Chapter 122
It had been such an unsettling dream.
The moment she squeezed her eyes shut, the scene flashed through her mind with the clarity of a photograph.
Vigros was beautiful. He possessed such an otherworldly beauty that even the sight of him holding a rose did not seem the least bit out of place. And for a man like that to silently let tears roll down his face as he stared blankly ahead…
It was devastating.
‘Ugh, why on earth did I have a dream like that?’
Crystal-clear tears slipped down his cheeks. His tousled black hair gleamed with a healthy sheen, while his blue eyes were moist, like crystals submerged beneath the sea. Iora bit her tongue. She had no idea why the sight of a man crying had seemed so heartbreakingly poignant, or why it had looked so achingly beautiful.
The real Vigros had never once shown her such a vulnerable side.
‘What is this? Have I always had a weakness for a man’s tears? Is that it?’
A quiet chuckle escaped Iora. Muttering to herself that it was a ridiculous thought, she nodded absentmindedly as Shana enthusiastically recited the day’s schedule.
Yes, a dream was only a dream. The world within the novel continued to turn, and Iora had to keep living each day with her usual determination if she wanted to defeat <The Saint’s Flower>.
Thus, the moment she had completely captivated someone was dismissed by Iora as nothing more than a dream from a single night.
* * *
The blonde-haired girl reached out her hand. As though it were an illusion visible only to her, a space shimmered into existence, scattering iridescent light as it opened. Splash. A clear, crystalline sound rang out, like a foot touching the surface of water.
The girl hurriedly took out the book she had hidden away. Then she lay down on the bed and began frantically turning the pages.
Flip, flip. Her golden eyes skimmed over the paragraphs she had read so many times they were nearly committed to memory, as though licking each line. Her rapidly moving gaze came to a stop at one spot on the page.
“Yes, here.”
Vigros. Tracing his name with her fingertip, she repeated it silently to herself. Vigros. He was a vital card Arcanda must never lose. Perhaps an even more valuable and enticing card than Ovid.
The strongest man in this world, one who would do anything for her. A cruel man who would not hesitate to kill. Brutal and merciless, farther removed from justice and morality than anyone else. That was precisely what made him such a captivating character in her eyes.
“What had happened? Where on earth did he go…?”
Her teeth ground together with a sharp crack. The metallic taste of blood spread across her tongue. A sinister malice flickered in the golden eyes that should have shone with dazzling brilliance. Irritation surged within her.
“Why? Since when? Where did it all begin?”
Everything that belonged to Arcanda was hers. She could not afford to lose even a single thing.
If that was the case, then she had to find out why a story that had not even truly begun had already twisted away from its original course. There could be no result without a cause.
Arcanda’s eyes gleamed fiercely. Her hand flipped through the pages with increasing force.
Flap. Flap. Then, at one particular page, it came to an abrupt stop.
Here. The dialogue was different. There was one unmistakable point where everything diverged. It was so obvious that she could hardly believe she had failed to notice it before.
“It’s broken. My world. While I wasn’t looking.”
The tip of her sharp fingernail pressed hard against a single name. A deep nail mark was left imprinted on the paper. There, it was written.
<Iora>
“My adorable fake Saint. My understudy.”
The actions of the villain she’d created for herself didn’t feel villainous enough. Arcanda’s crimson lips slowly curved into a smile. She had found it. The anomaly.
“So it was you. You’re the one who ruined my perfect life?”
With a harsh scrape, her fingernail raked across the name as though trying to tear it from the page. Unfortunately, it did not tear. After all, this was the prophecy of this world. And the truth that would never change.
Arcanda believed it. That, in this world, she was no different from a god. And so, for the sake of this perfect world…
It was time to eliminate the variable.
Because this world existed for her alone.
* * *
What is a Saint?
Countless scholars had sought to define what a Saint truly was. Though many of their works had to be hidden away in the secret library of the Saint’s residence, there were still certain orthodox teachings that had been passed down through the ages.
A Saint was a fragment imbued with the power of the gods, a miracle given form. Their breath could restore even the dead to life, and their mercy, their smiles, and even their tears possessed such divine mystery that they could alter the course of natural disasters themselves. It was for that reason that the prophecy declaring a Saint would always marry into the Imperial Family lent even the Imperial House an air of sacred legitimacy.
The people of the Hyrn Empire loved the Saint.
And they believed in and trusted the Imperial Family, blessed with the Saint’s love.
At least, not a single one of them knew that it was all part of a meticulously orchestrated play.
“How much longer must this go on?”
But the truth was bound to come to light eventually.
The prophecy was interpreted and delivered solely by the priests. Even among them, only a select few were capable of receiving the prophecy. They were men of deep faith and honest hearts, but they were weak. The Emperor’s blade was sharp, and it rested far closer to them than the faith they held for their god and their Saint. Whenever one of them died, another would simply take his place. Having knelt before violence, they were defeated men.
Traitors.
As he looked into the bloodshot eyes of the young man before him, the High Priest’s aged eyelids trembled.
How much longer? Even they did not know the answer.
There is but one Saint in each generation. Yes, that statement was not false.
But…
Throughout history, the one born with the power of a Saint had never been just a single person.
That was the problem.
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