Four Years of the White Nights
Year four of the Seven Nights' White Nights. Time that could be called long or short had passed. If described as the time waiting for the Saint... it had truly been an eternity. Even after those not-insubstantial years, the face etched into his mind like a brand, the voice, those moments from back then—they stirred a thirst in him at every instant. Even knowing only that she might be somewhere in the Horden Kingdom, with no clue where, he wanted to set out in search of her right then and there.
Yet he couldn't. In the end, it was because he lacked confidence in himself. Because he believed he still wasn't worthy of her—not yet the man she deserved.
Over the past four years, Vera had set aside his status as an Apostle and lived as Vargo's disciple. To learn the sword of protection, he had trailed after him like a shadow. Day after day, tending to his needs through those not-short years... but regrettably, there were no achievements worth calling such.
Vera still didn't know the sword of protection. His blade remained as sharp and aggressive as ever. It favored offense over defense, instinct over reason—a feral edge steeped in savagery. He didn't know faith, either. Vera still couldn't clearly articulate what faith truly meant. To him, it remained an enigma, and the Stigmata were merely a convenient tool.
In those four years, Vera had refined the divine technique he called Sanctuary, honed his body, and achieved visible growth beyond words. But his inner growth lagged far behind.
The sole realization Vera had gained in those four years was that he was an arrogant, ignorant man.
Time, cruel as ever, didn't wait for his sluggish steps.
"Brat."
"Yes."
Early morning in the Great Temple's chapel. As he had every day for the past four years, Vera had come to pray alongside Vargo. At the call, he opened the eyes he had kept closed until then.
At the end of his gaze stood Vargo Saintroar, a man so grotesque the word "fiend" suited him perfectly. More frail than when they first met. The towering frame that once forced Vera to crane his neck just to meet his eyes no longer felt immense. Vargo's back had bent further, and Vera had grown taller—it was the result of those changes.
Now they stood eye to eye, but for some reason, Vera didn't welcome it. He couldn't look the man straight on. So whenever Vargo called, Vera always bowed his head in response.
Thus, with his head lowered, waiting for Vargo's words—
"...How fares your training in holy law?"
"I fall short in many ways."
"You're always falling short, aren't you?"
"I am ashamed."
"Tch, feh."
Vera bowed his head deeper at the familiar click of the tongue. In realizing his own shortcomings and chasing after this man, he had finally learned humility. He could now show the reverence typical of Elia's holy knights.
"So, you gonna keep trailing after me forever? Huh? Planning to mooch off my meals till the end of time?"
Words that had dragged on for a full year now. Vera realized it was time to say something different from his usual responses. Time to claim the independence he'd delayed, hoping to glean even one more scrap of insight.
Vera's lips twitched. How to phrase it? How to convince Vargo and secure the position as the Saint's guard?
It was the dilemma that had tormented him endlessly—until he'd finally found an answer.
"Your Holiness, could you assign Lord Norn to me?"
"Eh? Why that one?"
"I wish to go independent."
Vera spoke those words and lifted his head to meet Vargo's eyes. Eyes of unfathomable depth, as always. They filled Vera's vision—depths that could seem sinister or eerie. But now he knew: they held the weight of years.
"...I intend to form a procession."
"What procession?"
"Do you remember what I said?"
"How could I forget you sniveling and begging to trail after someone?"
Vera flinched. Vargo's sarcasm made his body tremble. He'd heard it constantly while glued to the man's side, but it still riled him every time. Exhaling softly to steady himself, Vera continued.
"...Yes. This procession is for that purpose."
There had been a time when he'd agonized over how to say this without revealing his regression. But no clever workaround came to mind, so he'd settled on the direct approach. Of course, he wouldn't say outright that he knew of the Saint's appearance from his regression or that the procession was to guard the future Saint.
'He's not the type to pry.'
Vargo, as Vera had observed over four years, wasn't one to dig into every little detail. No need to spell it out. Known as the father of all holy knights, he enveloped Elia's priests with a father's understanding. Even this old man's infuriating temper—perhaps that's why Vera had come to show him respect.
As Vera pondered and awaited a response, Vargo—his face sour until then—scratched his ear and tossed out a question.
"A girl?"
Vera's expression froze.
"Guess so. Tch, feh. You spaz out whenever you see Rohan, and now you're no different. Brain's in your pants."
"...Your words are too harsh."
"Harsh? That shifty look screams it from the start."
Vera's fist clenched tight.
"So, will you permit it?"
"What if I say no?"
"...My apologies."
"No manners. Do as you like."
Vargo rose with those words and left the chapel alone.
"I'm off for a walk. Tell Norn yourself."
"Thank you."
No reply came. Vargo walked away in silence.
Vera didn't exhale and relax until Vargo passed through the chapel doors and vanished from sight.
'It's done.'
Finally, he could reach the position he'd aimed for from the start.
'Three days from now.'
On the day the continent stood at the midpoint of the year, the Seven Nights' White Nights began. The miracle when the gods' Stigmata descended upon the land. The gods' salute blessing the new Saint.
That was when it would start.
'When the Seven Nights' White Nights begin...'
The continent would become a cauldron of chaos—a fitting description. All to seize the Saint's divine power over fate.
'The power to weave fate.'
A power that interfered with providence itself, rewriting ordained destinies. With the Saint's power, a mountain hermit could become the Empire's emperor. The lowliest beggar could rise as the continent's richest tycoon. A terminally ill soul could gain a century of life.
Of course, such power didn't come without cost. The Saint couldn't alter her own fate. And if the ripple from using it exceeded the total divine power she held, she bore the burden.
For instance, turning that hermit into emperor would upend continental history—and the Saint's soul would shatter under the strain.
In other words, the gods' power was one pledged against the Saint's very soul.
A perilously dangerous ability... but regrettably, irrelevant to those seeking its benefits. Why? Because the Saint—not they—endured the cost.
To them, she was a divine artifact, granting glory without price.
Vera's thoughts turned to those from his past life who had hunted the Saint.
'The Empire's emperor will move.'
The precarious emperor, to restore his house's glory, would act personally.
'The Tower Master's master will move.'
To unravel the greatest providence, he would stir.
'The kingdom alliance's leader, the beastkin chieftain, the Night's followers—they'll all move.'
All for that one Saint.
Formidable foes, each. But Vera felt no fear. He possessed power to match theirs.
He had his Stigmata. The martial prowess honed through training. And the Holy Kingdom at his back.
No reason he couldn't protect her.
Suddenly, an image flashed: the Saint, powerless, scraping by in a slum corner. Her wretched form. Her lonely death, unmourned.
The inevitable, without his intervention.
'...Not this time.'
He would never let her meet such an end. He would be the unbreakable bulwark no one could breach. Place her where her nobility alone earned praise.
And guard her side for life.
Fulfill the vow etched in his soul, the promise of a lifetime.
Confidence in himself... he still lacked.
He remained arrogant, ignorant. Ignorant of faith. His swordsmanship savage beyond measure, his humanity a joke at best.
But he had no luxury to hesitate from such doubts. Time wouldn't wait for his readiness.
The Seven Nights' White Nights would come regardless, and he would stand at its heart, shielding her from the hordes.
'I won't run.'
From the vow he'd sworn himself, from that responsibility. He'd gladly bear the consequences of his arrogance and ignorance. Shoulder the blood price of his brutal blade. Never claim the world seen through his narrow view was right.
Just carry them all—and live for the vow.
Vera's gaze turned to the mural of the Nine Gods on the chapel's front wall.
'Whatever you desire, it's none of my concern.'
If it aligned with his will, fine. If not, so be it.
'I won't bother solving the riddles you cast.'
What mattered was that singular moment from his wretched life's end.
'I will protect the Saint by my own will.'
The light that had shone upon him then. His life needed only to safeguard that.