Holy Kingdom Elia
'...So this is it.'
At the end of his gaze stood the white walls of the citadel, and before its grand gates, two Holy Knights clad in pristine white armor.
Holy Kingdom Elia. The smallest nation on the continent. Home to the grandest temple. It was called the smallest country because its entire territory consisted of but a single fortress-city, and the grandest temple because that fortress was one vast sanctuary.
Vera, who had ridden without rest for a full week to reach this place, felt a sudden swell of emotion upon beholding the white citadel at the edge of his vision. He had never dreamed he would come here under his own power.
Had she not been the God's Saint, had she not been the bond that reached him only at the end of his life, he would never have given this place a second glance.
The reason he had never come here in his previous life... Back then, pledging himself to the Holy Kingdom would have cost him too much.
Priests of the Holy Kingdom were forbidden personal economic activity, lest their faith be tainted by greed for wealth. Nor could they attain noble titles, lest those who spoke for the gods be swayed by lust for power.
All a Holy Knight of this land could gain was honor, and nothing more. Thus, Vera had hidden his Stigmata his entire life.
What he had sought in that past existence was wealth and power. Indulgence and pleasure.
As his thoughts wandered, a snort of laughter escaped Vera's lips.
'It's all because of you that I've come this far.'
He recalled the saint who could be called a magnificent weirdo.
In four years' time, on the day the Stigmata descended upon her, he would go to receive her.
To keep his oath. To pursue the light that had shone upon him only at life's end.
And for that, he needed...
'...Status.'
The procession to welcome the saint. He required a position worthy of leading it.
In other words, a rank commanding Holy Knights.
He harbored no worries about ascending that high within four years. He already possessed everything needed to become a citizen of Elia and a Holy Knight.
His Oath's Stigma. That alone would suffice.
Showing it would grant him passage straight to the Holy Emperor himself.
There, his status as an Apostle would be recognized.
The power of Oath was mighty in martial prowess; displaying the Stigmata and claiming apostleship would naturally bring the rank of Holy Knight as well.
Vera continued his musings as he slowly advanced toward Elia's gates.
'Wait for me.'
In four years, he would come to meet her.
He would not let her die so wretchedly again.
He would not force her to hide in the slums.
He would place her in the most radiant seat and, by her side, finally live a life worth calling one.
As Vera immersed in these thoughts, the distance to the Holy Knights guarding the gate shrank to about five paces.
Thud.
The two knights struck their halberds against the ground in unison.
"Halt. State your business."
Vera eyed the two Holy Knights, their faces stern. Twins, with identical features—brown hair, brown eyes, square jaws, and sturdy builds.
He knew their names. In his past life, they had made names for themselves that no one could ignore.
One of the Apostles, those pillars of the Holy Kingdom who bore Stigmata like himself.
'Krek. Marek.'
Apostles of the God of Guardianship, Payron—the twin Holy Knights Krek and Marek.
Gatekeepers who had shared a single Stigmata to become Apostles.
In that bygone era when the Demon King swept across the continent, these two alone had held back his invading legions—a human bastion unmatched.
As Vera savored the odd thrill of meeting in person those he had only heard of in rumors, he raised his right arm and rolled up his sleeve. No need for lengthy words.
He spoke but one sentence as the twins gaped at the Stigmata etched on his forearm.
"The Stigmata has come upon me."
That alone was enough.
*
A secluded nation at the continent's southernmost tip, where none but priests could enter.
All food and goods for daily life were procured by dispatched clergy, sustaining the entire priesthood in this malformed state. Without the powers granted by the gods, it would have collapsed in less than a year.
Such was the Holy Kingdom Elia.
Thus, even Vera—who in his past life had visited every nation on the continent—entered for the first time with a flicker of anticipation. But...
'...The perfect town to drive you mad.'
That hope shattered the moment he crossed the threshold.
Vera's face twisted in dismay as he took in the vast avenue stretching ahead beyond the gates.
White here, white there. Every building in the Holy Kingdom was white.
True, there were street trees and flowers to break the monotony, but the overwhelming whiteness of the structures still churned a visceral revulsion within him.
As he trudged along, brow furrowed in distaste...
"Krek."
The words burst out of nowhere.
Midway down the avenue, the twin to his right had spoken.
Vera turned to Krek, who gave a slight bow of the head and continued.
"Bearer of the Stigmata of Guardianship. On Apostle duty."
Choppy, staccato speech.
Naturally, a thought flashed through Vera's mind.
'Idiot?'
It wasn't just the tone. The vacant stare, the flaring nostrils, the halberd with a cloak snagged on it—all screamed dimwit without needing further proof.
Vera stared for a moment but saw no point in pointing it out. He simply returned a greeting, ignoring the man's appearance.
"...Vera."
"Met you. Pleased."
"I'm Marek."
The voice came from the other side.
Seeing Marek stare blankly after blurting that out, Vera concluded swiftly.
'Idiots in tandem.'
He'd thought their silence meant they were the stoic type, but no—just dim.
"I'm on Apostle duty too."
"...Yes."
No more words followed.
The twins, having said their piece, escorted Vera to the Great Temple at the avenue's end, then turned back toward the gates.
Krek remained oblivious to the cloak dangling from his halberd even as he walked away.
People who left a short, blunt impression.
'...Those are Apostles?'
Did the God of Guardianship favor fools?
As doubts swirled about the criteria for granting Stigmata, Vera recalled the God of Oath who had bestowed his own—and entertained a blasphemous notion that perhaps all gods were fools.
A chuckle escaped at the thought. Then, surveying the Great Temple alone, his gaze settled on a massive mural covering one wall.
Nine figures seated upon a grand altar.
'...The Nine Gods.'
The mural depicted them.
The Nine Gods, led by the Lord God. Transcendent beings who created and sustained the continent.
At the center, the Lord God wreathed in light. Flanking were one wielding an iron mace, another a shield.
One held fruit, another a massive tome.
Shifting his gaze further, Vera spotted a figure unlike the rest—cloaked in robes from head to toe, face hidden.
He knew at once who it was.
'Rusan.'
The God of Oath, Rusan. The supreme fool, by Vera's measure, who had granted him the Stigmata—and there he was, depicted.
Gazing upon him, an old question resurfaced from a corner of Vera's heart.
What had Rusan been thinking, granting the Stigmata to him of all people?
Why him, this wretched soul unknown to any other?
A mystery he'd carried lifelong, never solved.
'...No.'
He'd never even tried to unravel it.
As Vera stared blankly at the mural, lost in the resurfacing doubt...
"The Oath has no face."
A voice spoke.
Vera whipped his gaze toward it, startled to find a frail-looking man who could pass for a scholar. His body jerked in surprise.
'...No presence.'
No footsteps. No breathing. No sense of being at all.
Even now, detecting him, it was the same.
An alien sensation. A man stood before him, yet emanated no existence whatsoever.
'Who is he?'
Water-blue hair, red eyes. Immaculate white robes. Clearly a high-ranking priest in the Great Temple, yet no information surfaced in Vera's mind.
As Vera sharpened his senses amid rising wariness, the man smiled faintly and continued.
"Do you know why?"
The question linked seamlessly to his prior words.
Vera eyed him briefly, clenched and unclenched his fist to ease tension, then parted his lips.
"...No idea."
"Promises take no form. Thus, the Oath that represents them is faceless."
With that, the man approached, tracing a small sign of the cross over his chest in greeting.
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Trevo, caretaker of the Great Temple."
"...Vera."
"I heard from the twins. Might I see your Stigmata?"
His tone brimmed with amusement.
Vera nodded and rolled up his sleeve, revealing it. At that instant, Trevo—who had been smiling all along—underwent a bizarre change.
No warning.
The very moment the Stigmata appeared, before a heartbeat passed, his expression flipped.
His red pupils rippled.
His face twisted.
His shoulders heaved.
"Ah... Aah..."
Startled by Trevo's sudden behavior, Vera recoiled.
Thud.
Trevo dropped to his knees and began to wail.
"Aaaah!!!"
Vera shuddered at the sight of Trevo collapsing in abject sobs.
'Madman.'
The thought flooded his mind.
Of course it did. Any sane person would think the same.
How could one see sanity in a man bursting into tears without prelude?
"The hand of the Lord God descends upon this land, and we are overcome with grace..."
He traced cross after cross, weeping profusely.
Vera couldn't help but wonder if coming here was the right choice.
The twin Apostles at the gate. The lunatic priest in the temple.
All of them were loose screws. Harmful sorts.
Revulsion welled from deep within. In that moment, he thought perhaps the saint had turned into such a weirdo because of people like these.
'...Makes sense.'
The saint had been noble and compassionate, but stripping that away, she wasn't so different from these folk.
A bit unhinged, inscrutable in thought.
That had been the saint he'd known.
Vera reaffirmed his resolve in coming here.
A city of pure white, primed to induce madness.
The blind saint couldn't see it, but consorting with near-madmen like these in such a place would surely twist anyone into a freak.
He wanted to turn back. His past self had been right.
Yet even as those thoughts swirled, what held him firm was...
'If the saint keeps company with these fools like this...'
She'd end up like them.
Vera's fists clenched tight.
'...No.'
Absolutely not.