The Monster Lady and the Holy Knight - Chapter 118

“What are you doing here?”

At the near-shouted question, books tumbled to the floor. Fourteen-year-old Leon stiffened, glancing once at the monk’s face before shifting his gaze to the mess of books scattered on the floor. His expression wavered as he hesitated over which to prioritize. But when the monk strode into the study, Leon bent down and began picking up books such as Resurrection of the Dead, Miracles, and Pope Elias, the 202nd.

Elias was renowned among the previous popes for the miracle of reviving the dead. Just glancing over the book titles was enough to make the monk furrow his brow in displeasure.

“Miracles come to those who believe. They are not something to be learned from books. There are better ways to spend your time than skipping prayer meetings to search for such things.”

“I’m sorry.”

Leon gave a brief apology and began placing the books back on the shelves. His lack of excuses made the monk raise an eyebrow as he scrutinized the tall boy once more.

Red hair, a long scar near his eye—the son of the knight commander.

“Is this related to your recent attempt to sneak out of the monastery?”

The monk’s voice was as sharp as a finely honed blade. Leon froze, his hand still on the spine of Miracles. The words nearly rose to his lips—that it was about his birth mother’s suicide that day. But he knew better than to say something like that. It wouldn’t simply end with startling an old monk.

“Death is the providence of God. If there is a single absolute truth in this world, it is that no mere human can control life and death.”

“But His Holiness, the former pope…”

“Pope Elias.”

The monk cut him off firmly and added, “He destroyed dozens of holy relics to harness the power of God contained within them. That can hardly be called a miracle. This is not the time to debate right and wrong, but I will say this—do not even entertain such reckless thoughts. If your heart sins, it would be better to carve it out.”

***

Scrape, scrape. The grating noise against his nerves made him open his eyes. The old memory dissipated like smoke in an instant.

His blurred vision no longer held the face of an aged monk but instead revealed a familiar cloak. A black insect, camouflaged against the dark fabric, was crawling toward Veronica.

Without much surprise, Leon brushed it away and pulled the woman wrapped in the cloak closer into his embrace. His touch was as gentle as if cradling a lover beneath warm blankets.

He thought that as long as he was alive, nothing should lay a finger on her. Even if it was divine providence itself. This death belonged to him alone. It was a death for which he bore full responsibility. No one could interfere, no one could intrude.

I won’t let go. Not unless you rise and demand it yourself.

Realizing how completely unhinged he had become, Leon curled his lips into a deep smirk. Tilting his head back, he let the pale moonlight spill down over him.

He had lost track of how many days had passed. Was it still far from reaching the three-week mark, or was it already nearly there?

When his awareness drifted between the convulsions of his mangled insides, sometimes it was morning, and sometimes it was night. Sometimes it felt like a dream. No matter what, the agony never dulled.

His skin felt flayed raw, seeping blood wherever it touched, and his body refused to exert strength, as if even the most delicate bones had been shattered. Each time his organs twisted in pain, he thrashed, bent, and writhed, only to sink back into thick, sticky darkness.

Just kill me already. Kill me. He had bitten out those words countless times, but fate never granted him his wish so easily.

Three weeks of borrowed life. The price he had to pay was far crueler than he had expected.

Even when he felt like he was dying, it did not end. Whoever first uttered that suffering could be worse than death had spoken the absolute truth. His repeated attempts to take his own life had only resulted in deeper wounds, nothing more. The searing pain that burrowed into his flesh like a sickle forced him to endure every conceivable agony. He vomited blood, his skin withered, his bones liquefied, yet still—he lived.

If survival could even be called that.

Leon lowered his gaze again. A twisted Bahamut lay on the ground, being slowly devoured by insects. Its empty red eyes, cast toward him, seemed to whisper, You have already fallen into the depths of the abyss.

Trapped in a pit of thousands upon thousands of corpses and blood.

Bound by chains that would never let him surface again.

Then what about Veronica?

Was she still sitting alone in the snowfield?

For a fleeting moment, a delicate figure flashed before him against the windswept tundra. A city reduced to ashes. A lone woman sitting in solitude, hugging herself. She wept for a long time before finally lifting her head. Sensing an approaching presence, she turned.

But just before their eyes met, the agony that had momentarily subsided surged back, ripping the vision apart.

“Khk…”

Leon clenched his teeth, curling his large frame inward. The arms holding Veronica trembled violently.

His failing mind could no longer recall how her expressions had looked before he left for battle. He couldn’t remember how she widened her eyes when muttering liar. He couldn’t recall if she had smiled with curved eyes or just the corners of her lips.

The anxiety clawed at him. He wanted to see her. Just once more. If he could see her again, even for a single moment, he would endure this living hell endlessly. He had foolishly repeated this wish every time he neared death.

Even though he was holding her lifeless body now, what he truly longed for was not her face, but her laughter, her complaints, her whispered words. The love that had been alive.

His twisted hand clawed at the ground, veins bulging. Slowly, he forced himself to his feet. One arm cradled the woman wrapped in his cloak, while the other gripped his sword.

As he took a step forward, a heavy stream of blood splattered onto the ground, and his wounds screamed in protest. He neither reacted nor cared. With unwavering determination, he carried Veronica forward. Toward the place where the white sword’s light surged. Toward where Hennessis lay.

Only when he reached the gleaming blade did Leon kneel and set Veronica down beside him. She remained unaware of what was about to happen.

He knew full well that what he was about to do was madness. Even if part of his mind was shattered, his ability to reason still functioned. This was the kind of depraved notion only those who had fallen to the lowest depths could conceive. There was no guarantee it would even work. His knighthood, his lingering sense of morality—both warned him against it, yet the moment he laid eyes on the discarded holy sword, a thought took root.

Why hadn’t he thought of this sooner?

A sword that had devoured its masters for over a thousand years—what else could be more saturated with life itself?

“He destroyed dozens of holy relics to harness the power of God contained within them. That can hardly be called a miracle.”

“…I don’t care.”

Clang!

Apocalypse, which had been raised high, plunged straight downward. A shrill metallic scream echoed through the cave. Without a change in expression, Leon lifted his sword and struck Hennessis again, this time with force. The relentless execution continued, watched in eerie silence by the wide-eyed corpses surrounding them.

Though the holy swords had clashed many times before, this time was different. This was a one-sided assault. Hennessis was now nothing more than an ownerless piece of steel. Meanwhile, Apocalypse was wielded by its master, wrapped around by the Kreuz. And most importantly, Leon wasn’t aiming at the white blade—he was targeting the lion-engraved hilt.

Clang!

Breaking the holy sword. Destroying the sword of God. He knew exactly what that meant. The last remaining holy relic of the Church, the very blessing of God placed in human hands—he, a Holy Knight, was shattering it with his own.

Even heretics would hesitate before committing such sacrilege. Beyond the flaming metal, the oath he had taken at his ordination rang in his soul.

“I, Leon Berg, swear upon the sanctuary of the One who makes us holy.”

Clang!

“To uphold the commandments of God and serve His priesthood with unwavering loyalty.”

Clang!

“To protect the weak, to serve no other gods, and to live the rest of my days solely for Him.”

Crack.

“To keep my eyes forever upon Him.”

What shattered now was the past and all its values. For her, Leon forsook what he had once held dearest. He dedicated his knightly vow to a new god.

Looking back, Veronica had been like sunlight on the coldest day.

A warmth that approached when he lay curled in agony, near death in a pit, unaware that he was dying.

That unexpected warmth had felt so foreign that he had withdrawn into the shadows time and again. And yet, without her, he would never have survived that winter. It had never been her who was saved that day. It had always been him. Not once had he ever truly saved her. Not even once.

Crack. At last, a deep fissure ran through the seemingly indestructible lion’s head. Leon did not wait—he struck again. A massive fracture split across the mane, spiderwebbing down the entire hilt. And then, to his astonishment, the handle of the sword in his own grip cracked as well, as if connected.

With a brittle snap, the lion’s emblem crumbled into dust, and beneath it, the icy white blade was finally revealed. From the liberated swords, a radiant light erupted.

A great force of life engulfed them both. It was the final miracle, one unrecorded in history.