At this moment, in the center of the town, a simple and solemn Temple of Light stood silently.
Incense inside the hall was sparse. Dust motes floated slowly through faint shafts of light penetrating the window frames, and the vast, empty hall was quiet to the point of being suffocating.
An elderly man stood alone before the altar, his clouded gaze fixed intently on the holy statue of the angel in the center, lost in thought for a long time.
He truly looked very old.
His hair was snow-white, the wrinkles on his face deep as mountain ranges on a map, and his figure slightly stooped, as if crushed lower by the sheer weight of time.
Yet his back remained straight, and his eyes were far from dim—settled within those pale blue eyes was something that transcended age.
“Lord Bishop—!”
Hurried footsteps echoed from the temple entrance, followed immediately by Selby's excited, breathless voice:
“Her Grace the Goddess... has returned!!!”
Those words were like a massive boulder thrown into a deep pond.
The old man's body trembled violently, his aged fingers twitching uncontrollably. He slowly turned around, his expression extraordinarily complex:
Joy, doubt, nostalgia, and an indescribable bitterness interwove together.
Yet mostly, it was disbelief, long-overdue comfort, deeply buried remembrance, and an uncontrollable dread...
His lips parted slightly twice before he finally forced his voice to sound as steady as possible:
“...Are you absolutely certain?”
Selby strode into the temple, fervent piety and intense excitement burning in his eyes. He nodded heavily, his tone resolute without a shred of hesitation:
“Absolutely certain! Lord Bishop, I saw it with my own eyes! I heard the divine oracle with my own ears! Her Grace the Goddess has truly returned!”
Every word hit like thunder, causing the candles in the hall to flicker wildly.
The old man's eyes widened dramatically, his chest heaving violently.
Though he believed Selby would not lie, without concrete proof he still found it hard to believe. After all, a thousand years had passed. To tell the truth, during this millennium of waiting, he had yearned day and night for the Goddess's return. But every waking moment brought nothing but disappointment and sorrow. Over time, even his own faith had begun to waver slightly.
That's right, the old man had lived for a thousand years!
He had lived from the previous era ruled by the Goddess of Light—the Glorious Era—all the way to the present!
As for why he was called a bishop, it was not merely because he was the leader of this small human town; he held another identity as well!
—The disciple of the last Pope of the Church of Light! A former candidate for Pope! The Chief Archbishop of the imperial capital of the Sacred Aetherland Empire!
—Schutard!
The Goddess's return was a monumental event capable of upending the current world order and reigniting the revival of humanity; it permitted not the slightest error or wishful thinking.
Schutard composed his mind, suppressing his surging emotions. His expression turned solemn as every word he spoke weighed heavily:
“How can you prove that the Goddess has truly returned... and that it is not merely your hallucination?”
Selby naturally understood Schutard's concerns, so he immediately reached into his robes and carefully retrieved an item.
It was a translucent, lustrous white feather glowing with a faint, holy radiance, resting quietly in his palm.
The gentle and pure glow dissipated the thousand-year gloom and silence of the hall. The divine aura belonging exclusively to the God of Light flooded the entire temple in an instant.
“Th-this is...!”
He stumbled forward, extending his trembling, emaciated hands to carefully take the angel feather.
The moment his fingertips touched the warm holy light, a familiar, ancient, and supreme sacred aura swept through his body, instantly shattering the solitude and exhaustion he had accumulated over a thousand years.
In the very next instant, large tears spilled from those pale blue eyes.
“It cannot be wrong... It absolutely cannot be wrong...” Schutard's lips trembled, his voice raspy and choked with emotion. “This is the aura unique to the Twelve-Winged Sacred Angel... It is Her Grace... Her Grace has finally returned...!”
Standing before the statue, holding the radiant feather, tears streamed down his aged face as his body trembled violently, completely losing his composure.
His shoulders heaved, like a child who had walked in the blizzard for far too long and had finally found their home.
Selby stood to the side without making a sound. He knew how long the Bishop had waited for this moment.
A thousand years.
A whole thousand years.
And in that moment, Schutard's thoughts drifted back to the distant past—
It was an afternoon that seemed like any other.
Golden sunlight fell warmly upon the ramparts of the Holy City, carrying the scent of distant gardens, while further away lay a bustling scene—commoners living and working in peace and contentment, everything tranquil and serene.
A young Schutard stood on the ramparts, beside his teacher—His Holiness, the reigning Pope.
His teacher stood with his hands behind his back, looking down at the prosperous Holy City below, a faint smile playing on his lips.
His white hair fluttered gently in the wind, making him seem as if he had melted into that golden light.
“Schutard, look at this Holy City... Is it prosperous?”
The young Schutard's eyes shone brightly, his face full of admiration:
“Of course, Teacher! Ever since you became Pope, the commoners of the Sacred Aetherland Empire have been deeply grateful to you! It is precisely because of your presence that the empire is so prosperous!”
Hearing this, his teacher merely shook his head gently with a mild smile.
“Schutard, your view is too shallow.”
He turned his head, his gaze gentle yet profound.
“In this era, it would make no difference who served as Pope. I merely happened to stand at the crest of the era's wave.”
“Even if I were not the Pope, others would step up to bring prosperity to the Holy City and ensure the commoners no longer suffered from hunger and cold. That is not my merit; it is my duty.”
The young Schutard, displeased with this answer, knitted his brows and retorted, “Teacher, in my eyes, you are the only true Pope in my heart! Her Grace the Goddess surely sees everything you do! In the future, you will definitely become an angel!”
“An angel, is it...?”
His teacher murmured softly, all trace of a smile fading from his eyes as his expression turned abruptly solemn and grave.
He looked down at his still youthful and naive disciple, his gaze deep and earnest. When he spoke, his tone was solemn and grave as never before:
“Schutard.”
“If one day this golden age collapses and the Holy City falls; if one day I am dead and the Goddess has retreated...”
“Can you take up my burden? Will you guard the millions of believers, guard the Sacred Aetherland Empire, guard the Church of Light, and guard this eternal, unyielding faith for me?”
Schutard froze.
He did not understand why his teacher was asking this.
His teacher clearly had nearly a thousand years of life left, so why would he suddenly—
However, he did not overthink it, simply nodding solemnly. “Teacher, I definitely will!”
His teacher did not smile. Instead, he looked even deeper into his eyes. “No matter what happens in the future? No matter what desperate plight you face? Even if I am gone, even if everyone else is gone—will you still?”
“Look into my eyes.”
Schutard caught his breath for a brief moment.
He had never seen this expression on his teacher's face before—a heavy, entrusting gaze, like someone handing over a sword.
He too grew serious, straightening his back as he met his teacher's gaze, uttering each word clearly:
“Teacher. No matter what happens in the future—I promise.”
“I will protect everything behind me. I will never waver in my faith in Her Grace the Goddess. No matter how long it takes—”
“Even if I must give my life for it.”
His teacher smiled.
It was a smile Schutard had never seen before—one of relief, gratification, and a deeply hidden reluctance to part.
“Very good.” His teacher patted his shoulder, his palm warm and firm. “From this day forth, you are the sole Pope Candidate of the Church of Light.”
At that time, Schutard believed this was the beginning of glory, the prologue to a legacy, and proof that the golden age would endure forever.
Filled with longing, he cultivated night and day, determined to follow in his teacher's footsteps.
Yet he never could have imagined—
That solemn entrustment was not a promise of hope.
It was a farewell.
...
Smoke billowed as the ramparts of the Holy City collapsed with a deafening crash in the distance, battle cries surging like a tide from all directions.
The young Schutard was covered in tears, desperately clutching his teacher's sleeve, refusing to let go.
His teacher merely stood silently, his sacred white robes dyed orange-red by the flames. There was no panic on his aged face, only a calm, resolute composure.
“Teacher! You must leave quickly!”
“Everyone in the Church of Light still needs you! Her Grace the Goddess needs you even more! You cannot fall here!”
Schutard's eyes were bloodshot, his anxious shouts ringing out continuously.
His teacher turned his head to look at him.
“Schutard.”
“Teacher—”
“From now on, the Church of Light and the mission to awaken Her Grace the Goddess are entrusted to you.”
His teacher's voice was very soft, yet carried more weight than any roar.
“Starting today—you are the Pope.”
Schutard froze completely.
“No! Teacher—I don't want to be the Pope!”
He rushed forward to grab his teacher's hands, his voice choking with tears.
“Teacher, you go! I'll stay behind to cover the rear!”
Yet his teacher only smiled.
That smile was identical to the one on the city wall that day—gentle, calm, and carrying something Schutard could not comprehend at the time.
“Silly child. I am already old.”
His teacher shook his head, his tone laced with helpless affection.
“The future belongs to the young.”
“And besides—”
He paused, looking up toward the Temple of Light.
“As the Pope of the Church of Light, if I were to abandon the city and flee when the enemy attacks the Holy City... what would that look like? How would the world see me? How could I face my faith in Her Grace the Goddess?”
“They will not let me leave.”
His voice grew increasingly tranquil. “It is time for me to give myself for my faith.”
“Let me stay behind... with the dignity of a Pope.”
Schutard wanted to say more, but his teacher had already turned to command the nearby paladins:
“Take Schutard away. Use the secret passage, and do not return.”
“Understood, Your Holiness.”
Two paladins grabbed Schutard's arms from left and right, their grip tight as iron clippers. He struggled frantically, kicking his legs, but could not break free.
“No—!! Let me go! Teacher! Teacher—!!”
His final image was his teacher's silhouette standing amidst the fire, his white papal robes fluttering loudly in the wind as he stepped into the depths of the temple, his back straight and unyielding.
Then the door to the secret passage slammed shut before his eyes.
He was dragged into the darkness.
Behind him were the fading battle cries, the dimming firelight, and something lost forever that could never be regained.
After that, Schutard never saw his teacher again.
He only heard from surviving paladins later about the fall of the Holy City and the death of the Pope.
Then came the collapse of the Sacred Aetherland Empire, as the Church of Light fell from a colossal empire-backed institution to hunted outcasts. Those who believed in the Goddess were forced to hide in the mountains, retreat underground, or scatter across every corner of the continent.
And Schutard, bearing the mission entrusted to him by his teacher, carrying the heavy burden of "awakening Her Grace the Goddess," and holding the final embers of the Church of Light, fled all the way here.
He built this hidden small town and raised this small temple, guarding that sliver of fragile hope—waiting for a full thousand years.
Yet in these thousand years, he could do nothing.
He watched helplessly as the followers of the Church of Light dwindled, watched as those who remembered the name of the Goddess of Light grew old, passed away, and were forgotten, and watched as that remaining ember burned smaller and weaker.
“I couldn't save anything at all...”
Schutard buried his face in his hands, his voice choked beyond recognition.
“I failed to protect the people who believed in the Goddess...”
“Failed to protect the Sacred Aetherland Empire...”
“Failed to protect the Church of Light...”
“And now... even my faith in Her Grace the Goddess had begun to waver...”
“I failed to keep my promise to my teacher...”
“I am not worthy of being the Pope, nor am I any real Pope...”
“I'm sorry... I am so truly sorry...”
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