The word still hung in the air.
No.
It echoed far longer than it should have, sinking into stone, into flesh, into faith itself.
For a heartbeat—no one moved.
The Divine Guards froze mid-formation, spears half-raised, eyes flickering between the Dean, the Pope... and the boy who had just spoken. The crowd of the Holy Kingdom stood stunned, mouths parted, breaths caught sowhere between disbelief and fear.
Professors from Arcadia Academy stiffened.
Seraphina’s eyes widened slightly, her mana faltering for the briefest mont before snapping back into control. Halreth’s grip tightened on his sword, knuckles whitening—not in anger, but in alarm.
Luca’s friends stared at him.
Kyle blinked, grin gone. Aurelia’s brows knit together sharply, spear lowering by instinct. Sylthara’s ears twitched, body going still. Selena’s breath hitched, cold eyes narrowing as if trying to understand sothing only Luca could see. Even Vincent, calm as ever, turned fully toward him now.
The Saintess trembled.
Not in fear.
In confusion.
Her tear-filled eyes lifted to Luca’s back, wide with questions she didn’t dare ask.
And above them all—
The Pope watched.
Amused.
Not surprised. Not offended.
Interested.
The pressure in the square shifted—not heavier, not lighter—just... different. As if the world itself leaned in.
The Dean turned slowly.
The old man studied Luca for a long mont, sharp eyes tracing the boy’s stance, the way his shoulders were tense yet resolute, the way his jaw was set—not in defiance, but decision.
Then he sighed.
A long, tired sound.
"What do you want now, boy?" the Dean asked, voice neither angry nor gentle—just worn. "You ca to save your friend. Your teammate." He gestured lightly toward the Saintess. "That is done."
He paused, looking at Luca directly now.
"So why," he continued quietly, "are you still refusing to let go?"
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Behind the clergy—
The bishop’s fingers twitched.
Slowly, carefully, his rigid posture loosened just a fraction. His shoulders eased. His lips curved—not into a smile, but sothing uglier. Sothing satisfied.
His eyes glead.
Good.
Good.
His gaze flicked between Luca and the Dean, then briefly toward the Saintess. The hatred there hadn’t cooled—it had sharpened.
So it won’t end cleanly after all.
His hands clasped together in front of him, knuckles whitening as he suppressed the urge to laugh. His breathing steadied—not from calm, but from anticipation.
Let him talk.
Let him dig his own grave.
On the dais—
The Pope leaned back slightly in his throne.
His chin rested against his knuckles as he observed Luca with open curiosity now, eyes glinting faintly beneath half-lowered lids.
How interesting, he seed to think.
The execution had already failed.
The authority of the Church had already cracked.
And yet—
The boy still wasn’t done.
The square waited.
Every breath held.
Every gaze fixed on Luca Valentine.
No... I can’t just leave like this.
The thought rang louder than the bells ever had.
I can’t.
Luca’s gaze drifted—slowly, deliberately—back toward the Saintess.
She stood there small against the vastness of the square, chains still wrapped around her wrists, tear tracks drying on her cheeks. She wasn’t pleading. She wasn’t clinging.
She was simply... waiting.
Waiting for answers she had never been given.
Waiting for a world that had taken everything from her and still asked for more.
She can’t go like this, Luca thought, his chest tightening.
Not without knowing. Not without the truth. Not after everything.
He turned back toward the Dean and lowered his head slightly—not in submission, but in respect.
"I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, Dean," Luca said, voice steady despite the storm in his chest. "But... this matter isn’t over yet."
A ripple of confusion spread through the square.
The Divine Guards exchanged looks.
The crowd murmured softly again.
The bishop’s eyes narrowed, irritation flashing across his face.
The Dean raised an eyebrow, studying Luca carefully.
"What do you an?" the old man asked.
Luca lifted his head.
"There are things," he said, each word asured, "that have been buried for far too long. Things hidden under layers of silence and convenience." His crimson eyes hardened. "It’s ti for them to co out."
He paused, then added quietly—
"And it’s ti for to fulfill a promise."
The Dean’s expression tightened just a little.
"Speak clearly, boy," he said, annoyance bleeding into his tone. "I don’t have the patience for riddles."
Luca didn’t answer imdiately.
Instead, he took a step back... then bent at the waist.
A bow.
Deep. Earnest.
"Please," Luca said. "Just give a few monts, Dean. That’s all I ask. When it’s over—everything will be clear."
The Dean inhaled, already preparing to refuse.
But then—
Kyle stepped forward.
He didn’t grin this ti. He didn’t joke.
He bowed.
"Please consider his request," Kyle said simply.
Aurelia followed, spear held upright, posture straight as steel. She bowed next, fiery eyes unwavering.
Sylthara stepped forward, movents smooth and deliberate, golden eyes calm as she lowered herself in a respectful bow.
Selena hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—then inclined her head as well, pale lashes lowered.
Aiden observed others as he took a step forward and bowed , "Please consider his request."
Vincent moved last.
The gray-haired swordsman said nothing as he bowed, but the weight of his presence spoke louder than words ever could.
Then—
Seraphina stepped forward, robes fluttering faintly in the mana-thick air. She bowed, eyes sharp but sincere.
Halreth followed at her side, armor clinking softly as he did the sa.
The square fell silent again.
The Dean stared.
At Luca.
At the line of people standing behind him.
At students. Colleagues. Warriors. Friends.
For the first ti since he arrived, the old man’s expression wavered—not in anger, not in irritation—
But in sothing dangerously close to contemplation.
Luca straightened and turned back toward the Saintess.
She was watching him closely now, eyes trembling, questions spilling silently from her gaze.
He smiled at her.
Not bright. Not playful.
Gentle.
"Don’t worry," Luca said softly, just for her. "I’ll answer all your questions today."
Her breath hitched.
Luca’s eyes softened as he thought—
And then... I’ll take you away.
Not as a prisoner.
Not as a sinner.
But as a Saintess.
The Dean let out a long, weary sigh.
His gaze moved slowly—from the bowed students, to the professors, to the Saintess standing silently at the center of the shattered platform—before finally lifting to the highest seat in the square.
The Pope.
For a heartbeat, the world seed to stop breathing.
The Pope t the Dean’s eyes... and smiled.
Not kindly.
Not cruelly.
Amused.
"Go ahead," he said lightly, resting his chin against his knuckles. "It’s not every day I get to watch sothing... interesting."
A ripple passed through the clergy.
Unease. Curiosity. Fear.
Luca felt his jaw tighten.
Old bastard, he cursed inwardly. You’re enjoying this far too much.
The bishop saw that smile.
And sothing in him snapped completely.
He stepped forward hard, robes flaring as divine runes shimred angrily around his sleeves. His voice rang out—not just toward the Pope, but across the entire raised dais where the high clergy sat.
"Your Holiness!" he shouted. "Have you truly decided to sit and watch while the Academy tramples upon sacred law?!"
He spun, pointing sharply toward the professors, then the students.
"Look at them!" he roared. "They raise weapons on consecrated ground! They spill blood beneath the Goddess’s gaze! If this is not blasphemy, then what is?!"
His eyes burned as he turned toward the other bishops.
"Brothers," he called, voice trembling with fervor, "have you forgotten your vows?! Have you forgotten what it ans to safeguard the faith?!"
So of the clergy flinched.
Others shifted uneasily in their seats.
"This is not just about the Saintess anymore!" the bishop continued, sweeping an arm wide. "This is rebellion! Open defiance! If Arcadia Academy is allowed to dictate justice today, then tomorrow kingdoms will bow to schools, and the Goddess’s authority will be reduced to a suggestion!"
He slamd his staff against the stone.
"Act now," he demanded. "Before the faithful lose their fear. Before doubt takes root. Before heresy spreads!"
Murmurs broke out among the clergy.
A senior priest whispered urgently to another.
A bishop clenched his jaw, fingers digging into his armrest.
Soone muttered, "...He’s right... this sets a dangerous precedent."
The bishop pressed harder, sensing the wavering.
"If you hesitate," he said coldly, "history will rember you as the ones who let the Holy Kingdom be mocked in its own capital."
He turned back to the Pope, eyes blazing.
"Order the Divine Knights," he said sharply. "Crush this insolence. Show the world that faith is not negotiable!"
The square held its breath.
The Pope did not move.
Did not frown.
Did not raise his voice.
He rely observed the bishop—really looked at him—then let out a soft, almost indulgent chuckle.
Luca’s fingers tightened around his sabers.
He’s stirring the pot on purpose, Luca thought grimly. Trying to force everyone’s hand.
Before the tension could snap—
"E-Excuse ! P-Please—make way!"
A voice cut through the chaos.
Old. Breathless. Urgent.
The crowd parted instinctively as an elderly man in plain robes hurried through, nearly stumbling as he clutched a bundle of docunts to his chest. Sweat clung to his brow, eyes wide with panic and determination alike.
The bishop turned sharply, ready to explode—
But Luca froze.
Then his eyes widened.
Light flared in them—not power, but recognition.
"...Professor Aldric," Luca said softly.
The old man finally broke through the last line of people, lifting his head toward the execution platform, chest heaving as if he had run the length of the city.
And in that mont—
The true reckoning arrived.
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