Chapter 331
Chapter 331
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 331
Chapter Title: Here I Am
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-Gurgle.
Fernandez suddenly heard a strange sound. Like bubbles rising through liquid. As always, he tried to check his physical condition before opening his eyes.
But he felt nothing. Just a sense of floating. The sensation of drifting through empty void enveloped his body. No, could this even be called a sensation? If he felt nothing at all, didn't that simply mean his nerves and sense of pain had vanished entirely?
‘Feizashi.’
No reply came. Only then did he begin piecing together his fragmented memories. He had confronted Yekaset, blocked Karadscar, and in a state of utter exhaustion, fallen under the demons' onslaught. The last sound he heard was the horrific crunch of fangs piercing his skull.
So, he was dead. No need to ask. No one could recover from such wounds. If it were possible, he wouldn't have lost his son. So then...
‘Is this the afterlife?’
A space that was neither the abyss of hell nor the halls of the Holy Pantheon. A place of utter silence and endless expanse. Was this the world after death? Fernandez slowly opened his eyes.
‘Haha...’
He couldn't help but laugh. A pitch-black void, utterly devoid of anything, stretched before him. He looked down at his hands and feet. The body once covered in scars was now pristine, without a speck of dust.
‘The final gamble failed. A fitting end.’
He truly believed it. Hell's eternal torment would at least give him that raw reality. The Holy Pantheon's sweet nectar might grant new inspiration and vigor. But this space—drifting endlessly without promise, forever questioning himself...
‘It’ll crumble away slowly.’
How much time would it take? For a soul that had lived eighty years plus three more, to collapse and scatter in a void devoid of stimulus. And was there any reason to endure the process of its existence fading?
More than anything else, this moment felt like a truer hell to him. For this cunning old black mage, if there was to be punishment after death, no space could be more fitting.
An eternity of endless reflection and regret, lamentation and self-recrimination, self-mockery—fading into insignificance. It would be more horrific than any rusty torture blade wielded by hell's demons.
‘My son...’
And so, Fernandez resolved to bear that pain himself. If the punishment laid upon him was to be crushed in eternal regret, he had no intention of fleeing it. If all he could do was think, then he would think the most valuable thoughts.
Colors began to overlay the space. Slowly taking form. His mind, highly focused without external stimuli, was projecting shapes onto his own vision. An insubstantial form, but slowly, meticulously sculpted—
Deep blue eyes and straight-raised brows, neatly combed black hair. A refined nose bridge and sharp jawline. A sturdy build honed over long years, elastic muscles and all.
Half his own youthful face, half the face of the woman who had handed him warm milk in that rundown barn that day. The potentially harsh sharpness of his eyes softened with warmth, the crooked lips with gentleness.
The image of that youth from back then—always filled with sorrow, forever weak-willed, unable to lift his head from broken pride and despair—reshaped.
If you had grown up in a normal environment... no, even in one that was lacking but happy, would you have looked like this? Indulging in such childish fancy, Fernandez slowly opened his mouth toward the young man facing him.
“My son, if your mother had lived, she would have been proud of you. Aria too. As always, your mere existence was our happiness and our pride.”
If he had raised the child in the right environment, perhaps he could have said such words. The imaginary son smiled softly, as if replying to his words.
“What rises first are the things I accomplished, not the ones I failed. All my hardships were for you alone. If there is one achievement worth calling mine, it was being your father.”
The old black mage's confession continued. Mere empty words spat toward an illusion, and he knew better than anyone that they would ultimately shatter him—yet still.
After his mind crumbled further here, he wouldn't be able to speak so sincerely. So, it was right to do it now, while some reason remained.
“Even if reborn a thousand times, I would want to be your father. Even a thousand years lived would not compare to that single day. I... I wanted to tell you this.”
-Whoosh!
The son's form vanished like a dream. Imagination could sometimes spiral out of control. And now, when it projected directly before his eyes, all the more so.
-Aria. Don’t cry. I, I will save you.
-Professor, who will cry in your place now?
-You worthless wretch. You’re besmirching your mother’s face.
-Father, next time, I will show you results you won’t be ashamed of.
Jumbled imaginings forged memories. Eighty years. Memories filled only with regret, misery, grief, and lament from that day lined up one by one before his eyes.
Shedding bloody tears, Fernandez silently watched the scene. He had no thought of evasion. If this moment was his punishment, his hell, then he would gladly endure it.
Perhaps, forever.
* * *
[Bashir, how fares the Grand Rite of the Black Wolf?]
[Halfway complete, O Great Sun.]
[Hurry. I don’t know how much longer this man can hold.]
[King Tutep resists fiercely from the High King’s tomb chamber.]
[I need King Tutep’s red hornet venom. Awaken him by tonight, no matter what. Use rough methods if necessary.]
In this vast hall where ornate golden pillars studded with jewels stood in a circle, Lavirata’s clear voice echoed alongside the responses of the spectral priests.
The dead were usually silent at all times, but never had they moved with such bustle. Potions and pottery, jars and gems clattered noisily with their motions.
Mana from ley lines flowed over the thirteen pillars, their incense-smeared surfaces, and sculpted jewels, stretching toward the hall’s center. Lavirata finely tuned the flow as she gazed at the massive sarcophagus before her.
The Sarcophagus of Creation. Among the countless relics slumbering within Ibaris, it was the greatest—and one forged in the Sang Ashit era, when she had fully ruled this vast plain.
An ancient relic preserving fragments of the gods’ power that had faded since the War in Heaven, impossible to replicate with modern magic.
[You must live, Fernandez.]
Placing her hand on the Sarcophagus of Creation, Lavirata whispered softly. This relic did not revive the dead. It was closer to forging new flesh. It bound the soul to the material world and rebuilt the body from the soul’s memories, draping it over the spirit.
Only one problem.
[I trust in you.]
No one revived by this relic had retained a sound mind. They preserved memories and souls from life, but none kept their sanity upon donning the created flesh.
Over Sang Ashit’s long history, countless spectral priests had tried analyzing the relic’s flaw. But even with highly advanced necromancy and mana welding, they couldn’t pinpoint it.
All priests declared the relic flawless. Its principles and mana circuits drew perfect golden ratios; the clay tablets detailing procedures and sequences held no defects.
Thus, they had to admit it: the relic was technically perfect. But human souls were not. The flaw lay in mortals’ spirits; hence, this relic could not be used by humans.
A cruel paradox. Lavirata could only sneer at the fact once more. Immortals needed no such relic. But mortals could not use it.
What of a ‘seeker’ whose human soul had turned toward divinity? One who had amassed spirit nearing quasi-divine rank? Could such a soul endure the process?
When she found the shattered, torn corpse—its heart long gone cold—Lavirata realized the soul, now too mighty, hadn’t fully departed. She immediately thought of the Sarcophagus of Creation.
A soul this strong might revive here. In that moment, she wondered if her words had become prophecy, as ancient kings often did.
‘Live as a man, ascend as a god after death.’
Didn’t that truly mean gaining divine rank posthumously through deeds and authority? Lavirata found this paradoxical too. Perhaps simply reviving him via necromancy would be more rational. But she couldn’t.
How could she turn into a specter the man obsessed more than anyone with human essence—a man who wandered in regret for having revived his own child as undead?
* * *
Having completed Fernandez’s beatification rites, the Pope sat in his office chair, idly flipping through reports. After rereading the final page several times, he glanced at the clock on the table.
It was nearly time.
-Knock knock.
The moment he thought so, a knock sounded at the office door. Still as punctual as ever. The Pope smiled softly and turned toward the door.
“Your Holiness, Inquisitor Zephys Shiradast requests audience.”
“Bring him in.”
-Creak.
The door opened, and a towering man in neatly pressed vestments entered. He took exactly five steps forward and bowed deeply. The Pope smiled again at the sight.
“You summoned me.”
“There is something you must do, Brother Zephys.”
“Brother...? I am but a sinner who has laid down his robes. Speak freely.”
“My eyes still see a Religiosa Demonica. Sit. This may take time.”
The Pope placed a tea set on the table and poured hot water as he spoke.
“Have you seen the Saint’s report?”
“...Yes, Your Holiness. But judge my sins.”
“No matter. Did anything seem odd?”
“Odd... you mean?”
Zephys bowed his head briefly, gathering his thoughts. The Pope of Beitasser’s Church never spoke idly. Recalling the report slowly, he shook his head.
“My learning is shallow and dull; nothing comes to mind.”
“If your learning is shallow, who among us dares claim scholarship? No false modesty, Brother Zephys. Doesn’t this line about the so-called ‘post-failure protocol’ strike you as strange?”
“Reverse Heaven... Great Archangel...? Those words, Your Holiness? Yes, but you...”
“Not a priest’s phrasing.”
“...Pardon?”
“Not a priest’s phrasing. Reverse Heaven—overturning the skies... Put differently, earth and sky swapped, skies beneath our feet and earth above, treading clouds as we do soil. Now, what might that mean?”
Zephys paused at the Pope’s words. Earth and sky inverted, treading sky as earth? If earth became sky, viewing sky from earth would look like people rising toward earth.
Realization dawned, and Zephys’s face paled. He placed a hand on the table, scarred fingers tapping lightly.
A rather rude gesture, but neither the Pope nor Zephys minded. After a brief silence, Zephys murmured in a low groan.
“...The Rapture...?”
“Indeed. The circumstances make it obvious. After the great demon’s seal breaks and all efforts fail, the earth will be no different from hell. It means shatter the Pantheon’s gates and call for the Rapture. But there’s more oddity here.”
“What... what is it?”
“Explaining Rapture as ‘Reverse Heaven.’ Too strange a usage for mere obfuscation. Hard to see as literal description of ascent. Reverse Heaven—if not taken literally, means ‘overturning the natural order.’ For man to ascend to heaven is to defy nature, which means...”
“Not the way of a priest... that’s the implication.”
“Exactly. I suspect Brother Fernandez may be...”
“He is no heretic.”
Zephys replied firmly to the Pope’s words. Dangerous talk that could lead to charges of blasphemy or heresy by fire. But the Pope smiled gently and shook his head.
“...From a heretical sect, perhaps.”
“...Pardon?”
“That young man was a prophet. A most precise one, nearly flawless in power. Often, reading his reports, I wondered: what would he have become without the priesthood?”
“...”
Zephys had wondered the same. What sort of man achieves this yet shuns priesthood? A conqueror torching secular thrones, a great scholar, or...
“A heretic cultist wielding black magic and forbidden arts, perhaps knowing his future so deeply he embraced it. Viewing his actions that way, Brother Saint’s path begins to make sense. Profound prophetic gift fused with black magic mastery born thereof. Together, they explain his feats: utterly meticulous, profoundly ruthless, economically extreme.”
Heretics and heresy hunters are a paper’s width apart. Worship the demon or hunt it—sometimes indistinguishable from outside.
Thus, potent heresy implies potential great hunter. Perhaps in distant future, this youth became history’s mightiest heretic. Seeing that future, glimpsing its triumphs early, he chose hunter instead...
“Seen that way, the report takes new shape. The Keyblade—cautionary holy relic vouching Brother Saint’s divinity. Listed as essential to seal the great demon.”
“...Yes, Your Holiness.”
“That relic vanished with Brother Saint’s passing; despite all Church efforts, nowhere to be found.”
Zephys’s mouth went dry; he gripped his teacup with trembling hand. The Pope’s firm voice rang out.
“Others might see this report as a will—final plea to finish his unfinished work. Noble, sacred intent. But I differ. A prophet this potent leaving final record means we must—by our hands—achieve it.”
Words of supreme prophets hold self-fulfilling nature. Their speech and acts become prophecy itself. Ancient prophets in history and myth clarify this.
From that view, a prophet like Fernandez scripting a final prophecy yet filling it with impossibilities is self-contradictory.
The Keyblade vanished with Fernandez. Yet essential to unseal, slay the great demon—even for Rapture if slaying fails.
An item this vital unfindable. And Fernandez’s remains nowhere...
“Does it mean Brother Saint yet lives...?”
“And unable to finish it himself, he proposes we handle it.”
“But... where could he be...”
“Somewhere we can’t reach, unable to contact us—clashing with the wasteland’s great demon that instant.”
Zephys’s tremor stopped. Calmly lowering his hand below the table, he drew his rosary. Gazing at him lost in thought, rolling the beads, the Pope spoke quietly.
“It will be a hard journey, brother.”
“...Who will go for us? Who will act for us? he says.”
“Lord, here am I. Send me.”
“Macto.”
“Macto superlaudo. Brother. May the Lord’s peace go with you.”
Zephys opened his eyes and rose. As he turned, the Pope’s voice followed.
“I restore your holy orders. Zephys Shiradast, Grade 2 Inquisitor of St. Bartholomew Monastery. From this moment, devote yourself once more as the Lord’s servant.”
“I shall uphold Your Holiness.”
-Creak, click.
Gazing at the closed door, the Pope quietly made the sign of the cross.