Chapter 61: Ch61 The Saint’s Mask
The night air was cold, damp with the weight of anticipation. Outside the temple gates, the elders stood in a half-circle, their robes rustling as the wind carried whispers through the trees. It was almost dawn. The faintest line of silver brushed the horizon, but the temple doors had remained firmly sealed.
The knights had long since dismounted. Their horses lay curled on the ground, their reins slack, some snorting in their sleep. The men themselves sat cross-legged or leaning against their mounts, exhaustion pulling at their eyes. Still, none dared leave. Their gazes lingered on the great doors, waiting for a sign.
At the center of it all, Father Seraphon sat in lotus form, his staff resting across his lap. His face was serene, though the others around him shifted with unease.
"It has been too long," muttered one elder, wringing his hands. "No mortal could endure the holy chamber for such hours without—"
"Perhaps the boy has perished inside," another whispered, glancing nervously toward the towering temple.
"Or perhaps he has been trapped," a third suggested grimly.
Their murmurs rose like the tide, filled with suspicion, worry, and a trace of regret. Even the elders who had mocked Luther, dismissing him as nothing more than a troublesome orphan, now faltered in their certainty.
"Do you... still believe he is no Saint?" one knight asked quietly.
The question hung heavy in the air. Several elders looked away, their pride crumbling in the face of doubt. Finally, one sighed and muttered, "Perhaps... perhaps we were wrong."
The admission rippled among them. And with it came fear. If the boy truly was chosen, then their scorn might be remembered—and punished.
Just as the moon reached its zenith, a sound broke the restless silence.
Ding.
The chime echoed from within the temple, soft yet heavy, like the tolling of judgment.
The great doors shuddered. Slowly, painfully, they creaked open. A rush of wind burst forth, powerful enough to send branches bowing low, the elders’ robes snapping like banners in a storm. White smoke poured out, curling along the ground, blanketing the stairs in an ethereal veil.
Every knight and elder rose at once, spines stiff, breaths caught in their throats. The entire courtyard seemed to freeze, as though time itself awaited the verdict.
Footsteps.
Measured. Steady.
From the haze emerged a silhouette, tall and unyielding. Luther stepped into the dawn, his cloak frayed and whipping in the wind. His eyes were hard, carrying a light not of sanctity but of conviction. Around his neck hung a necklace—the demonic sword, shrunken into a small black charm that glimmered with faint crimson veins.
The elders’ eyes widened. Their knees buckled as one.
"Saint!" they cried, bowing low, their voices quivering with reverence.
For once, Luther did not glare or bark at the title. He did not spit it back in their faces. Instead, he merely rolled his shoulders and let out a small shrug, his lips curving into something that might have been a smile.
"Saint..." Father Seraphon murmured, his old face softening with quiet pride.
Luther’s gaze swept across them all, unreadable. If this mask is what I must wear to find my answers, he thought bitterly, then so be it.
Flashback.
The garden behind the statue was quiet, moonlight spilling like liquid silver across the roses. Piern knelt at Luther’s feet, clutching his leg with trembling hands.
"Please," the angel begged, his wings drooping. "You must not tell them the truth. If you do, Father Asmethan will lose everything—his title, his divinity, his very name."
Luther’s glare was sharp enough to flay flesh. His golden eyes burned, and for a moment Piern swore he saw death reflected in them. He stumbled back, releasing Luther’s leg as if scorched.
"What do I care for his title?" Luther hissed, voice low and venomous. He turned, intent on leaving, when Piern’s panicked voice broke the stillness.
"It concerns you too!"
Luther paused. Slowly, dangerously, he looked over his shoulder.
Piern swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "Don’t you want to know why? Why you were chosen by magic itself? Why your soul was dragged into this world when it belonged elsewhere? If you leave it here, you’ll never find the answers."
Luther’s jaw tightened.
The angel pressed on desperately. "Even if you wish for a normal life, you will never have one. Not with magic bound to you. Not when you can wield it without a medium. The only way forward... the only way to uncover the truth is to find the Great Tree—the Mother of All Magic. She alone knows why magic chose you."
"The Great Tree..." Luther muttered under his breath.
"Yes," Piern said quickly, his wings flaring with urgency. "But you will not reach it as you are now. You need authority. Power. A position high enough to travel the world freely, to command resources without question. That is why... that is why the title of Saint is perfect for you."
Luther exhaled sharply, raking his hand through his hair. "Tch. Playing priest for a god I despise."
"It is only a mask," Piern urged. "Asmethan’s mark is already on you. Use it. Through it, you will have access to all his temples, all his resources, even gifts meant for his chosen. They are pale compared to your magic, yes—but still... they can aid you."
"Annoying," Luther muttered. His voice dripped with loathing, but in his chest he already knew the truth. If he wanted answers, if he wanted to find the Great Tree, this was the path he had to take.
He opened his mouth to speak further—but before he could, a sudden light flared at his waist. The demonic sword slipped from his belt, clattering loudly against the garden stones.
Both men stared.
The weapon pulsed faintly, sliding to rest at Luther’s feet.
"...What the hell is this supposed to mean?" Luther muttered, staring down at it.
Piern coughed awkwardly. "I... think it’s tired of being worn at your side."
Luther shot the blade a glare, his voice flat. "Lazy bastard."
The sword vibrated faintly, as though chuckling. Luther pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just what I needed. A sulking blade."
Present.
The memories faded as Luther descended the temple steps, his boots echoing against the stone. The smoke parted before him, the air heavy with expectation.
"Rise," he said flatly, his voice carrying like a commandment.
The elders lifted their heads, scrambling to their feet. Their eyes lingered on him with awe, fear, and something close to worship.
Luther ignored it. He turned toward Father Seraphon, whose calm smile had not faltered since the boy emerged.
"Father," Luther said, his tone weary but steady. "Shall we return home?"
The old priest bowed his head, eyes glimmering with pride.
"Yes, my child," he replied warmly. "It is time."
Luther adjusted the sword-charm hanging from his neck, his expression hardening. I’ll play their Saint. I’ll walk their holy road. But I am no one’s pawn. I’ll get my answers—even if it means being their damn Saint.