The Silence After Canossa

Several days had passed since the "Praise of Canossa." The prayers of the continent had fallen silent.

The bells still rang, but they no longer settled over the city as they once had. The tolling of the Holy Church's bells was originally the sound that divided the people's day. At dawn, it woke the sleeping city; at noon, it spread over the clamor of the marketplace; in the evening, it slowed the steps of those returning home. At night, it made even those who had closed their windows unconsciously draw the sign of the cross.

But now, it was different. When the bells rang, no one looked up. Some spat openly on the ground. Others slammed their doors shut the moment they heard the tolling. Some covered their children's ears. The sacred resonance that the Holy Church had built over hundreds of years had transformed into a grating, metallic screech in a matter of days.

And with good reason. The Holy Sword was gone. No, it had never been in the Holy Sword Sealing Chamber to begin with. Instead, there was only the severed arm of the former Hero, Adeline Lucretia. Preserved under the guise of a sacred relic, the arm had been bound by Black Magic to mimic a state of pseudo-life—a horrifying truth that had already been reported to both the Royal Family and the Magic Tower.

The Holy Church was left speechless. More accurately, they had lost the right to speak. This was true even in a physical sense. Ever since Roen, acting on Ena's orders, had sliced the tongues of the high priests in half inside the sealing chamber, the cathedral had been filled with those who could no longer form coherent words.

Priests biting down on gauze; high-ranking clergy unable to recite holy scriptures with their severed tongues; sealing chamber administrators bedridden from sheer shock; and those who had fallen ill, unable to bear the public's scathing glares after the truth was exposed. Rumors circulated throughout the city that the Holy Church had nothing left but mutes and patients.

It was a cruel rumor, but no one scolded those who spread it. The Holy Church had been the first to desecrate a human arm by locking it in a glass case. The Holy Church had been the first to erase the Hero's legacy under the pretense of a "disappearance." The Holy Church had been the first to cling to a corpse's fragment using forbidden Black Magic. Confronted with such hypocrisy, the people's fury would not easily subside.

Dozens of people now came daily to throw stones at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the cathedral. At first, it was children. A child returning from viewing the Holy Sword in the central square threw a small pebble at the cathedral wall. Before the holy knights could even react, the child's mother scooped them up and fled.

But the next day, the adults came. An old man who had lost his son on the frontlines threw a stone. A soldier who had marched to war blessed in the name of the Holy Sword, only to return with a missing leg, threw a stone. A mother who had wiped her dying daughter's forehead with the Holy Church's holy water threw a stone.

They did not throw large rocks. They were small stones. Yet, those small stones accumulated—ten, twenty, thirty a day. Scratches multiplied on the white walls of the cathedral. The stained glass could not withstand the onslaught for long.

Every single window was shattered to pieces. The glass depicting the saints, the glass portraying the Hero holding the Holy Sword, the glass showing the Holy Emperor praying in the light—all of them shattered one by one.

Shards of colored glass littered the cathedral floor. The windows that once filtered the holy sunlight now gaped like torn wounds. Once, that light had been sacred. Now, only wind, dust, and the curses of the populace poured through the broken gaps.

The holy knights stood outside, but they could no longer hold their swords high with pride. Whenever they drew their blades, the people mocked them. "Why do those who couldn't even protect the Holy Sword bother holding swords?" someone would jeer.

The holy knights could not answer. They had never even seen the Holy Sword. They had trained in swordsmanship solely on the belief that the Holy Sword rested in the sealing chamber. Now that their faith had shattered, the swords they held suddenly felt incredibly light.

"...Sigh. What on earth are we to do?"

The Holy Emperor, Sevritsio, let out a deep sigh as he stood in the shattered central hall of the cathedral. He had only just returned from a pilgrimage. Though he held the highest office in the Holy Church, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠he was not the type to view the world solely from a marble throne.

He frequently went out into the field, visiting impoverished villages to distribute holy water to the sick, visiting orphanages for children who had lost their parents to war, and personally helping to rebuild ruined chapels.

This pilgrimage had been no different. He had tended to the sick in the impoverished mountain villages of the north, blessed the wounded at a temporary sanctuary near the eastern front, and spent several days in a small southern port city comforting those who had lost their families to a storm.

It had been exhausting, but rewarding. Sevritsio loved such work. He was a man who believed more in the moment of holding someone's hand and saying, "Thank you for holding on," than in the politics, authority, and rituals of the massive institution that was the Holy Church. At least, that was how he viewed himself.

Yet, upon his return, he found the Holy Church utterly shattered. Literally. Shards of broken glass littered the floor of the central hall. The sacred murals on the walls had their faces smashed by stones, and several pews were overturned. In the corridors, injured priests groaned in pain, and the high clergy who had lost their tongues lay in bed with bandages wrapped tightly around their mouths.

Rodenhaf could not speak properly. He tried to write a report with a brush, but his hands trembled so violently that he could not finish a single sentence. The priests who managed the Holy Sword Sealing Chamber refused to meet his eyes.

No one offered an explanation. No one offered a proper apology. The moment they saw him, they simply bowed their heads, looking like mourners greeting a late-arriving chief mourner at a funeral.

Sevritsio found their silence even more suffocating. "What in heaven's name happened here?"

No answer came immediately. There was only silence. That silence explained everything. Either they had no ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mouths left to speak, they lacked the courage to speak, or they knew that speaking would bring about their absolute ruin. It was one of the three.

Sevritsio looked out through the shattered window. A crowd had gathered at the bottom of the cathedral stairs. In the past, they would have been people seeking blessings. They would have lined up for holy water, waited for confession, or come to pray with slips of paper bearing the names of their sick loved ones. Not anymore.

They had come to watch the Holy Church. They had come to witness the collapse of the religious order, their faces debating whether to throw another stone, weighing whether to swallow their curses or spit them out. And in their eyes, there was no longer a shred of the reverence they once held.

Sevritsio closed his eyes, unable to bear their gazes. Before he had left for his pilgrimage, the Holy Church had stood tall. It had stood tall despite its numerous problems, its corrupt bureaucrats, and its politically obsessed cardinals. Ultimately, the people had needed the Holy Church. They needed prayers, they needed funerals, and they needed the promise of the Holy Sword.

But in just a few days, everything had changed. The Holy Church had lost its prayers. It had lost its right to conduct funerals. It had lost the promise of the Holy Sword. All that remained were shattered windows, silent priests, and the cold documents sent simultaneously by the Royal Family, the Magic Tower, and the Geomgye.

Sevritsio picked up the nearest document. It was from the Geomgye. The message was brief.

Sevritsio's eyes locked onto those words. Black Magic. He read them again. Former Hero. Adeline Lucretia. Desecration of remains. Black Magic. Each word pierced his heart like a dagger. He slowly lowered the document, his fingertips turning ice-cold.

"Adeline..." He knew that name well. The owner of the Holy Sword. The former Hero. The champion who had gone missing long ago. A name invoked in every prayer of the Holy Church as a symbol of the savior who would one day return. Now, that very name was written alongside the words "desecration of remains." Sevritsio closed his eyes, then slowly opened them.

"Who," his voice dropped to a low whisper, "who was in charge of managing this?"

This was an atrocity carried out entirely without the Holy Emperor's knowledge. The reason was painfully obvious. "Was it kept a secret from me because the Holy Emperor is chosen by God?"

Even if everyone else fell to corruption, the Holy Emperor was chosen directly by the heavens. No one answered. In that heavy silence, Sevritsio understood far more than they could ever say.

This was not the work of a single individual. It was not a secret kept by a solitary cardinal. It was a legacy passed down through generations. A handed-down sin. A managed desecration. A meticulously preserved lie.

Sevritsio felt a sudden wave of nausea. He had just returned from holding the hands of the sick on his pilgrimage. He had distributed bread to children, prayed for widows who had lost their husbands to war, and helped raise the roofs of collapsed chapels.

He had worked diligently, believing he was serving the faith. Yet, while he was away—no, during the long years he had unconsciously turned a blind eye to—an unspeakable, inhuman atrocity had been taking place in the deepest depths of the Holy Church.

"Your Holiness..." a young priest called out in a trembling voice, his face on the verge of tears.

Sevritsio looked at him. The young priest hesitated before finally stammering, "We... we didn't know."

The words sounded genuine. Perhaps he truly hadn't known. Most of them probably hadn't. The Holy Church was a massive organization. The deepest sins were always kept in places where only a select few could see. But Sevritsio could find no comfort in those words.

"I wish it were an affair that could be settled simply by claiming ignorance," he said.

The young priest's face turned pale. Sevritsio's voice was gentle, but the softer it was, the deeper the exhaustion it carried. "But the people will not accept that."

He looked out the shattered window. "Neither will they."

The crowd gathered outside.

"Nor the Royal Family."

The royals, who had already begun distancing themselves from the Holy Church.

"Nor the Magic Tower."

The mages, poised to pounce on the evidence of Black Magic.

"Nor the Geomgye."

Those who had retrieved the Holy Sword, laid the Hero's remains to rest, and were now tightening a noose of paperwork around the Holy Church's neck.

"And neither will I."

At those final words, the priests raised their heads in shock.

Sevritsio looked back at the document. He was the Holy Emperor. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠The supreme leader of the Holy Church, the man duty-bound to protect it. But before that, he was a man of faith. And the moment faith became an excuse to imprison a human arm in a glass case, he could no longer pray with the same heart.

"Where is Cardinal Rodenhaf?"

Someone pointed a trembling hand toward the inner infirmary. Sevritsio walked in that direction, the glass shards on the floor crunching beneath his boots. The priests parted to let him through. The corridor was dark, and the wind blowing through the broken windows flickered the candlelight.

Two holy knights stood guard outside the infirmary. They bowed immediately upon seeing Sevritsio, but their faces lacked their usual conviction. Holy knights of the cathedral—men who had taken up swords to protect the Holy Sword. But the Holy Sword was gone. That single fact weighed heavily on their shoulders.

Sevritsio paused in front of the infirmary door. From inside came low, muffled groans. It was the sound made by those whose tongues had been severed. Sounds that could not form words. Sounds that could not become prayers. Sounds that could not become excuses. Sevritsio opened the door.

Rodenhaf lay on the bed, bandages wrapped around his mouth, his face deathly pale. His eyes widened when he saw Sevritsio. He tried to say something, but only a bloody, ragged breath escaped his lips. Sevritsio stood by the bedside, looking down at him for a long moment.

"I will ask you," his voice was quiet. "What was inside the Holy Sword Sealing Chamber?"

Rodenhaf's pupils trembled.

"Was it the arm of the former Hero?"

Rodenhaf could not answer.

"Was Black Magic used on that arm?"

Rodenhaf's hand gripped the bedsheets.

"Were you aware of this?"

Rodenhaf squeezed his eyes shut. That was answer enough.

Sevritsio exhaled very slowly. "...Sigh."

This sigh was even deeper than the one in the central hall. "What on earth are we to do?"

He truly did not know. He had to protect the Holy Church, but what kind of Holy Church was he supposed to protect? An order that filled the void of the Holy Sword with a Hero's severed arm? An order that denounced Black Magic as heresy while secretly using it to cling to the dead? Or should he excise all of it and rebuild whatever small, shameful, and humble faith remained?

The answer was not easy. But one thing was clear: they could not cover it up as they had in the past. The Holy Church had already lost its mouth to speak. All that remained was to fall to their knees in apology.

Sevritsio averted his gaze from Rodenhaf and spoke to the priests waiting outside the room. "Send a reply to the Royal Family, the Magic Tower, and the Geomgye... No, I must go in person."

If he had any sin, it was the sin of being the only sane man left in this place.

"Commander-in-Chief. The Holy Emperor is still standing out there."

"How many hours has it been?"

"It has easily been over three hours."

"Keep him standing there until it rains."

For the record, the sky was perfectly clear, without a single cloud in sight.