Gratia Sanctuary (1)
“Hello!”
A bright, clear voice rings sweetly in my ears first. As the pure white light fades, what appears before me is... a girl? Twelve? Thirteen? She doesn't look a day over fifteen. The young girl greets me with refined grace. Her right hand rests lightly near her heart, the hem of her pure white robe fluttering gently. She bows her head just enough—not so much that the white tiara perched neatly atop her platinum blonde hair tilts out of place.
The commander? In something like a ceremonial vestment? Not exactly battle-ready. I glance around. The modest space is adorned with gold leaf everywhere, pieced together from pristine white stone without a speck of dust. Modest might not be the right word. It's a small chapel of sorts. A sanctuary, after all. Still, building one in a fortress barracks...
“You're Aurea Lumen, correct?”
The girl smiles brightly. “That's right!”
“An impertinent reply.”
A contrasting response. A contrasting voice. An elderly man with ash-gray hair and a imposing stature emerges from a small door behind the altar.
“Dominic! It's fine! The mercenary mister is from outside, after all!”
“It's not about the form of address, Saintess. It's whether respect is present or not.”
The old man stops precisely two paces behind the saintess. Then he scans me with sharp eyes.
“I said it's fine!”
“If that's what you say, Saintess.”
The moment our eyes meet hers, he deftly erases the warrior's glare from his gaze. His warm smile makes him look like a grandfather with his granddaughter at a glance. Plate armor blending gold and white, perfectly suited to the chapel. A modestly sized sword at his waist. A massive shield engraved with patterns on his back. He looks like he stepped out of a holy knight illustration.
Judging by how the commander treats him, he's probably her adjutant. Or the captain of the holy knights, given the sanctuary theme? Anyway.
“Wave intel first.”
“I'll explain in her place.”
Dominic steps forward exactly one pace on the young commander's behalf. Still behind the saintess.
“The enemy forces consist of lycanthropes and the beasts they command. The problem is that the Saintess has prophesied the participation of a named one as well.”
“A named one?”
“Indeed. A monster called the Black Wolf Grimhoul will appear, as foretold.”
Right after getting Blood Death Cannon, I have to face werewolves. And it has a name, huh...
“From precedents, holy power is ineffective against beasts.”
“Holy power ineffective?”
“Yes. Gratia Sanctuary's basic defense strategy is, quite literally, establishing a sanctuary.”
“Elaborate.”
Dominic pauses briefly. Military secret vibe, maybe? The saintess tilts her head with a nod, and only then does he speak.
“The Saintess offers prayers to the goddess here, and she responds—that's it.”
“Applies to the entire fortress? Lycanthropes aren't undead, so no weakening effect... that's what you mean.”
Dominic looks surprised. How does an outsider know that? Sanctuary is a rare skill, but it pops up occasionally. Common knowledge.
The saintess's prayers and declared sanctuary. Inside it, undead take continuous DoT damage, holy knights get AoE buffs. I get the gist.
A wave that can't take DoT damage, plus an elite mob. That's why they called a mercenary.
A smile creeps onto my face unbidden. A battlefield this rational feels like it's been forever since the last one.
“You called me for the elite monster.”
“Is that what you call a named one? Yes. Holy knights are shields protecting the prophecy. Gratia's defense is absolute. However, shields are not awls. That's why we summoned you.”
Fancy talk, but it boils down to: We don't train assassins.
Spear contempt again...
“Ahem. Understood. I'll make it worth more than the resources spent. I will.”
Even I'm surprised after saying it. I used to be so polite at first. But the curt, cynical tone has stuck to my tongue. The battlefield poisons me. Courtesy is a luxury when survival's on the line.
Still, I should mind my manners.
“Um, Mister Berga. Er! Sir Berga? How should I address you...?”
Maybe she thinks the briefing's over. Aurea speaks to me, then glances at Dominic with an oh no, did I mess up? look.
Dominic just smiles kindly.
“Indeed, Commander. It doesn't matter to me. Would calling her Saintess be preferable on your end?”
A man doesn't mind 'mister,' especially from a kid young enough to be a niece. Might even be grateful.
“No, no, I don't mind either. You see, all I can do is pray. That's it.”
Aurea chatters in a childlike tone. A sort of personal briefing?
“This wave is tough. That's why I asked for you. Dominic said it was fine, but still. I hate it if the soldiers get hurt.”
Aurea gazes up at me steadily. Her sky-blue eyes are endlessly clear and pure. A child's eyes.
Ideal fortress, rational strategy, yet sacrifices are everywhere. Red blood reflected in a child's eyes. My fists clench involuntarily.
“I see... Good girl. I'll do my best. Definitely.”
“Hehe, thank you!”
“The holy knights will hold the line inside the sanctuary. You operate freely, unbound by us.”
Is Dominic's tone a shade warmer? Probably my imagination.
“Anvil and hammer. That's my understanding, right?”
“...I didn't know you were versed in strategy. If you'll play the hammer, nothing could be better. Gratia will be the finest anvil.”
Surprise flickers in Dominic's steely gaze. My role's upgraded from awl to hammer. Suits me fine. Time to test Blood Death Cannon. And rack up contribution points.
Dominic extends his hand. Handshakes exist here, huh. I grasp it firmly.
Leaving the chapel, I survey the fortress. Tension mingles with a sense of fulfillment. Religion's real perk? No contagious gloom—no anxiety spreading like rot. Good.
The girl commander must play a big role. It's been ages—maybe a first. An ideal battlefield. Sharing strategy before the wave even starts proves it.
But whenever it's like this... something weird always happens. I can't let my guard down, not me. If shit hits the fan, I'm the one fixing it.
“You're the mercenary, right? Looking forward to working with you.”
A scout on the watchtower greets me.
“...Yeah. Same here.”
“Haha, yes. May you rest in the goddess's embrace.”
...That sounds like a last rite? Suspicious prayer.
“...Don't people usually pray for victory?”
“Ah. It's holy knight doctrine. 'Those who cling to life will die; those who embrace death will find the path to life.' Our battlefield prayers align with that. Surprised you, sorry.”
...What? No idea when Admiral Yi Sun-sin of proud Korea became one of their holy knights, but... if it's good, it's good. Wise words too.
“Not unfamiliar.”
“Haha. Is that so? Even in foreign lands, the goddess's light reaches.”
Not what I meant... Whatever. Ignore it.
“Mercenary, do you have a lover?”
“? What?”
“Ah, sorry. Slipped out. Haha. My squad leader always teased before waves.”
...Where's that squad leader now?
“Just missed him suddenly. Getting emotional before the big fight. Sorry, forget I said it.”
Yep.
“Holy knight.”
“Yes. Call me Kyle.”
“Right, Kyle. One piece of advice. Never ask that on a battlefield.”
“Pardon...? What do you...”
“Just don't. Mercenary superstition.”
“As a man of faith, I can't believe in superstition, but I'll take it as warrior's advice. Thank you.”
God, stop planting flags everywhere. I'm already on edge about weird shit popping up.
That moment.
“The enemy approaches!”
The ground rumbles, the scout's cry echoes, bells toll across the fortress. Another line draws on the horizon. The wave's line.
“Here we go.”
“Yes. Ignore me, Mercenary—move freely. That's why I'm here.”
“Got it. Won't take long.”
A faint golden wave fills my vision. Looking back, a golden beam shoots skyward from the chapel, spreading wide to envelop the fortress before reaching the heavens. A golden aurora.
Even chatty Kyle closes his eyes, clasps his hands. Praying? Can't hear the words, but probably all the same. This is a battlefield, after all.
“Archers, fire!”
During the brief lull, the wave closes in fast. Lycanthropes lead, beasts make up the bulk—blazing speed. One volley of arrows barely slows them. They're getting closer.
I'm on the left of the forwardmost watchtowers. Gratia fights an extreme siege using sanctuary. Let the wave come first. Strike when they're clawing the walls.
My job in the meantime: find the target.
As Kyle nocks his second arrow, I scan the wave. Tricky. Black Wolf Grimhoul, right? Expected it, but no sign. Probably soldier-sized. Like Garkan or Crusher Bolg. Not overwhelmingly huge, so maybe the walls are safer.
No. It's still an elite monster. Never rely on the walls.
Find it. Before the anvil shatters.
Debris falls from the watchtower eaves. Familiar vibration. The wave breaches the fire net, slams the defenses. They smash themselves brutally against the gates, claw up the walls with tough talons. Where? Where are you?
I scrutinize every finger-sized lycanthrope one by one.
Then. In one corner of the ashen horde, a tail twitches— a lycanthrope wrapped absurdly tight in armor. A jet-black, fluffy tail.
That's it. Black Wolf. You.