331. Here I am.
-Gurgle.
Fernandez suddenly heard a strange sound. It was as if bubbles were rising through a liquid. As always, he tried to check his physical condition before opening his eyes.
But he felt nothing. Just a sense of floating. Only the sensation of floating in empty space enveloped his body. Or could this even be called a sensation? If he couldn’t feel anything, did that mean his nerves and senses had completely disappeared?
‘Faijashi.’
No answer came. Only then did he begin to piece together the fragmented memories. He had confronted Yekaset, stopped Karadskar, and collapsed under the onslaught of demons in a state of exhaustion. The last sound he remembered was the horrifying crunch of fangs piercing his skull.
So, was he dead? He didn’t even need to ask. No one could recover from such injuries. If it were possible, he wouldn’t have lost his son. Then…
‘Is this the afterlife?’
A space that was neither the abyss of Hell nor the corridors of the Temple of the Gods. A space of unbearable silence and endless expanse. Was this the afterlife? Fernandez slowly opened his eyes.
‘Haha…’
He laughed without realizing it. A pitch-black, utterly empty space stretched before him. He looked down at his hands and feet. His body, once covered in scars, was now spotless, without a single blemish.
‘Did my final gamble fail? A fitting end.’
He truly thought so. The eternal torture of Hell would give him a sense of reality, just as much as the pain. The sweet nectar of the Temple of the Gods might grant him new inspiration and vitality. But this space, drifting endlessly without hope, constantly questioning and answering himself…
‘I’ll slowly crumble and disappear.’
How long would it take? How much time would it take for a soul that had lived eighty years plus three more to collapse and scatter in a space devoid of any stimulation? And was there any reason to endure the process of his existence being bleached away?
More than anything else, this moment felt like a truer representation of Hell to him. If there was to be posthumous punishment for this seasoned Dark Mage, no space could be more fitting than this.
An end of endless reflection, regret, lamentation, and self-reproach, crumbling away insignificantly, would be more terrifying than the rusty torture blades of Hell’s demons.
‘My son…’
And so, Fernandez decided to bear the pain himself. If the punishment bestowed upon him was to die crushed under eternal regret, he had no intention of avoiding it. If all he could do was think, then he should think of the most valuable things.
Color began to overlay the space. Slowly taking shape. His highly concentrated mind, without external stimuli, was projecting forms before his eyes. Though they were insubstantial, slowly, meticulously, they took shape—
Deep blue eyes and straight eyebrows, neatly combed black hair. A delicate nose and a sharp jawline. A body hardened by years of training and elastic muscles.
Half of his youthful face, and half of the face of the woman who had handed him warm milk in that old barn long ago. The sharp eyes that could seem cold now held warmth, and the slightly crooked lips held softness.
Always filled with sorrow, always fragile, with broken pride and unable to lift his head in despair—he reshaped the image of that young man from back then.
If only you had grown up in a normal environment… no, even if it was lacking, in a happy environment, would you have turned out like this? With such childish imagination, Fernandez slowly opened his mouth to the young man he had fashioned.
“My son, if your mother had lived. Aria would have been proud of you too. As always, your existence alone was our happiness and pride.”
If he had raised his child in the right environment, perhaps he could have said these words. The imagined son smiled softly, as if responding to his words.
“The things I’ve done come to mind before the things I couldn’t do. All the hardships I endured were for you, and if there’s one thing I can call an achievement, it was being your father.”
The old Dark Mage’s confession continued. Though he knew better than anyone that these words, spat out to a phantom, were ultimately hollow and would only destroy him.
Once his mind crumbled further, he wouldn’t be able to speak so honestly. So, it was right to do so while he still had some sanity left.
“Even if I were to live a thousand lives, I would want to be your father. Even if I lived a thousand years, it would never compare to that one day. I… I wanted to tell you this.”
-Sizzle!
The image of his son disappeared like a dream. Imagination sometimes runs wild. And now, with that imagination projected before his eyes, it was even more so.
-Aria. Don’t cry. I will, I will save you.
-Teacher, who will cry for you now?
-You foolish, wretched boy. You’re tarnishing your mother’s face.
-Father, next time I will surely show you results you won’t be ashamed of.
Random imaginings surged forth, shaping memories. Eighty years. Memories filled with regret, misery, grief, and lamentation were being laid out one by one before his eyes.
Tears of blood streaming down, Fernandez silently watched the scene. He had no intention of avoiding it, nor any thought to do so. If this moment was his punishment, his Hell, then he was willing to endure it.
Perhaps, forever.
* * *
[Basir, how is the Great Sorcery of the Black Wolf progressing?]
[It’s about halfway complete, Great Sun.]
[Hurry. I don’t know how much longer this man can hold on. Tarasan, has King Tutep awakened?]
[The resistance from the ancient king’s tomb is fierce. It’s difficult.]
[We need King Tutep’s red wasp sting. You must awaken him today. If necessary, use rougher methods.]
In this grand hall adorned with intricate goldwork and gem-encrusted pillars, Lavirata’s clear voice and the responding voices of the Wraith Priests echoed.
Wraiths are usually silent at all times, but never had they been as busy as now. Potions, pottery, jars, and gems clashed noisily with their movements.
Thirteen pillars, their surfaces coated with spices and embedded with gems, channeled the flow of ley line magic toward the center of the hall. Lavirata meticulously adjusted the flow as she gazed at the massive vessel before her.
The Vessel of Creation. Among the many relics hidden within Ibalis, it was the greatest, created during the era of the Empire of Ashit, when she had ruled this vast plain.
An ancient relic from the Celestial War, containing fragments of the power of the gods, something that even modern magic couldn’t hope to replicate.
[You must live, Fernandez.]
Placing her hand on the Vessel of Creation, Lavirata whispered softly. This relic wasn’t meant to resurrect the dead. It was closer to recreating a lost body. It bound a spirit to the Material World, weaving the body the spirit remembered and layering it within.
There was only one problem.
[I believe in you.]
None who were revived by this relic retained their sanity. While it succeeded in preserving memories and souls, no one maintained their sanity the moment they inhabited the newly created body.
Throughout the long history of the Empire of Ashit, countless Wraith Priests had attempted to analyze the flaw in this relic. But even with highly advanced necromancy and magical welding techniques, they couldn’t pinpoint the issue.
All the priests declared that the relic was flawless. Its operating principles and magical formulas followed perfect golden ratios, and the tablets detailing the procedures and sequences showed no flaws.
Thus, the priests had to admit it. Technically, the relic was perfect. But the human soul was not. The flaw lay in the mortal soul, and therefore, this relic could not be used by humans.
A cruel paradox. Lavirata couldn’t help but sneer at the fact. Immortals had no need for such a relic. But for mortals…
Water cannot be used by mortals.
But what about a ‘seeker’ whose human spirituality has entered the path of divinity? What about a being who has accumulated spirituality reaching the level of a quasi-deity? Could such a soul endure this process?
When Lavirata found a shattered and torn corpse, already cold to the heart, she realized that the soul, now too powerful, had not yet managed to escape the body. She immediately thought of the Vessel of Creation.
With a soul of this magnitude, perhaps it could be resurrected in the Vessel of Creation. At that moment, she wondered if the words she had spoken might have become a prophecy, just as the ancient kings had done.
“To live as a human, and to die and become a god.”
Did it not mean that, truly, after death, one would be recognized for their authority and achievements, ascending to divinity? Lavirata thought this was also paradoxical. Perhaps it would be more rational to simply resurrect this man through necromancy. But she couldn’t do that.
How could she resurrect as a wraith a man who was more obsessive than anyone about the essence of humanity, a man who wandered in regret after even reviving his own child as a wraith?
* * *
After completing the canonization process for Fernandez, the Pope sat in his office chair and briefly flipped through the report. After reading the last page of the report repeatedly for a while, he turned his head to look at the clock on the table.
It’s about time.
*Knock knock.*
At that very moment, a knock was heard at the office door. Still as meticulous as ever. The Pope smiled softly and turned his head toward the door.
“Your Holiness, the believer Zephis Siravast requests an audience.”
“Bring him in.”
*Creak.*
The door opened, and a tall man in neatly pressed ceremonial robes entered. He took exactly five steps forward and bowed deeply. The Pope smiled again at the sight.
“You called for me.”
“There is something you must do, Brother Zephis.”
“Brother… I am already a sinner who has laid down my monastic robes. Please speak freely.”
“In my eyes, I still see a man of Diemonica. Sit. The conversation may be long.”
The Pope placed a tea set on the table and poured warm tea as he spoke.
“Have you seen the Saint’s report first?”
“…Yes, Your Holiness. But please, hold me accountable for my sins.”
“It doesn’t matter. Did you notice anything strange?”
“Strange… What do you mean?”
Zephis bowed his head for a moment and gathered his thoughts. The Pope of the Vaitas Church never speaks lies. He slowly recalled the contents of the report and then shook his head.
“My learning is shallow and dull, so nothing comes to mind.”
“If your learning is shallow, who among us would dare claim to be learned? Do not be modest, Brother Zephis. Isn’t the line in this report about the so-called… ‘protocol after failure’ strange?”
“Reverse Heaven… Archangel… Are you referring to those words? Yes, but Your Holiness…”
“It’s not the expression of a priest.”
“…What?”
“It’s not the expression of a priest. Reverse Heaven. To flip the heavens… In other words, it means the earth and the heavens are reversed, the heavens are underfoot, and the earth is above, as if we were stepping on the clouds. Now, what do you think it means?”
Zephis paused at the Pope’s words. The earth and heavens reversed, stepping on the heavens like the earth? If the earth becomes the heavens, then looking at the heavens from the earth would be like people rising from the earth.
When his thoughts reached that point, Zephis’s face turned pale. He slowly placed his hand on the table and tapped it with his scarred fingers.
It was quite a rude gesture, but neither the Pope nor Zephis paid attention to it. After a moment of silence, Zephis muttered in a small, groaning voice.
“…The Rapture… is it?”
“Yes. Given the circumstances, it’s obvious. If the seal of the Great Demon is broken and all attempts to stop it fail, the earth will become no different from hell. It would mean to break the sealed gates of the Temple of the Gods and call for the Rapture. But there’s something even stranger here.”
“What… what is it?”
“The fact that the Rapture is described as Reverse Heaven. It’s a strange usage if it were simply twisted meanings. It’s hard to see it as a straightforward description of ascending to the heavens. Reverse Heaven. If we don’t take the meaning at face value, it means ‘to reverse the natural order.’ For humans to ascend to the heavens reversing the natural order means…”
“It’s not the way of a priest… that’s what it means.”
“Indeed. I thought perhaps Brother Fernandez…”
“He is not a heretic.”
Zephis answered firmly to the Pope’s words. It was a statement that could have been charged with blasphemy or heresy, punishable by burning at the stake. But the Pope smiled softly and shook his head.
“Perhaps, I thought, he might have come from a heretical sect.”
“…What?”
“That young man was a prophet. A very precise, almost perfect, powerful prophet. Sometimes, when I read the reports he submitted, I thought to myself. If this man had not become a priest, what would he have become?”
“…”
That was something Zephis had often thought as well. What kind of person would such a being, capable of leaving such achievements, have become if he had not become a priest? A conqueror burning down secular royal families, a great scholar, or…
“Perhaps he was deeply immersed in his own future as a heretic cultist using black magic and forbidden arts. If we assume that, the actions of the Saint Brother begin to make sense. A powerful prophetic ability and the expertise in black magic that blossomed from it. Combining the two, we can explain the Saint Brother’s achievements. A man who is extremely meticulous, very cold, and ruthlessly economical.”
Heretics and heresy hunters are separated by a thin line. Whether one follows demons or hunts them. Sometimes, from the outside, it’s hard to tell the difference.
Thus, a powerful heretic also implies the potential for a great heresy hunter. Perhaps, in the distant future, this young man would have become an extremely powerful, historically unprecedented heretic. Realizing that future, and glimpsing the achievements along the way, the young man chose to become a heresy hunter…
“Thinking that far, this report began to look different again. The Keyblade. The holy relic that guarantees the divinity of the Saint Brother. It was listed as absolutely necessary when sealing the Great Demon.”
“…Yes, Your Holiness.”
“That relic has disappeared along with the Saint Brother’s ascension and cannot be found. Despite mobilizing all the Church’s resources, it has not been found anywhere.”
At those words, Zephis felt his mouth go dry and held the teacup with trembling hands. Above him, the Pope’s firm voice rang out.
“Others might have seen this report as a will. A dying man’s request to finish what he could not. A noble and sacred intention, but my thoughts are different. The record left by such a powerful prophet at the final moment must mean that it is something we must achieve with our own hands.”
The words of certain kinds of prophets who have reached a supreme level are self-fulfilling. Their words and actions themselves become part of the prophecy. Looking at the actions of ancient prophets, those recorded in history or myth, it becomes clearer.
From that perspective, if a prophet like Fernandez wrote a final prophecy, but wrote something that cannot be fulfilled, it would be a contradiction.
The Keyblade disappeared with Fernandez. But to break the seal of the Great Demon and kill it, the Keyblade is necessary. Even if the attempt to kill it fails, it is still needed for the Rapture.
The fact that such an important item cannot be found, and that Fernandez’s remains have not been found anywhere…
“Does it mean the Saint Brother is still… alive?”
“And this would be a proposal asking us to handle the matter since he cannot finish it himself.”
“But… where on earth…”
“Where we can find him, and in a state where he cannot contact us. In the moment of clashing with the Great Demon in the wilderness.”
The trembling in Zephis’s hands stopped. He calmly lowered his hands under the table and took out a rosary from his pocket. Slowly rolling the rosary, lost in thought, the Pope quietly spoke.
“It will be a difficult journey, brother.”
“…He said, ‘Who will go for us? Who will act for us?'”
“Lord, here I am. Send me.”
“Macto.”
“Macto superlaudo. Brother. May the peace of the Lord be with you on your journey.”
Zephis opened his eyes and stood up. Behind him, the Pope’s voice rang out.
“I will restore your holy orders. Zephis Siravast, second-class inquisitor of St. Bartholomew Monastery. From this moment, you will once again serve as a servant of the Lord with all your heart.”
“I will obey your grace.”
*Creak, thud.*
Looking at the closed door, the Pope quietly made the sign of the cross.
![[TS] Obsessed Gamer: The Ultimate Return](https://i3.wp.com/novelhitam.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/01/TS-Obsessed-Gamer-The-Ultimate-Return2.png?resize=85,105 "[TS] Obsessed Gamer: The Ultimate Return")
