Pietà
Pietà
The worst possible situation was unfolding.
The sturdy fortress walls had been shattered. Countless magic circles covered the entirety of the Holy Kingdom. Key figures had been taken hostage, their mouths gagged and limbs bound, forced to kneel upon a high platform with Kal blades hanging over their necks.
And standing there were the Hero and the Pope.
"...Who are these children?"
At that moment, Zeke asked about the two one-eyed twin boys the Pope had brought along.
"Two more friends of theirs—the younger brothers of that child. Good hostages."
Isabella's younger brothers were also among those hostages. Zeke simply couldn't understand. Why did a Kal blade have to be pressed against the neck of an innocent child who knew nothing of this?
Was power truly a golden tower that had to be defended in such a filthy, cowardly fashion? Still, he did not back down. He followed orders—that was the self-imposed suggestion Zeke had planted within himself.
"Saint and Demon King, listen well!"
At that, the Pope proclaimed to them.
"I shall give you a chance."
The Pope seized Ian by the hair and pressed a Kal blade to his throat.
"If you wish to save the Holy Kingdom, your friend's younger brother, and your followers who have acted according to your will... as well as Mikel's young disciple, your friend... then obey my command."
The Pope had already played several hands. He had identified Mikel's location in advance and had already dispatched assassins to kill that disciple, precisely to prepare for the moment these two would rampage in desperation. He was using their unbreakable bonds of friendship against them, tightening the noose around their necks.
"...Isabella?"
Rosaria's expression crumbled.
"...What a vile wretch, worse than a beast."
Canaria gnashed her teeth in fury.
They had anticipated this. The possibility of abandoning the Holy Kingdom. They had not entirely ruled out the chance that some might try to cling to the enemy and prolong their miserable lives.
Erika and Francesco had already acknowledged that they themselves could become hostages and had told the others to abandon them when that time came, to live for each other.
But they had never imagined this.
That Ian, Ivan, and Isabella would be targeted. Perhaps they had known, but had wished otherwise and pushed it to the back of their minds. Should they have assumed it from the moment the Pope had brought the twins' eyes as material to turn Canaria into the Demon King?
Even so, the milk was already spilled. The cold edge of the Kal blade now reached beyond the Holy Kingdom toward their precious friend, and at this very moment, it was directed at that friend's precious younger brothers.
"I suggest you refrain from any foolishness. The moment I detect even a trace of divine power, I will kill them one by one."
The Kal blade bit lightly into Ian's neck, drawing a trickle of red blood. Tears streamed from his single remaining eye, the one that had yet to be healed.
"...Rosaria, let's end this quickly."
At that, Canaria whispered softly. Behind her cold fury, it was as if a frost was blooming. She was a woman who had sneered even as her own fingers were severed, but this conduct was something she could not endure.
"I will kill them all as fast as I can. I won't even give those bastards the chance to kill the hostages. And then you can heal the wounded hostages with Rosaria's divine power..."
Of course, Canaria knew.
That those words were nothing but wishful thinking.
The opponents were the Pope and the Hero. The moment Canaria's bindings were released, they could slaughter every hostage there.
And in the worst case, if the Pope aimed for mutual annihilation, Canaria would simply be left standing alone upon a field of corpses. Moreover, no matter how fast she moved, it would be impossible to find Isabella, whose location she didn't even know, before the assassins who had already departed.
"...What do you want?"
And so, Rosaria agreed to the deal. The risk of failure was too great. She did not want to leave Canaria standing upon a field of corpses. Nor did she desire everyone's death.
Her teacher and business partner, Erika. Francesco, who had offered his help. Her friend Isabella and her younger brothers.
And even all the citizens of the Holy Kingdom—people who were like their past selves, living the lives that their past selves had dreamed of.
Rosaria did not wish to lose any of it, and so she intended to strike a deal with that despicable wretch.
She was not ignorant of what item she would have to offer in this deal...
She was a Saint.
"Take your own life. Or kill the Demon King with your own hands. That is the deal I offer."
A sacrifice for the greater good was the fate of a Saint.
"If you comply with these terms, I will withdraw. I promise. I will not kill any of them as part of the deal."
The Pope already had numerous escape routes. The Heart's Oath? That was a curse that would vanish the very moment the Saint of her own will ascended the scaffold of divine punishment and drove a blade into her heart. Just as Judas, who sold the first Saint for thirty pieces of silver, was recorded as the worst heretic and lost his status as an apostle.
In that moment, the Pope would become a second Judas—no different from one who had sold the Saint to the Holy Empire for the safety of his own life. So he had no stake in whether the Saint took her own life or not.
And even if she killed the Demon King, it would be no problem.
Killing the greatest variable with her own hands, and the guilt of having killed her own friend with her own hands, would surely destroy that young Saint. If she shattered completely, he could simply control her. If she began to rampage, they could simply kill her with Longinus, which had been given to the Hero before their very eyes.
The balance of the board was tilted.
What made the difference was the degree of relational entanglement.
The Pope had always built his relationships with the thought of cutting them off, but Rosaria and Canaria had forged their bond as the purpose of their very lives. The Pope simply held an overwhelmingly larger number of chips.
The victor of the gamble, staked on the fate of the Holy Kingdom and their own happy future, was the Pope. Regrettably, they were greedy people who had no heart to sacrifice or lose. They were girls too upright to survive this squalid gambling board.
"Hero, give them a gift."
The Pope commanded Zeke. Following that command, Zeke threw a dagger for self-destruction before them. The dagger landed precisely at Rosaria's feet. Rosaria picked up the blade, half-buried in the snow.
The dagger was cold and sharp. She knew that being pierced by it would mean death. And she knew that if she alone were sacrificed, everyone would live. As she hesitated, these thoughts lingered.
"...Don't do it, Rosaria."
Canaria pleaded. "Please don't make such a foolish choice. Let's rack our brains and find a way through this situation. Don't agree to a deal with such a contemptible villain—please, just live."
"...I cannot live in a world without Rosaria."
Canaria clutched her wrist, tears streaming down her face. But Rosaria's expression had already collapsed. In that short time, though she had run through countless scenarios, this situation could not be changed.
The cheapest price was her own death alone.
Because Rosaria, too, had no confidence that she could live in a world without Canaria.
It might have been a cowardly attempt to flee. The thought that she would rather die than live in agony. Yet it was an irresponsible thought that pushed that very agony onto her lover.
"...There's no other way."
The oath carved into her heart was a sorrowful thing.
She could not understand why the Saints of old had made such a thing, forcing this agonizing choice upon them. So much so that she began to resent them, who had long since vanished from this world.
Beyond that, resentment toward this world, and beyond even that, resentment toward the main god who had placed the Saint's crown upon her own head, began to sprout in Rosaria's heart.
Her hands continued to tremble.
In that brief time of hesitation, Rosaria's mind conjured a scenario where she had not become a Saint, and Canaria had not become a Demon King.
They would probably have been happy.
They would have lived an ordinary life.
Would she have lived as a nun of the Holy Kingdom? Or would she have left the Holy Kingdom, driven by a thirst born from a love she could not express there?
Looking at it now, she would probably have left the Holy Kingdom.
In a secluded place where no one ever came, she and Canaria would have lived happily together. They might not have been able to have children, but perhaps they would have taken in and raised children who had been unhappy and abandoned by their parents, just as their past selves had been.
A cute child, ideally, that bore the blended features of them both.
Of course, they would have been happy even without a child.
Every day, the moment they opened their eyes, they would have gazed into each other's eyes, faced one another, and savored each other's lips. They would have taken turns cooking, making dishes the other liked. She herself was a terribly picky eater, so Canaria would have had a bit of a hard time with that.
And then Isabella, who lived next door, would have come over. Saying she couldn't cook, so please share some food, and that she would repay them by recording those scenes for posterity.
Canaria would probably have growled at Isabella to just pay in money, and Isabella would have threatened to draw them looking ugly.
......All of that would have been happiness.
Simply continuing to spend time by the side of the people she loved—that in itself would have been the reason and purpose of life. If they had been themselves, and not the Saintess and the Demon King, wouldn't they have reached that destination?
It was a warm memory. And it felt so very far away. Because the reality was this winter of falling snow, gripping a cold Kal blade, agonizing over whether to drive it into herself or into Canaria.
"...Canaria."
Rosaria wept.
Recalling this happiness she could not possess—that happy future lost among branching paths—she wept hot tears, cursing this reality that had given her nothing but misfortune.
And regrettably, there was no more time for delay. The Pope was raising his hand, about to order one of the hostages killed if they stalled any longer.
Between those two choices, Rosaria, ever greedy, made her decision.
Incredibly cowardly, but a choice by which everyone could survive.
"...For the first and last time, I will place a curse upon you, whom I love."
She would sacrifice herself.
Save everyone and die alone.
And so that the surviving Canaria could not follow her, she would place the most terrible curse upon her—wishing for her to remain in this world and continue living together with their friend Isabella.
"...Even if I die, please don't die. I beg you, live on and be happy together with Isabella."
It was a contradiction.
Canaria would wish for death.
She would never, ever be able to live happily.
...Even stopping at just this much would have been a sufficient curse.
But regrettably, Rosaria was greedy.
"...And please, don't forget me."
Because she also did not wish to see Canaria living happily with someone other than herself. That affection, twisted by obsession, was destined to bind Canaria as a curse of eternal unhappiness.
"...I love you. I have loved you, and I will love you."
Canaria would probably regret, for the rest of her life, that she had not acted unreasonably at this moment. Why had she not stopped Rosaria then? Why had she not, just once—even at the last moment—thought to deny and reject the choice she had made?
That promise made to Rosaria when she became a Saint one year ago—that had become an immense binding, shackling Canaria.
No matter what happened, even if the whole world denied it, she alone would follow and affirm that choice—that foolish promise.
At the same time, the Kal blade pierced through Rosaria's chest. That absolute death, which could bring even a Saint to mortality, gradually spread through Rosaria's body.
"...I'm sorry."
The staggering Rosaria embraced Canaria one last time.
Regrettably, that body was terribly cold.
The familiar warmth she had always felt was slowly beginning to fade.
"...I'm sorry. For making all of this suit my own selfishness, Canaria."
Canaria wished she wouldn't apologize.
She could not understand why Rosaria, who had done absolutely nothing wrong, was apologizing even as she was slowly swallowed by emotion.
"...I'm sorry I couldn't keep my promise that we would be together forever."
Ending the embrace, Rosaria looked at Canaria.
Canaria's expression, having lost the world. And beyond those eyes, her own dying form reflected within them.
In that moment, they both were cursing the world.
"...In our next life, let's definitely live happily together."
And then, for the last time, she pressed her lips to Canaria's.
The taste of that final kiss was rank with blood. It was the last fragrance of that day, one that Canaria would never be able to forget.
And that was Rosaria's final moment.
In her last words, she cursed no one, resented no one. Instead, she apologized for not being able to live together, promised that they would definitely be happy in the next life, and left Canaria with a promise that might never be fulfilled.
Regrettably, all of that, contrary to her intentions, became a curse.
It became a great nail driven into the heart of the Demon King before her very eyes.
.......Pieta.
In the language of the Holy Kingdom, sorrow.
In another sense, the image of the Holy Mother weeping in sorrow, cradling the body of the Saint taken down from the cross.
Just like the statue gifted to the Holy Kingdom by the artist Mikel.
Canaria wept, holding the body of the dead Rosaria in her arms.
Not a single emotion showed on her expression. All the clamoring voices around her—none of it could be heard.
Because at this moment, her world had been severed, and an apocalypse had arrived.
"Ro...saria."
Tears of blood began to stream from the girl's eyes.
They were not the tears of a Holy Mother who had lost her Saint.
The tears of a Saint who had lost her Holy Mother flowed there.
A child who had lost the mother who gave her everything and was her very reason for being.
Her tears stained the pure white snowfield and the color-drained skin of the Saint a deep crimson.
The trigger that the Demon King had promised the Saint was fulfilled.
Crack—Canaria's head tilted with a snap.
Suddenly, the clouds veiled the sun. A deep darkness descended upon that sinful land where the Saint had been driven to take her own life.
And then, from beyond that darkness, the king of all ill omens descended.
Proof of sin, wearing an ominous black crown.
"...In the end, you have left, Solomon."
The Demon King, Serena, descended once more upon that place.