Chapter 353: Chapter 353 – “The Meetings…”

The chamber felt colder than before.

Not because the temperature had changed—but because the silence had weight now. The kind that pressed against the skin, sank into the bones, and refused to leave.

The Saintess stood near the center of the room, barefoot on the stone floor. The light from the corridor spilled behind her, thin and pale, stretching her shadow across the wall like something fragile and breakable.

Then footsteps approached.

Slow. Measured. Deliberate.

They didn’t belong to a knight.

The rhythm was different—unhurried, confident, as if the owner had never once feared this place or what lay within it.

The door opened wider.

A man stepped inside.

He was in his late fifties, perhaps older, his hair a dull silver threaded with black, combed neatly back from a lined but well-kept face. His robes were those of high clergy—white layered with gold trimming—but unlike the priests outside, his garments bore the weight of authority, not reverence.

A bishop.

His eyes were sharp. Not cruel—but cold in the way of someone who had learned long ago that mercy was optional.

He looked at her.

And smiled.

“Well,” he said mildly, folding his hands behind his back. “You’re still alive.”

The Saintess stiffened.

Her fingers curled at her sides, nails biting into her palms. She hadn’t expected him.

“…You. What are you doing here?” she said hoarsely.

The bishop tilted his head slightly, as if amused by her tone. “Is that how you greet an old acquaintance?”

He took a few slow steps into the room, his shoes clicking softly against stone. The holy knight remained by the door, gaze fixed forward, expression unreadable.

The bishop’s eyes traveled over her.

Her disheveled hair. The faint tear stains. The exhaustion she hadn’t been able to hide.

A smirk tugged at his lips.

“I must say,” he murmured, “you look… smaller than I remember.”

Her jaw tightened.

“Why are you here?” she demanded.

The bishop chuckled quietly, as though she had asked something quaint.

“Straight to the point,” he said. “Very well. I came to see you one last time.”

He clasped his hands together, fingers interlacing.

“To pay my respects,” he added lightly. “After all, it’s not every day the Holy Kingdom executes its own Saintess.”

Her breath hitched.

But she didn’t look away.

“I see,” she said coldly.

The bishop studied her face for a moment longer, then laughed—a soft, condescending sound.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he said. “You always did have those eyes. As if the world owed you something.”

He took another step closer.

“Saintess,” he said slowly.

Then paused.

“…Ah. Forgive me.”

He smiled wider.

“You’re not that anymore, are you?”

The words struck harder than any blow.

Her hands clenched tighter, knuckles whitening.

“You never were suited for the role,” he continued, voice smooth and almost conversational. “Too soft. Too sentimental. Too… human.”

She said nothing.

He circled her slowly, boots echoing in the confined space.

“Do you know how many people prayed for your downfall?” he asked. “How many feared you? Envied you?”

He stopped behind her.

“You were an orphan,” he said quietly. “Pulled from nothing. Raised on borrowed grace. And yet they placed you on a pedestal meant for something… greater.”

Her shoulders trembled.

“But you believed it, didn’t you?” he went on. “That you were chosen. That the Goddess favored you.”

A soft laugh escaped him.

“You should have known better.”

She turned sharply to face him, eyes blazing despite the exhaustion.

“Enough.”

For a moment, something flickered in his gaze—annoyance, perhaps. But it vanished just as quickly.

“Still defiant,” he said. “Even now.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping.

“You never deserved to be the Saintess of the Holy Kingdom.”

The words landed like a verdict.

Silence followed.

Long.

Heavy.

The Saintess said nothing.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Didn’t beg.

Her fists trembled at her sides, clenched so tightly that her nails drew blood—but she did not look away.

The bishop straightened, seemingly satisfied.

“Well,” he said lightly, turning away, “I suppose that’s all.”

He paused at the door.

“Oh—one more thing.”

He glanced back over his shoulder, smile thin.

“Two days,” he reminded her. “Enjoy what little time you have left.”

Then, as an afterthought—

“For the last time.”

The door closed behind him with a dull, final sound.

The chamber fell silent again.

The holy knight stepped forward gently, avoiding her gaze. “Come,” he said quietly.

She followed without resistance.

Back through the corridors. Back into the shadows. Back into the cell.

The door shut.

The lock turned.

And once again, she was alone.

She sank slowly to the floor, back against the wall, breath shallow. Her hands trembled as she lifted them to her chest.

There—hidden beneath torn fabric—was a small brooch.

Worn. Scratched. Familiar.

Her fingers closed around it, clutching it tightly as if it were the only real thing left in the world.

Her shoulders shook.

But she made no sound.

Not a single one.

The light faded.

And in the quiet darkness of the cell, the Saintess waited—for two days to pass, or for fate to finally arrive.

***

The passage narrowed as they moved deeper beneath the cathedral.

The air grew cooler, heavier, carrying the faint scent of damp stone and old incense. Torchlight gave way to a softer glow—mana-lamps embedded in the walls, their light dimmed and carefully controlled. The walls themselves bore no ornamentation here, no scripture or iconography. This place wasn’t meant for worship.

It was meant for secrecy.

Luca walked beside Aldric in silence, footsteps echoing faintly through the corridor. The weight in his chest hadn’t eased since they left the upper halls.

After a while, he spoke.

“How do you know him?” Luca asked quietly.

Aldric didn’t look at him right away.

“He was the one who discovered Aria himself,” Aldric said at last. “The one who declared her a Saintess.”

Luca’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“…So he’s the reason all this started.”

Aldric didn’t deny it.

They reached the end of the passage, where a pair of stone doors stood partially open. Warm light spilled through the gap, carrying with it the scent of soil and living things—strangely out of place within the heart of the cathedral.

Beyond the doors lay a garden.

Not grand. Not ornate.

But alive.

Vines climbed along trellised stone, their leaves thick and vibrant. Small trees grew in careful rows, their branches heavy with fruit in various stages of ripeness. Flowers bloomed in muted colors—white, pale gold, soft blue—arranged not for beauty, but balance. A thin stream of water wound through the garden, feeding the roots before vanishing into the earth.

And at the center of it all—

An old man knelt.

His robes were ivory and gold, worn but immaculate. His hair, long and silver-white, was tied loosely at the nape of his neck. His hands—calloused despite their age—were gently working the soil around a cluster of young plants.

He did not look up when they entered.

Aldric stepped forward and bowed deeply.

“Your Holiness,” he said. “Pope Silvanus.”

Only then did the old man pause.

He straightened slowly, joints creaking faintly, and turned his gaze toward them. His eyes were sharp—far too sharp for someone who spent his days tending gardens.

They lingered on Luca.

Measured him.

Weighed him.

Luca felt it instantly.

In the past—back in the game—standing before the Pope had felt overwhelming. Radiant. Divine. A presence that commanded reverence simply by existing.

Now?

All he felt was rot, from every corner of holy kingdom.

Not visible. Not tangible.

But everywhere.

Like something festering beneath layers of holiness, spreading quietly through the foundations of the kingdom.

The Pope’s gaze lingered a moment longer before shifting back to Aldric.

“So,” Silvanus said calmly, “you came.”

Aldric lowered his head. “I have brought him with me as you asked ,your holiness.”

The Pope turned back to his garden and resumed tending the soil, fingers brushing dirt from a leaf with careful precision.

The old man finally straightened fully and turned to face him.

“Are you planning to interfere?” the Pope asked, tone even.

“Yes,” Aldric answered without hesitation.

Silvanus studied him.

“…Why?”

Aldric’s jaw tightened.

“How could I stand by,” he said quietly, “and watch my only daughter be executed?”

The garden fell silent.

Even the water seemed to still.

The Pope regarded him for a long moment, then nodded once.

“And you still believe in her?” he asked.

Aldric did not waver.

“Yes.”

The answer was immediate. Absolute.

The Pope turned away again, reaching toward a small basket beside him. He lifted a piece of fruit—round, ripe, glowing faintly with mana.

He held it up between two fingers.

“Tell me, Aldric,” he said calmly. “What is belief?”

Aldric hesitated.

Then he spoke.

“Belief,” he said, “is choosing to trust something even when doubt has every reason to exist. It is not certainty. It is resolve.”

The Pope considered this.

Then, without warning, he closed his hand.

The fruit burst.

Juice ran down his fingers, pulp crushed completely, seeds spilling into the soil below.

“Belief,” Silvanus said quietly, “is fragile.”

He opened his hand, letting the ruined remains fall to the ground.

“Once broken, it cannot be restored.”

Aldric lowered his head.

Silvanus knelt again, his movements slow and deliberate. From the crushed fruit, he plucked a single seed and pressed it gently into the earth beside the others.

He rose once more and looked at Aldric.

Then—briefly—at Luca.

“You have said what you came to say,” Silvanus said. “And I have heard it.”

His expression was unreadable.

“You may leave now.”

Aldric hesitated, as if wanting to say more—but stopped himself. He bowed deeply once again.

“Thank you for your time, Your Holiness.”

The Pope had already turned back to his plants.

Luca said nothing as they turned and walked away.

Behind them, the garden remained still—green, tranquil, and utterly indifferent to the fate of those who walked beyond its walls.

And somewhere beneath the soil, a seed had been planted.

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