Audience with the Holy Emperor
As Trevo continued his endless wailing, Vera's expression grew even more grim.
"This fool's having another fit."
Another voice overlapped in the space.
Vera and Trevo's gazes turned simultaneously toward the source.
At the end of their stares stood a hunched old man emerging from the depths, leaning on his staff.
He was the sort one might aptly describe as having entered the twilight of his life.
His faded white hair was tied back tightly in a single ponytail.
His skin was mottled with age spots and etched deep with wrinkles.
He wore plain white robes devoid of any ornamentation—shabby at first glance—but the moment Vera laid eyes on him, tension rippled through his entire body.
Even with his stooped posture, the old man's frame felt immensely larger than Vera's own, and the divine power bursting forth with every step amplified that impression.
Trevo, mid-wail, startled at the old man's appearance, sprang to his feet and left a single parting word for Vera before vanishing from the spot.
"Then I hope we can have a deeper conversation next time! I bid you peace!"
Vera frowned at Trevo's hasty words and abrupt departure, then shifted his gaze back to the old man.
Who is he?
Judging by the aura he exuded, or by the way that madman had fled in fright, he was no ordinary figure.
The old man clicked his tongue at Trevo's retreating form, then narrowed his eyes at Vera's blank stare and spoke.
"Insolent brat. Isn't it proper etiquette to greet your elders first?"
A rebuke.
Vera's body twitched involuntarily.
"...I am Vera."
"You're late, boy."
He chuckled, shoulders shaking.
The old man let the laughter linger for a moment before slowly shuffling forward on his staff, stopping only when he was three paces from Vera.
"Let me see...."
A distance close enough for instant attack—or to be attacked.
As Vera heightened his vigilance at the old man entering his guard, the elder grinned broadly, yellowed teeth fully bared, and continued.
"You reek of blood, you dark little whelp."
Vera flinched at the words.
They struck too close to home.
A week ago, before leaving the Slum, he had slain the scavengers.
That was what made his body tremble now.
...He sees through to my sins.
It had been over a week; no blood scent should linger. Yet the old man had pierced right through it.
With that realization, Vera bowed his head, a guess forming about the elder's identity.
"...I greet Your Holiness."
It was certain.
Vargo Saintroar.
Apostle of Judgment, the God's Iron Mace, father to all Holy Knights.
This old man was Elia's Holy Emperor.
Everything clicked into place.
Divine Eye.
The power of the Apostle of Judgment: eyes that pierced the karma etched into one's soul.
The insight into his sins stemmed from that ability.
Vargo merely laughed, confirming Vera's deduction.
"So, you're the one with this era's Oath Stigmata?"
"I am unworthy of such grace."
"Unworthy? We gave it because that's all you're worth. Follow me—standing here tires these old bones."
Vera watched Vargo turn and walk away, a flicker of tension rising within him.
In his previous life, he had spent it evading the Holy Kingdom and never once met the man.
Only after living one life too many did he encounter the Holy Emperor.
...A monster.
Stronger than anyone Vera had met in his past life.
*
Vargo Saintroar.
The Holy Kingdom was so insular that few had met him in person, yet when the continent's strongest were named, his was always mentioned.
Fifty years past, during his apostolic pilgrimage, his feats across the lands were still legend.
Dragon Slayer, who crushed the skull of the Demon Dragon Skazar with his iron mace.
Nightmare of the Vampires, who slaughtered the bloodsuckers amassing power at the northern fringes.
Iron Mace of the Weak, who shattered the skull of Tiger King Heman, exploiter of lesser beastkin tribes.
And countless more exploits that could fill nights of tales—he was a living legend of this age.
In the history of his past life, when the Demon King rose, everyone said it:
Had Vargo Saintroar not died of old age, the Demon King's skull would have been smashed before his forces grew.
Vera could finally verify those words upon meeting him today.
...Indeed.
He was strong.
That thought came first.
Whether unconsciously or deliberately, the divine power he emanated passively had Vera's entire body screaming warnings.
Never fight him.
Vera had never seen the Demon King, so direct comparison was impossible, but judging by the aura alone, the tales weren't mere exaggeration.
"So, what brings you all this way?"
Vargo's question.
Vera bowed his head again and replied softly.
"To fulfill the duty befitting the miracle granted to me."
His tone was impeccably deferential.
...Naturally so.
Anyone else he might not care for, but he needed to impress this old man.
With the Stigmata, expulsion was unlikely, but the Holy Emperor approved all dispatches, from the Saint's escort to every Holy Kingdom mission. To gain his favor, Vera must show utmost piety in word and deed.
At Vera's response, laced with such calculation—
"You know?"
Vargo's voice brimmed with amusement.
"There are three kinds of fools who say they'll stake their lives on faith. First, idiots. Second, madmen. Third, con artists."
Vargo leaned toward Vera, chuckling as he continued.
"Let me see. You speak well, so not an idiot. No madness in your eyes, so not a madman... which leaves con artist for you, eh?"
"...Perish the thought."
"You saying I'm the liar here?"
"...No, Your Holiness."
"Wrong again. That too is wrong. So what is right?"
Words that latched on and pulled.
Vera's teeth ground together.
The style felt familiar.
A recent encounter—someone who parroted words and flipped them.
Vera recalled her without effort.
...The Saint.
The source of the Saint's maddening rhetoric was clear now.
Likely learned from this old coot.
...As expected.
Holy Kingdom folk were all toxic.
*
Vargo pressed with more questions after that.
From personal background to how much divine power he could wield, what position he sought—stock inquiries.
Vera answered as sincerely as possible, but the responses were poor.
-You talk well, huh?
-And so?
-Didn't ask that, whelp.
Teasing mockery, as if he'd grown fond of needling him.
A tone testing the limits of patience.
Through the drawn-out exchange, Vera dimly grasped Vargo's intent.
...Snake of an old man.
He wanted to provoke anger.
Not rote answers, but ones laced with raw emotion.
Vera, who had thrived on intimidation, recognized it.
Emotion-laden words spilled unfiltered, raw.
Safety nets for negotiation stripped away.
They often put one at a disadvantage or exposed weaknesses.
Minor weaknesses could be bared, but to reveal his true purpose for coming to the Holy Kingdom—to explain the Saint he hadn't even received the Stigmata for yet.
To say he'd live for the Saint.
That required revealing his regression too—something Vera refused.
He planned to tell no one of his return, not even the Saint.
The continent ahead would churn with storms—incidents beyond twisted causality from his changed path, true natural disasters.
To minimize variables, to secure gains, he needed to keep all else in their original places.
For the Saint's safety. For his own.
In his mind rose the image of the Saint from his past life, dead in the Slum's muck.
Vera never wanted to see that death again.
Even if she'd chosen the Slum herself, even if she'd accepted that end.
He could not tolerate it.
Selfish to the core, but he wouldn't yield his teeth.
She who enlightened even this vile beast deserved a radiant end.
Beneath her light he bowed, yet he remained selfish.
Ready to turn ruthless for his desires.
Vera bit back the surging emotion, steadied himself, and faced Vargo.
"The Stigmata descended upon me, so I believed there was a role for me here."
"Tch, a puppet without a will of his own."
"How could a mere creation defy God's will?"
"If defying once meant death, the continent's intelligent life would be extinct."
"...Your jests are sharp, Your Holiness."
"Yours stink, whelp. I say speak, and you recite a script."
Their gazes clashed.
Vera held his tongue.
No point; it'd loop endlessly.
Besides, no need to say more.
He felt it now: the old man wouldn't pry further if he clammed up, nor cast him out.
Confidence.
The assurance of one who'd forged legends.
That whatever schemes Vera hid, he could crush them.
Holy Emperor Vargo, buoyed by that, would let silence pass.
They locked eyes briefly; Vargo, chuckling, replied.
"Well, fine."
Good.
Relief flickered in Vera.
"Rise and follow."
"Where to?"
"Didn't you say you want to be a Holy Knight? Gotta see your swordplay first."
Straightforward, perhaps simplistic.
Vera nodded faintly, and Vargo grinned his signature wicked smile, tossing a question.
"So, can you swing a blade worth a damn?"
Vera's gaze met Vargo's squarely.
Swing a blade...
A chuckle escaped him.
Ridiculous question.
Born a slum scavenger with nothing, he'd devoured half the continent.
Innumerable clashes along the way.
Until life's end, Vera had never lost a swordfight.
Even those vaunted heroes had to curse and bind him.
The blade was his utmost confidence.
Vera held Vargo's stare, smile lingering, and answered.
"A bit."