Even after all the fanfare, the awe-filled stares, the bowing and reverence, I found myself sprawled across the impossibly soft bed like a confused sack of potatoes.
The sheets were silky smooth, the canopy above was embroidered with golden threads, and there was even the faint scent of flowers in the air—like lavender and something sweeter I couldn't name. Everything screamed luxury. But my mind was too full to appreciate it.
The three attendants were still in the room, moving with quiet discipline as if my breathing alone dictated their pace.
One stood near the door, standing still like a quiet guardian.
Another was methodically organizing the drawers and cabinets by the wardrobe, even though I had touched absolutely nothing.
The third was gently wiping the marble floor… that was already spotless.
I lay there, eyes unfocused, letting the silence stretch, trying to make sense of this strange new life I had dropped into.
'Saint…' I still couldn't say the word without cringing a little.
Eventually, I sat up, running a hand through my hair. The silky strands slipped between my fingers, still hard to believe they were mine.
"Um…" I spoke, softly at first. "This is the Holy Empire, right?"
All three paused at once—like I'd just whispered a divine command.
The one near the door turned, smiling with a gentle expression. "Yes, Young Saint. This is the Holy Empire of Lux."
I nodded slowly. Lux.
'So it is a theocracy...'
"Then the ruler… is it a pope?" I asked casually, trying not to look too interested.
The attendant at the wardrobe turned around. "The current sovereign is His Holiness, Pope Elvarion Septimus."
My heart stopped.
Elvarion Septimus.
The name rang like a thunderclap in my mind. I sat there, frozen, as the edges of my vision blurred.
That name—there was no mistaking it.
It wasn't just a fantasy name.
It was the name.
The name of the supreme pontiff from a novel I had read back in my old world. One of the major powers during the rise of the hero. One of the key figures of the continent-spanning war.
I remembered now.
The Holy Empire of Lumen.
The Divine Saint.
The Blessing that covered the capital.
The fainting scene, the luxurious room, the attendants, the public miracle…
It all clicked together like puzzle pieces slamming into place.
This was the world of Evernight Ashes, the dark fantasy novel I devoured during a high school summer break.
A world of divine prophecies, corrupt empires, fallen angels, and one destined hero who rose from nothing to save it all.
A world with tragedy woven into its bones.
And me?
My name—Yesha—the Saint?
I remembered him now too.
He was a major side character. A holy child beloved by the masses. Revered, protected, celebrated…
…Only to be sacrificed.
A necessary loss that would unite the fractured empire and galvanize the young hero into action. His death—my death—marked the beginning of the Great Calamity. The very first domino.
I was that character.
I wasn't the protagonist. I wasn't even the mentor or the villain.
I was the spark.
The one who died to push the story forward.
Suddenly, the golden light, the reverence, the miracles—it all felt like a countdown to doom.
I lay back slowly against the bed again, staring at the ornate ceiling above, my heartbeat echoing in my ears.
'No way… no way no way no way—'
The floor cleaner looked up in concern. "Young Saint? Are you feeling unwell? Shall I fetch a priest?"
I shook my head quickly, managing a tight smile. "No, no, I'm okay. Just… dizzy. That's all."
They bowed in unison and returned to their duties.
But my thoughts were spiraling.
I had reincarnated into a fantasy novel.
Into a side character fated to die to move the story along.
And the worst part?
He died young.
The same age I was now.
My fists tightened beneath the blankets.
'I am not going to die for someone else's story.'
I didn't know how I would change the plot. I didn't know if the world would let me. But if there was anything I learned from my past life…
It was that nothing ever changed unless someone did something different.
I looked out the tall windows toward the glowing city of the Holy Empire… and exhaled.
If I was going to live in this world, I wasn't going to play the part of a stepping stone.
I'd write my own story.
One where the Saint lives.
I gripped the sheets tighter as the weight of my situation settled over me like a suffocating fog.
He wasn't just any side character. The Saint—Yesha—was meant to die when he came into contact with the rising hero. I remembered now. That arc in the novel was brutal. Tragic. Sudden.
He had been traveling to a distant sanctuary, accompanied by a few elite knights, when they were ambushed.
Dozens of cloaked figures descended on them in a rain of dark fire and shadow blades—demons, high-ranked ones.
The Saint, the holy child beloved by the masses, was slain without mercy.
His body was never recovered.
It was written like a martyrdom. A necessary loss. One that sparked the flames of resolve in the young protagonist—the hero candidate—who would arrive just moments too late.
That death was pivotal. It was the moment the world finally realized the enemy wasn't just festering in the shadows.
But it wasn't just pivotal.
It was scripted.
'My death is an event,' I thought bitterly, a chill crawling up my spine. 'An emotional turning point for someone else's story.'
And then, like a slow wave of certainty, a gut-deep chill told me something worse.
It's soon.
That assassination happened in the novel just before the hero's awakening—when the protagonist was still my age.
My body may be younger, but my mind... I remembered dates, arcs, turning points.
If I had to estimate it, then...
'I have one year left.'
Maybe less.
One year before the world decides it's time for me to die.
My hands trembled.
The floor attendant glanced at me again but wisely said nothing this time.
I turned toward the window and stared at the gleaming white towers of the city beyond the terrace. Everything looked perfect. Clean. Divine.
But underneath the gold and marble, I could already feel the gears turning. The plot waiting.
'They'll kill me. The demons. The plot. The world. They'll kill me to move the story along.'
And the hero?
He wouldn't even know me.
He wasn't even here.
I clenched my teeth and forced my voice low.
"That's not going to happen."
I don't care if the world thinks this is fiction.
I'm alive now.
This is my body. My soul.
My life.
And I'll be damned if I just roll over and let fate butcher me for dramatic effect.
If the story wants a tragedy, it'll have to find someone else.
A week passed.
Just like that.
Time had a strange way of moving here—softened by silken sheets, warm baths, and the lingering scent of incense that clung to the air of the Holy Palace. If I didn't know better, I would've believed I was royalty. No—higher than royalty.
Because here, even kings bowed to the Saint.
I wandered the same marble corridors daily now, no longer getting lost in the overwhelming size of the palace. The ceiling frescoes, the gold-veined statues, the towering stained glass that caught the morning light like it was born to—it had all started to feel familiar. Almost comforting.
And most surprisingly…
I had somehow grown close to the Pope.
Or—as I called him in my head—the old man who liked to sneak me extra sweets when no one was looking.
He was nothing like the lofty, untouchable figure I'd imagined. He laughed more than I thought a holy man should. He asked about my day. Sometimes, he just sat beside me and dozed off mid-conversation.
The Cardinals, Archbishops, and the entire choir of saintly figures that orbited around the Church were all incredibly formal at first. Regal, cautious, reverent. But over time, I learned how to respond.
At first, it was weird.
They'd bow too deeply, speak too slowly, watch me like I might dissolve if touched.
But I adapted.
I learned how to nod at the right moment, how to return blessings with just the right tone of gentle holiness they expected. I even mastered the serene Saintly Smile—that one you give when you're being worshipped like a living relic and need to pretend you're humble about it.
And now… they were comfortable with me. The way they spoke, hovered close but not too close, always a few respectful paces behind—it was like I had become the sun they revolved around.
I wasn't just some orphan in the woods anymore.
I was Yesha, Saint of the Holy Empire.
The role was fitting itself around me like a tailored cloak.
But still—every night, when the curtains were drawn and the lights faded and I was finally alone—I reminded myself of what I knew.
This world. This novel. This fate.
They could wrap me in gold and silk, surround me with loyal servants and smiling clergymen—
But I wasn't safe.
Not yet.
Not when I knew what was waiting in the shadows of next year.