In a typical “game” story like this, what awaited us would be the final dungeon at the end of the narrative. Inside, enemies would lie in wait.
As we cleared each level of the dungeon, powerful adversaries—lieutenants of the opposing forces—would appear one by one. The protagonist’s party would defeat them and steadily move forward.
Of course, if the enemy was exceptionally powerful, the system might allow a mechanical victory while narratively, they would remain undefeated. Such moments usually featured an ally intervening with the cliché, “Leave this to me and go ahead.”
That was how it should have been.
“Standing so boldly, are they?”
It was the Sword Saint who commented, his voice laced with disbelief.
And he was right.
There wasn’t an imposing dungeon in front of us. No massive beast barred our way.
“Why shouldn’t I stand boldly?”
The one who replied was the Emperor.
It was my first time seeing the Holy Nation’s cathedral in person. Having never been religious, I had no experience with such places, nor any idea of what a cathedral should look like.
But even to my untrained eyes, this cathedral felt deeply alien.
There were no rows of pews for worshippers. Instead, the vast hall was empty save for a few ornate chairs with tall backs arranged at the far end, each upholstered in lavish red.
No matter how you looked at it, this wasn’t a cathedral—it was more like a royal palace.
I supposed it made sense. Despite its small size, the Holy Nation wielded enough power to influence the entire world. And a pope had to deal with kings and rulers from other nations. They couldn’t afford to look weak. Unlike modern-day popes, their authority was far more absolute.
The throne-like seat at the far end must have been the pope’s chair.
But now, it was occupied by the Emperor.
He sat there with an air of majesty, his elbow resting on the armrest and his chin propped on his hand. It was such a textbook display of power that it bordered on cliché.
“Have you been sitting there, waiting all this time? My apologies for making you wait so long,” the Sword Saint said mockingly.
“Not at all. I’ve had plenty to occupy my time. There was much to adjust and prepare,” the Emperor replied with a smile, undeterred by the provocation.
“And besides, the ones I was truly waiting for were my daughters.”
“Oh? So, we’re uninvited guests?”
“Perhaps. But I wouldn’t turn away those who’ve come so far. I’ll forgive your intrusion.”
The Emperor’s expression was one of amusement, as though he was thoroughly enjoying himself.
“...Does that mean others entering this place was not by your design?”
I stepped forward, posing the question. The Emperor turned his gaze toward me, his expression unchanged.
It was the same look he always gave me, as if this entire situation was nothing out of the ordinary for him.
Or perhaps, for the Emperor, this was simply an extension of his usual machinations.
“Who knows? That’s something I’d like to ask you,” the Emperor said, gripping the armrests with both hands as he rose slowly from his throne.
The Emperor wasn’t young, but his body was far too robust to be dismissed as merely middle-aged. His shoulders were broad, and he stood much taller than me. Even without being directly in front of him, his commanding presence loomed large.
Most of all, his unyielding confidence was palpable, as though it were a tangible force.
“The device is complete,” the Emperor declared, stepping down from the throne.
“And with it, the power of the goddess that once governed this world should have been shattered. But that hasn’t happened. The rules left behind by the goddess still persist in this world.”
He spread his arms wide, his voice resonating through the hall.
“...”
I considered asking a question but decided against it. Somehow, it felt like the Emperor would explain everything without prompting.
“You must have read through all the records of the imperial palace. You had plenty of time to do so.”
The Emperor’s gaze drifted upward to the ceiling as if lost in thought. Then, suddenly, he spoke again.
“There’s a story passed down exclusively within the Fangryphon royal family. It’s a tale so profane, so incomprehensible to outsiders, that it’s only shared verbally during a private meeting between the reigning monarch and their successor. It is never written down, nor spoken where others might hear.”
The Emperor lowered his gaze to meet mine.
“So, listen carefully. One day, you’ll have to pass this story on to your own successor.”
His eyes shifted, moving past me to Alice.
Once upon a time, there was a world.
A world shattered and blended together, where chaos reigned, and even the most basic laws of nature were absent.
In this disordered world, people suffered. Without a structured flow of time, they aged differently, decayed unevenly, and withered in confusion.
Then, one day, a revelation came.
A beam of blue light descended through a crack in the broken sky.
From within that light, the world began to take shape for the first time.
Limbs that grew haphazardly were now two arms and two legs.
Eyes that sprouted from random parts of the head now aligned on the face.
Bent fingers, twisted toes, and spiraling spines returned to their proper forms.
Humans, who had long forgotten their original shapes, followed the blue light and began to remember who they truly were.
But the light didn’t reach everywhere.
The fractures in the sky were finite, and those untouched by the light remained trapped in their twisted bodies, living in torment.
From one of those untouched spaces, a hero was born.
With his distorted form, he subdued other twisted creatures and led a monstrous army of griffons—beasts blending eagles and lions—against the goddess.
His sole desire was freedom.
Those whose forms had been stabilized by the goddess never ventured beyond the light’s boundaries. They feared the unknown and sought only comfort in the goddess’s embrace.
To protect themselves, they created their own “order.”
They built a tower of humanity, layer upon layer, separating people into rigid roles.
This structured city, a monument to order, was detested by the griffon king.
He yearned for a world where anyone could ascend, without being bound by strength or weakness, solely by their will.
And so, the griffon king—the king of the twisted—decided to oppose the goddess.
“But no matter his resolve, the griffon king’s strength wasn’t enough to challenge the goddess,” the Emperor continued, his tone calm.
“It was inevitable. The twisted couldn’t implement systematic weaponry. They lacked the means to craft armor tailored to their needs or wield conventional weapons effectively. They couldn’t defeat an enemy that moved with unity and discipline, as though it were a single organism.”
“But then, how—”
“The griffon king surrendered,” the Emperor interrupted, his voice steady.
“He accepted the goddess’s terms and entered her ordered world. Within it, he rose to greatness once more.”
“...”
The story, up to this point, sounded almost laughable in its anticlimax. But the Emperor’s smile remained, hinting that the tale wasn’t over.
And as if responding to my unspoken thoughts, the Emperor spoke again.
“Do you know the goddess’s flaw?”
No one answered. In the distance, I saw Sophia trembling uncontrollably.
“The goddess was obsessed with order,” the Emperor declared. “The griffon king conformed to her order, but in his mind, he never abandoned chaos.”
The Emperor raised his right hand, palm facing upward. Slowly, he lifted it.
“As much as the goddess clung to order, the griffon king clung to chaos.”
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The ground began to quake.
A harsh, grating sound echoed as rough stone scraped against itself, and the pope’s seat began to split apart.
“And so, he thought: if order is the goddess’s blind spot, why not use it to summon chaos?”