I needed to break the gloom.
“Rosche. Back again?”
I greeted him with a deliberately light tone. He had been dead serious the last time we spoke, but today his usual, noisy smile was back. He brushed his hair back with a flourish.
“Indeed! Good grief, were you trying to push your body to its limits again?”
He didn't look annoyed; if anything, his expression softened with understanding.
“But I understand the feeling. You want to swing your sword with everything you have, don't you?”
This guy... he was reading my mind again. For someone who lectured me about putting things into words, he sure didn't need me to say anything.
“So, Wolka, I’ve come with a proposal.”
I decided I didn't mind him reading me. He was pretentious and noisy, but I realized I’d come to trust him that much.
“Tomorrow, come to the Cathedral. —I’m going to make your wish come true.”
I knew I could count on you, friend.