Novel Full Chapter 212: Ruination [1]
Chapter 212: Ruination [1]
It was a simple plan.
Escape the Theocracy. Convince the orphanage to come with them. Seek refuge in Aetherion, where the Archmage Soliette resided. Aston knew that if there was one place Selena might be protected, it would be there.
The orphanage.
The place where she had grown up.
Selena cradled a warm cup of tea between her hands. Across from her sat one of the sisters who had raised her, sister Lilia, the same woman who had once wiped her tears and tucked her into bed on stormy nights.
“The children have grown up well,” Selena said softly, her eyes drifting to the window, where a group of children played outside. “Stronger, happier… they’ll have brighter futures.”
Sister Lilia nodded, her weathered hands resting on her lap. “Many of them remember you—you know. Even the new ones hear stories. You’re like a legend in their eyes, Selena. The Saintess, born from our little home.”
“A legend? No… just someone who never forgot where she came from.”
As they spoke, Sister Lilia’s gaze slowly shifted past Selena. Her eyes landed on the tall man standing quietly behind her.
“And this must be… the Legendary Sword Saint.”
Aston offered a respectful bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sister.”
It was the first time Aston had ever set foot inside the orphanage where Selena had grown up.
Children peeked shyly from behind doorways and corridors, curious about the man beside the Saintess.
Sister Lilia smiled as she observed them. “They’re curious. Most of them have never seen a figure like you up close before. You’re something out of their storybooks.”
“I’m no hero,” Aston said. “It’s simply my duty to protect her and be wherever the Saintess needs me.”
Sister Lilia watched them both, then turned to the children who had begun whispering excitedly among themselves. “Now, now, enough gawking. The Saintess has things to do.”
“No, it’s fine, Sister Lilia,” Selena interjected softly. “Let them come in. I want to see all their faces.”
A shadow passed over Selena’s features. Her expression, though calm, held a tinge of something somber. Sister Lilia, catching the change in her tone and eyes, tilted her head slightly.
She had known Selena long enough to read between the lines. From the abruptness of her visit to the sudden apeparance of the Sword Saint himself, she surmised this was no ordinary visit.
The children flooded into the room with beaming faces, surrounding Selena with joyful energy.
They clung to her hands, tugged at her sleeves, and giggled with glee. Yet amidst their joy, Selena’s smile never quite reached her eyes.
She lowered herself to their level, gently brushing one of the girls’ bangs aside. “You’ve grown, Alicia.”
A boy with wide brown eyes asked, “Big Sister Selena, will you come back again next week?”
Selena paused for a breath, her hand freezing mid-pat. “….I’ll try.”
Aston, watching from a corner, kept his arms crossed but didn’t interrupt. He understood. She needed this.
Then, as if something in her mind had clicked, Selena turned suddenly to Sister Lilia.
“Sister Lilia,” she said with a grave tone, “you, all of you, must leave. Leave this place. Leave the Theocracy.”
Lilia blinked. “What…?”
“Come with us,” Selena continued. “Come with the Sword Saint and me. This place… it’s no longer safe.”
Sister Lilia’s face turned pale. “Selena, what are you talking about?”
“I’ve seen what’s coming,” Selena said, standing now. “This orphanage, this home… will be a target. Because of me. Because of what I represent. And if you all stay—”
She couldn’t finish.
Lilia’s hands trembled in her lap. The children looked around confused, sensing the tension but not fully understanding.
“You’re not safe here anymore,” Selena continued. “Please, Sister. You must trust me.”
Aston stepped forward then, no longer standing back. “She’s telling the truth. I can arrange transport, protection, anything. But we need to move quickly.”
“My….”
Sister Lilia closed her eyes. She had lived in that orphanage her entire life. She had raised dozens of children, watched them grow and leave.
But she also knew the truth about Selena.
That little girl who used to run barefoot through these halls was not just a kind soul or a pious believer.
The very reason Selena had been chosen, why the Church had deemed her the Saintess, was not some divine favoritism or miraculous event witnessed by many.
It all began with the dreams.
No, not dreams, but nightmares.
Horrifying visions that came without warning. What others dismissed as delusions or illness, Sister Lilia had witnessed firsthand.
She had been there when a young, trembling Selena would scream herself awake, clutching her chest as if her heart were being torn out.
She had seen the tears, the way Selena feared her own mind. And more than once, she had watched in disbelief as those very nightmares came true.
That was why Lilia never doubted her.
Lilia opened her eyes slowly. “Then… when do we leave?”
Selena knelt once more, placing a gentle hand over the Sister’s. “As soon as possible. Please, prepare quickly.”
That day, while the sisters began packing what they could, Selena spent the entire evening with the children.
She braided the girls’ hair, patched a torn sleeve for one of the boys, and helped ease the children’s worries.
When it was nearly time for departure, Selena found herself sitting outside the building with Aston, who had waited patiently on the worn stone bench in the garden.
She sat beside him without a word. For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then Aston glanced her way. “I apologize, Saintess.”
Selena shook her head. “It’s alright, Aston. I know you’re doing this for my sake. You’ve tolerated all my selfish whims, even coming here despite how urgent things have become.”
“I would never call them selfish,” he replied. “You needed this.”
“This place reminds me of who I was before all the titles, before the revelations. Just a girl… growing up in unfortunate circumstances.”
“….”
Aston remained silent.
He knew of Selena’s past. The priests who had exploited the orphanage, hiding behind holy scripture while preying on the vulnerable girls left in their care.
It made his jaw tighten, his fists slowly clenching at his sides.
If he had been there back then, he would’ve killed them without hesitation.
It was that knowledge that made it impossible for him to fully place his faith in the Holy Goddess.
Faith, at its core, could be pure. But religion? Institutions built in the name of divinity? They harbored monsters far worse than demons.
And yet, the woman sitting beside him, the one who had risen from that pain and squalor, still managed to look at the world with empathy in her eyes.
“You endured it,” he finally said. “And still became who you are.”
Selena smiled faintly, her expression more bitter than proud. “I didn’t become the Saintess because of it. I became the Saintess despite it.”
“And that makes all the difference.”
The soft wind in the garden filled the silence between them. Eventually, Selena leaned back against the bench and spoke.
“I sometimes wonder if I’m truly free from it. Or if it’s still chasing me.”
“It’s behind you,” Aston said. “But I’m beside you. And I always will be.”
She turned to him slowly. “That sounds like a vow.”
“It is.”
Selena laughed under her breath. It was a tired sound, but genuine. “Then I’ll hold you to it, Sword Saint.”
“Please do.”
It was then.
“Akh…!”
Heat surged through Aston’s chest. A searing, unnatural sensation bloomed within him, agonizing enough to force him to his knees. He let out a groan, clenching over his heart as if trying to smother the pain inside his ribs.
“Sword Saint!”
Aston gritted his teeth, sweat beading down his forehead. His entire body trembled. It wasn’t an injury, at least not a physical one.
Selena knelt beside him, placing a hand lightly on his back. She could feel his body burning hot. This wasn’t an illness. It was mana-related. No… it was clearly divine in origin.
“…!”
Aston, sensing an ominous presence closing in from the distance, forced himself to move. First a knee, then both legs braced beneath him.
He rose slowly as the burning pain agonizingly gnawed at his chest. Yet despite it all, his figure blurred. He reached for his sword, grasping the hilt with white-knuckled fingers, and swung it downward with all his strength.
Clang——!
The clash of steel against metal reverberated through the courtyard, the shockwave rupturing the ground beneath them. Cracks split the stone and earth.
A voice rang out from the other side of the impact.
“Your legacy truly precedes you, Sword Saint. Even with the seal overtaking you—you can still manage this much.”
Aston gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. Standing before him in white robes that were now tattered was none other than Telos Alexander IX, the Pope himself.
——Aston, that’s not…
However, Izza’s voice resonated in his thoughts. Before he could finish, a sudden force slammed into him. Aston was thrown back, rolling across the grass.
——That’s not the pope…
Izza’s voice was certain. If he said it wasn’t the pope, then it wasn’t.
Aston steadied himself with blood on his lip, and stared harder. The appearance was identical to Telos. But the mana emanating from him… something about it was off.
“Then who…?!”
The false pope struck his staff against the earth. A thunderous roar echoed out, and suddenly, Aston’s divine seal pulsed, sending pain coursing through his limbs. He collapsed to his knees once more.
——It’s the pope’s body… but the soul inside… it’s someone else.
“Khh—What?!”
From the tree line behind the pope, figures emerged one by one. Cloaked in black, each of them held staffs twisted with dark magic engulfing its tip. At first glance, they resembled cultists. But a closer look revealed otherwise.
They were dark mages.
Not ordinary ones, either. These were practitioners of forbidden arts the forbidden arts, often referred to as dark magic.
Dark magic was outlawed for many reasons, not merely because of its malevolent nature, but because of the path it demanded from its users. Every advancement came at a cost.
From consuming corpses and invoking death spirits, to making sacrificial pacts or driving oneself mad with power, it was taboo for a reason.
And yet, there were always those desperate or insane enough to pursue it.
For some, it was a matter of belief. True fanatics who thought darkness held truths light could not touch. For others, it was a last resort. Mages who had reached a plateau in their research, cut off by magical limits, sought the dark arts as their only path forward.
Still kneeling, Aston pressed one hand into the earth, using his sword to stay upright. His breathing was shallow and labored.
“Saintess…” he croaked, forcing the words past his bloodied lips. “Run…!”
Selena froze. Her instincts screamed at her to flee, but her heart refused. She couldn’t abandon Aston.
Still, the intensity of the miasma made her waver. Her breath caught in her throat and her vision blurred for a moment.
From the front, the Pope raised his hand. “Try it, Lady Saintess, and see the orphanage you hold so dearly burn to the ground.”
“….”
Selena froze, her entire body tensing at that single word “burn.”
The visions that had tormented her for years came crashing back like a tidal wave. She could see it again, that horrific future. The orphanage engulfed in fire, the air filled with smoke and ash, the cries of terrified children echoing in her ears.
——Why did you kill us?
Her knees buckled slightly, and for a heartbeat, she couldn’t breathe.
But Selena couldn’t answer.
Run?
Abandon Aston?
Abandon the children inside? The very children who had already packed their few belongings and were waiting?
Her mind screamed with the weight of the decision.
Selena looked back at the orphanage.
And Aston, gritting his teeth, stood slowly despite the agony overtaking him. He wasn’t asking her to save him. He was asking her to leave and rely on him.
“I’ll save them, so—”
Selena screamed. “No!”
Because she knew.
She knew that was a lie.
Aston, the Sword Saint, hailed as the most powerful figure in the continent, was utterly powerless against the Pope. That was the undeniable truth. The divine chains binding him were crafted under the Pope’s authority.
To fight him was to walk willingly into death. Quite literally, the Sword Saint’s achille heel.
He wouldn’t save anyone. He wouldn’t even make it past the first blow.
Not when he was facing the one person in the world he was never meant to raise his sword against.
Not with the overwhelming numbers stacked against them.
He would meet nothing but a bloody end.