SOTBW - 134

“...The two of us trying to unravel this ritual was a reckless thing to do.”

Benedict, his head resting on the desk, sighed heavily. He hadn’t bathed in days, and stubble had grown rough on his chin.

Gwyneth, slumped against the wall, stared at the papers scattered on the floor like trash, then let out a long sigh.

“But we can’t call anyone else. This is confidential. Since we can’t reveal the origin of the ritual, it’s inevitable that the two of us have to research it.”

If they shared this ritual with theologians, they would definitely try to figure out where it came from. If it became known that such a ritual was embedded in Najane’s body, her situation would become even more complicated. As a knight wielding sword energy, she wouldn’t be reduced to a test subject, but considering the rumors surrounding Najane, it would definitely not end well.

Gwyneth was also puzzled. Who, and for what purpose, had inscribed a four-ring ritual into Najane’s body, and how was it stabilized?

Neither Gwyneth nor Benedict had been able to identify the type of ritual. They vaguely suspected it was for healing, but when Gwyneth tried to copy the four-ring ritual onto her own body, it didn’t work at all. This ritual was designed to manifest only in Najane’s body.

It was full of incomprehensible things. Even theologians had spent thousands of years trying to create and use new rituals but had failed every time. The ritual in Najane’s body mocked the distant years of research by theologians and priests who had devoted their lives to it.

If they were to break down the links in the ritual into 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th types, the puzzle they had to solve lay in the 3rd type. In the middle of the rings, there were ancient words they had never seen before, and Benedict believed they were the key to activating this ritual.

Benedict, staring at the ritual copied onto the paper, asked in a weary voice.

“Are you sure this ritual activates properly?”

“Even if I checked. Honestly, how many times do I have to answer the same question...? I definitely saw this four-ring ritual resonating with another ritual. Do you not trust me now?”

Gwyneth shot a sharp look at Benedict.

Benedict rubbed his face in despair at Gwyneth’s words and then stared at the stack of thick books on the desk.

“...I searched through Lord Aron’s diary and the Bible, but I couldn’t find any words similar to what’s used in this ritual. You know what that means, right?”

“Someone who knew even the ancient languages that the Holy Church hadn’t yet researched handled this ritual.”

Gwyneth answered weakly. Benedict agreed with that. Was such a thing possible? Benedict gazed at the ritual with a grim expression.

Following in the footsteps of Aron Noctis, he was confident he knew most ancient languages. Although research on rituals had been stagnant both then and now, Benedict had always been proud of the unique results he had achieved. This ritual was something no one could know unless they had lived in an era when magic and rituals coexisted.

“Maybe he would know,” Benedict spoke quietly.

There was one being who still remembered the time when magic and rituals reached their peak.

“He?” Gwyneth asked, repeating the question.

“The Last Dragon.”

“Ah, you mean Mahilen.”

Gwyneth groaned as he stood up, shaking his head.

“He might know a thing or two about rituals, but... he won’t help us.”

“Why not?”

“Mahilen doesn’t do things that would harm the flow.”

“The flow?”

“It means he doesn’t do anything that goes against the set fate. If helping us didn’t oppose fate, he would’ve helped us long ago.”

“Isn’t he someone who cares for humanity?”

“I don’t know that either. Even the Holy Father doesn’t know what he’s thinking...”

Benedict felt slightly disheartened at Gwyneth’s words. Mahilen had once shared an era with Astrun, and for thousands of years had guarded the northern ruins where the Serith were sealed. Therefore, Benedict had assumed he stayed in the Noctis Fortress to help humanity.

As he pondered why Mahilen was here, Benedict pressed his aching head and pushed the chair back.

“It’s about time for mass.”

As soon as Benedict mentioned mass, Gwyneth, who had been flipping through a book, frowned. This time, Benedict was determined to drag Gwyneth to the cathedral. The priests were already waiting, wondering if the Blessed One would come today, or if they’d be too busy to arrive until tomorrow.

Although Gwyneth was a priest of the Holy Church, he despised the pious atmosphere and couldn’t stand being treated like some archbishop.

“Where are you going?”

Gwyneth, seemingly anticipating that Benedict would try to stop him, was already standing by the door. Just as he was about to open it, he shrugged his shoulders.

“To the Recheo Knights. I’m concerned about Lord Elderketh’s health.”

Benedict flinched at the mention of Taylor.

“...Has his health deteriorated that much?”

“More than just deteriorated. He’s already used up most of his strength. He probably has only a few months left... maybe three or four at most.”

The grim news caused Benedict’s face to harden. There wasn’t a person in this place who didn’t respect Taylor Elderketh. Benedict recalled how Taylor had risked his life to protect Bastronia, feeling bitter.

“If expensive medicine is needed, have someone come to me. I’ll ask my family to get the medicine if I have to.”

“Thanks, even if it’s just words.”

Gwyneth, eager to leave before Benedict could catch him, stopped and turned back with a slightly surprised expression.

“Can I ask one favor?”

“If it’s something I can do.”

“It’s about Romsoa’s Najane.”

“The one who wields sword energy?”

Benedict, who had been gathering his vestments for mass, gave an intrigued look at the unexpected name.

“Yes, her. The rumors surrounding her are so lowly. Could you suppress them a little?”

“I could, but... why bother?”

From the Church’s perspective, it didn’t matter what rumors spread about Najane. Unless she officially became a Sword Master, like Taylor, it didn’t concern them.

“If you do, I’ll ask Mahilen about Lord Aron.”

Gwyneth spoke indifferently.

At those words, Benedict, who had been nonchalant, suddenly perked up like a child who had found candy.

“It’s nothing hard. I’ll have the priests start writing songs about it right away.”

“Great, then I’ll leave it to you.”

Gwyneth lazily waved his hand and left the office.

After spending a while on the cold office floor, Gwyneth’s joints ached. He knew he should make occasional appearances at the Romsoa Knights, but ever since he had learned from Belshua that Maximón’s true identity was Sainth, he felt uneasy about going there.

The revelation was astounding. Maximón was Sainth Philux? He had never imagined that the Maximón he knew could be the same person as Sainth.

The story Mahilen had told him made Gwyneth’s mind more confused. Especially the part where Maximón was indeed Sainth, but not reincarnated, which pushed Gwyneth deeper into a state of bewilderment.

If he wasn’t reincarnated, that meant he had been alive since the Astrun era. How could that even be possible?

It was such an unbelievable story that Gwyneth decided to stop trying to understand anything related to Astrun. Mahilen had said that Gwyneth had already met Aron, but he had no idea who that could be, and frankly, he didn’t care to find out.

It was easier when he didn’t know who Maximón was. Now, how should he face that reckless man... or, rather, Sainth? Just thinking about it made Gwyneth let out a bitter laugh.

In Aron’s diary, it was written that Sainth was the kindest and most gentle man in the world—was that all a lie? Was it just a story made up to paint a friend in a good light?

Gwyneth kicked a pebble on the road, scratching his head. With the world seemingly on the brink of collapse, there must have been a reason why Astrun gathered at Noctis Fortress.

Were they, too, going to sacrifice themselves again to save the world? In this age where magic and sorcery had disappeared, how could they hope to save anyone?

Gwyneth pondered the Pope’s prophecy with a weary expression.

“Do not worry, Gwyneth. If the night without a single ray of light ever comes, the one who willingly sacrificed his life for the weak will return again... I see his flame in my faded eyes... The dawn that bursts from the pitiful heart will surely become the golden barrier that protects the fortress... Now, go. Go and watch as humans rise again to stand against the Serith…”

The one who sacrificed his life for the weak.

Flame.

Dawn bursting from the heart.

Golden barrier.

Rakhshu had pierced his own heart with the holy sword to create the final barrier that would protect the fortress. It shone so brilliantly that the Serith could never dare to approach it, a barrier of light that nothing could ever scratch. As a result, Rakhshu’s soul was shattered.

And the holy relic, Rakhshu’s sword, bears an inscription that can create another historic barrier. Gwyneth thought that if someone were to draw Rakhshu’s sword, it would likely be Taylor. However, seeing Taylor’s strength diminishing day by day, it seemed the Pope had entrusted the sword to Gwyneth, perhaps with another candidate in mind.

No matter how much he narrowed down the possible candidates, no one came to mind. It was true that Najane wielded sword energy, but considering her weak heart, that was out of the question. Above all, Rakhshu’s sword was a holy relic that could only be wielded by Rakhshu himself, no matter the circumstances.

Rakhshu wasn’t going to suddenly come back to life, so who could it be...?

Upon arriving at the Recheo Knights, Gwyneth gazed at the brilliant winter sky before noticing a flickering light, almost like a shard of glass. He exhaled a long breath and stopped walking, as if mesmerized by the light.

In the wide training ground, young soldiers were swinging practice swords at the direction of the knights’ commands. Gwyneth rubbed his reddened eyes, wondering if he had seen something wrong, before looking back at the training ground.

Among the orderly movements, a translucent white light flickered like a halo around the moon, vanishing and reappearing repeatedly. A strange sense of déjà vu washed over him. Gwyneth had seen that subtle glowing light before.

Najane...

Whenever Najane wielded a sword, there was always that kind of light.

It was as if Najane’s life flowed brilliantly along the smooth sword blade.

With a stiff expression, Gwyneth focused intently on the flickering light. Who is it? Who is producing that light? Gwyneth, who had been crossing his arms against the cold, slowly approached the training ground.

Among the soldiers, there was one person wearing a skirt.

“Amelia, strike harder! That won’t be enough to decapitate a body!”

A knight pointed out the woman. The woman, clearly frustrated by the remark, gritted her teeth and swung her sword downward.

Amelia.

Amelia Royan.

Gwyneth sighed quietly as he mulled over the name.

She was a servant he had often seen while staying at the Recheo Knights.