### Chapter Two: The Beauty is Not Here
In the year 1188 of the Common Era, February, in the Holy City of Abedoria.
Tucked away in the southeastern part of the Valen Empire, straddling the borders of three nations, and nearly in the heart of the Western Continent, this city is home to about 200,000 residents, the majority of whom are clergy. Within its walls lie the Holy Ministry, the Council, and the headquarters of the Knights Order—the mighty centers of power for the Holy Church. As the main archdiocese and the birthplace of religious faith, the oldest Temple Church in the world also resides here.
The Temple Church is known to be the earliest site where humans conducted religious affairs. Its history traces back over 1,800 years ago, marking the dawn of the Age of Divinity—the place where the great Deity first bestowed blessings upon humanity. Civilizations began to rise from this very spot, and through countless years and a baptism of war, the Temple Church has been renovated and expanded, now standing as the largest and most magnificent religious building in the world.
According to the church’s official declarations, it is the place closest to the Deity. Annually, pilgrims from various nations flock to the city to worship, pray, and gaze upon humanity’s original divine landmark, hoping that the Deity might bless them in return. To see the Pope or the Cardinal, even from afar, to hear them convey divine revelations while basking in the holy city’s radiance, could grant a spark of divinity, blessing future generations and ultimately leading one back to the embrace of the great Deity after d*ath.
For ordinary people, this is the highest honor and the greatest happiness.
But entering the Holy City isn’t as easy as pie; even ordinary citizens must navigate a bureaucratic minefield. Even clergy with mediocre talent and insufficient divine favor, along with bishops from fringe towns, must endure a rigmarole of procedures just to enter. They need valid reasons and special permissions, after countless verifications, and even their stay’s duration and lodging must be regulated according to circumstances. Only after a painstaking process would they be granted entry.
But not this day.
February 16, 1188, marks the church’s pilgrimage day, an event that occurs every nine years.
On this day, clergy of significant status and reputation from all major dioceses, regardless of their location or busyness, must drop everything and hurry back to the Holy City to partake in the thanksgiving ceremony presided over by the Pope. They are also required to fast—no meat, no knives and forks, no entertainment—as a sign of gratitude to the greater existence, proving that humanity has not forgotten its bountiful blessings.
Traditionally, in the nine days surrounding pilgrimage day, the Holy City would lock all its doors, sealing off the town and preventing nighttime entry. Other than clergy attending the ceremony, nothing and no one could get in.
But this year is different.
This year, the Holy City has unprecedentedly opened all its gates. As long as one had applied in advance and held a certain status, property, or jurisdiction, anyone could enter until the end of the month.
This is because, apart from the usual thanksgiving ceremony, the Holy City will hold a grand funeral for a tiny hero.
The hero’s name? Well, let’s just say it’s now known far and wide.
She is Pope Knight Silvya.
Bang—
Bang! Bang! Bang—
Under the clear sky, dazzling holy light bursts forth like fireworks, illuminating the broad street leading to the Temple Church. The funeral procession, led by the Archbishop and organized by the Faith Organization, flanks either side, holding ceremonial standards that glimmer with golden light. Behind them, countless Golden Armored Knights march silently, swords across their chests, paying the highest respect as warriors of the church.
And behind these warriors stretches an endless sea of people.
Thousands of pilgrims crowd the streets, spilling into narrow alleys and towering buildings, almost to the point of immobility, yet despite the throngs, no one makes a sound.
Young men in fine garments, dignified middle-aged men, elegantly dressed women, and children—all quietly praying, gazing up at the dazzling light in the sky, waiting in hushed anticipation for the hero’s arrival.
Not long after, the Pope Angel, adorned with a crown and grand robe and leaning on his staff, slowly enters view from the far end of the street.
He is wrapped in a more intense golden light, and following him is Her Royal Highness, Saint Margaret, along with four cloaked Pope Knights and the Church’s youngest and most outstanding clergy who carry a coffin covered with a cross flag. Beside the coffin are a mourning woman dressed in black, covering her mouth, and a young man with black hair, whose eyes are red from crying.
Beyond the people who came from the Valen Empire and Shanter Castle, the crowd doesn’t all know who these two are, but some can make educated guesses from their features—they are likely Miss Silvya’s mother and brother.
Bang—
Brilliant golden flowers burst in the sky above the city for the second time.
The procession glides past the watchful eyes in the crowd, moving toward the expansive church square, where countless royal guards stand in orderly lines, silently bidding farewell to the young heroine.
At the forefront of the procession is Queen Elizabeth, her graceful figure clad in ornate gold-embroidered Milan armor. She rides a magnificent horned horse, one that once carried the deceased girl as they passed through the throngs, on a day like today—when she held the girl in her arms, hearing children call out, “Hero! Hero!”
In a daze, she realizes today’s events echo that past scene.
Only the girl she embraced so dearly is gone forever.
A breeze sweeps across the road, gently tugging at Elizabeth’s golden hair. Her expression remains stern, devoid of overt emotion, making it easy for some to misinterpret her purpose in attending. In their minds, people speculate wildly; some even recall how the young hero earned a Peace Medal in Ethanbel for saving her subjects, perhaps even the queen herself.
Or maybe they shared a bond deeper than any of them knew.
It suddenly dawns on many that today’s funeral is grander and more solemn than they could have expected—a spectacle unseen for centuries. Since the first Pope Knight, no one has ever drawn such illustrious figures to see her off.
Centuries have passed.
Only Miss Silvya stands alone.
Prior to this, the fallen young hero existed primarily as an image in people’s minds—a striking portrait that once caused a stir in the West, mostly discussed for her beauty and youth.
People didn’t really have a clear picture of the young hero. It wasn’t until this moment, seeing the Pope, the Saint, the ancient Pope Knights, the Queen of Valen, the hunters from the Valen Empire, and the prince of Silgaya, that they collectively understood: ah, so she had accomplished so many incredible feats.
All this from just seventeen years of life.
Bang!
Golden flowers bloom for the third time above the crowd, as the covered coffin is lifted into the church. The street empties, yet the crowd remains, and Elizabeth dismounts. Not a single tear has fallen from her eyes; only her chilling gaze pierces through, locked onto the backs of those entering the church with the coffin, inhaling deeply, her pupils flickering in the golden light.
No one can discern her thoughts.
Soon, songs begin to resonate from within the church.
In the grand church hall, crowned Angel stands solemnly amid flickering flames, offering an ode to the young girl. Dozens of young would-be nuns flank him, holding candles and singing along.
These girls are carefully selected from various dioceses, hailing from noble families with exceptional talents, seen as prime candidates for the church’s future. They may soon join the Saintess Class or be chosen for the Choir of Saints or the Faith Organization, becoming elite members of the church.
Among them is a short-haired girl holding a candle, her voice faltering. If Miss Silvya were alive, she would instantly recognize this as Aili, the girl who mysteriously vanished from the Royal City.
Little Aili struggles to keep her voice in tune, her eyes brimming with tears as she stares at the coffin lying center stage. It’s been a month since she learned of this news, but even now, it feels unreal—as if she’s entrapped in a bad dream.
She remembers everything—the hauntingly dreadful night in the Royal City, when she cried in the church. So many emotions flood back, but it becomes hard to recall them clearly; only the vivid scenes of that night in the Valen Empire remain in her mind, sneaking into the workshop with Lucas and others, filled with sheer terror, the moment she first laid eyes on Sister Peilo’s radiant smile.
“Here, it’s delicious.”
Aili remembers those were the first words her sister said to her.
That image of her sister has lingered in her heart ever since.
And will continue to.
Bang!
Bang! Bang—
Outside the church, the bursts of golden flowers keep shining.
The same sounds are reverberating across the sky in cities throughout the West.
Today, Miss Silvya’s funeral ceremony is being held in various cities. Many people, regardless of their status, feel a sense of loss for the blooming hero whose petals fell too soon, wishing to attend the funeral in the Holy City out of gratitude, yet lacking the means to do so. They stand in their own cities, gazing at the ascending holy light, silently offering prayers.
In the church of the Royal Academy, the funeral prayer organized by Headmaster Melville has just concluded, and students are gradually dispersing. Flowers fill the hall, making the lamb legs, donuts, and honey cakes sprawled in the corner seem quite out of place. Of course, this delightful mess is thanks to the three girls from 1504—Sarah, Sophia, and Daisy—as they weave through the crowd, heading toward the training ground.
The radiant golden light spills over the girls’ faces, accompanied by the “bang bang” of leaves shaken from above, swirling down onto Daisy’s shoulder before the wind sweeps them away. Sarah pauses, pointing to a road adjacent to the training ground, suddenly saying, “I remember, she broke a nose here…”
Sophia laughs, “She broke more than just noses…”
“Ugh, the nose-breaker…”
“Pfft—”
The girls laugh, starting to reminisce about eccentric quirks of that remarkable hero that not many knew about—like her restless sleeping habits, how she kept fidgeting in dreams, and her absurd appetite that she tried her best to hide, claiming it was for a needy puppy.
As they talk, the girls chuckle and realize how this once-great hero really wasn’t all that different from them; not only was she hot-headed, but she could also be hilariously clueless, always forgetting others’ names, easily startled, constantly losing to Sarah in tickle fights, and ranking at the bottom among their four friends—definitely a child still growing up.
While they roast their beloved heroine, they enter the training ground, recalling her fear of horned horses, how she, a knight, lacked any riding skills, and once punched a teacher to skip class. They sit on the benches, but after a moment, Sophia suddenly pipes up, “Do you think she still ate peas afterward?”
“Gahaha!”
They burst into laughter, gasping for breath.
But then, mid-laugh, either Sarah or another suddenly sighs, “What are we going to do? We’ll never see her again.”
And all three break into tears.
Their sobs gradually fade into the wind.
Later, the young hero’s name will be etched onto the monument for heroes in the Holy City, forever remembered by the world.
