They said it was sacred.
Hand-woven by generations of devoted seamstresses, stitched with golden threads steeped in consecrated oils, and laced with archaic inscriptions so old that even the most revered scholars could only guess at their origins.
And yet…
It was itchy.
"I feel like a walking relic," I muttered under my breath, tugging at the stiff collar of the ceremonial robe that clung to my neck like a judgment.
A sharp look from one of the elder attendants snapped my spine upright.
'Right. Reverent posture. Saintly grace. Back straight, eyes soft, hands folded like a repentant shepherd.'
I sighed quietly, adjusting my stance as they fussed over the folds of my vestments. The robe draped past my ankles in silken, suffocating waves. It shimmered faintly under the high ceiling's light, each layer stitched with motifs of wings, stars, and symbols I barely understood. The stole—embroidered and overly starched—hung stiffly over my shoulders, as if reluctant to touch a living person.
To them, this was holy garb.
To me? An antique curtain masquerading as clothing.
Maybe I was being dramatic. But even Saints deserved breathable fabric.
Still, complaining felt ungrateful. These people had worked painstaking hours preparing this for me. And I was already pushing the limits of tolerance by having an existential crisis each morning just trying to put the damn thing on.
Eventually, once the ceremony was over and the last hymn faded into memory, I managed to escape. I dragged myself into the quiet of my room, nearly tripping over the gilded hem. I collapsed onto the edge of my bed, buried under sacred embroidery and the weight of too many expectations.
And that's when it happened again.
Time didn't freeze like before—it paused. Just enough.
Long enough for that familiar, crystalline chime to echo softly in my mind like a drop of water in a still pond.
Then came the glow.
༺═════════════════༻
Name: Yesha (Jake)
Age: 12
Title: Saint
Attribute: Divine Energy
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Strength: F
Agility: F
Holy Power: F → (F+) [SSS] Locked
Aether: F → (F+) [SSS] Locked
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Skills
[Heal] [Bless]
༺═════════════════༻
I blinked slowly, studying the interface that hovered above me like a divine mirror. The seals were still closed. The ones that had burst open during the chaos of the public Blessing were sealed tight again—quiet and patient.
But the ranks… they had shifted.
From F to F+. A small step. Insignificant on paper, but proof nonetheless.
Progress.
'So it wasn't just a fluke that day…'
A faint warmth pulsed in my chest as the interface shimmered, then disappeared.
I sank deeper into the mattress, letting out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. I wasn't dreaming. It was real. This was real. Every cryptic message, every status screen, every miracle they claimed I could perform.
The system hadn't abandoned me. It was watching. Waiting.
After the ceremony, I had been assigned tutors. Dozens of them. From hunched old bishops with ink-stained fingers to bright-eyed scholars who practically vibrated with excitement at the chance to teach a real Saint. Most of them were more interested in theory than practicality, but I listened all the same.
One in particular—an old priest named Maros—stood out.
"Divine Energy, Your Holiness," he had said during one of our lessons, voice gravelly but serene, "is not cultivated like mana. It is summoned. Drawn. A resonance between the self and the heavens. Only the truly chosen may channel it."
"So it's… like a gift from God?"
"Yes, but more than that. It is a bond. A covenant. And from it, you manifest Aether—the divine reflection of mana."
"And Holy Power?"
"Aether shaped by will. It allows for healing, blessings, miracles. Without Aether, there is no Holy Power. And without Divine Energy… there is no Aether."
A simple chain reaction. I had committed it to memory:
Divine Energy → Aether → Holy Power → Skills.
Elegant. Logical. Terrifying.
Because according to everything they'd told me… I was the only person in the world who had the Divine attribute inherently.
Others could wield Holy Power, yes—but only through external means. Relics. Sacred catalysts. Shared blessings.
Me? I was the catalyst.
'No pressure, huh…'
Just weeks ago I was bleeding to death in a crumpled car, thinking my last thoughts as I tried to save a child who couldn't even say my name.
Now I was this—a Saint revered by thousands. Carved into myth before I had even hit puberty.
With divine energy pulsing faintly in my veins and a death flag hovering above me like a guillotine wrapped in roses.
I flexed my hand, focusing until I felt that warm ripple under my skin. Gentle. Faint. Alive.
'Good,' I thought as the light faded. 'I'll need every drop of it.'
According to my instructors, power as a Saint didn't grow through battle or brute strength.
It grew through faith.
And the primary method of cultivating faith?
Meditation. Prayer. Reflection.
In theory, that sounded poetic. Beautiful, even. A gentle, quiet path to strength.
In practice?
It was kneeling for hours in front of an altar while whispering scriptures until your knees went numb, your voice cracked, and your mind screamed from the silence.
I tried everything—postures, rituals, holy verses—nothing sparked. No divine voice. No vision. Just the echo of my own breath and the cold kiss of marble beneath me.
'Why isn't it working?' I clenched my jaw as I rose from the prayer mat, the bells tolling in the distance. 'Do I not believe enough? Or is it just… hollow to me?'
I left the chapel quietly, ignoring the glances of priests too polite to ask.
I drifted through the corridors like a shadow, until I reached the palace gardens—a sanctuary within a sanctuary.
The air was lighter there. Softer. Evening sun bathed the flowers in gold and pink, while the petals of starbloom trees caught the light like delicate crystals.
And, as always, I wasn't alone.
Two knights flanked me, armored and silent. Two more lingered just behind.
Their presence was constant. Four shadows that never left. Always guarding. Always watching.
Even here, in the heart of the Holy Palace, I was a relic to be preserved. Not a boy.
Not a person.
I walked slowly through the blooming rows, pretending I didn't hear the synchronized steps behind me.
'Left, right, pause. Repeat.'
Even the pattern of their movements had become part of the routine. Predictable. Reassuring in its own way—and yet utterly suffocating.
I reached the bench beneath the largest starbloom tree and sat down. The knights took their posts nearby, respectfully silent.
At least they gave me that.
I leaned back, gazing up through the petals. The blossoms danced gently in the wind, scattering light across my face. And for a moment, just one—
I let the silence settle.
No chimes. No expectations. No prayers.
Just me.
Jake.
Still alive. Still breathing. Still trying to change what was written.
Even if I couldn't feel faith the way they wanted me to, even if the Aether still flickered faintly like a distant candle—I would find my path.
Because no one else was going to do it for me.
Then… an idea sparked.
A dangerous one.
I turned slightly and glanced at the closest knight. He stood like stone.
"Can you all give me a moment?" I asked softly, weaving the expected reverence into my tone. "I… wish to pray alone."
It usually worked. The holy card.
The knights hesitated. The leader stepped forward, bowing.
"But Your Holiness, our orders—"
"I won't go far," I said, folding my hands properly. "Please."
A beat of silence. A glance exchanged. Then—
"As you wish. We will remain at the outer perimeter. Should you call, we will come."
I nodded. "Thank you."
And just like that, they stepped back into the shadows of the garden.
The moment they vanished, I rose.
This wasn't a walk.
This was a plan.
I had studied the palace grounds carefully, asking subtle questions, mapping routes when no one noticed. There was a restricted path that led from the rear gardens to the outer edge of the training fields—and beyond that… the forest.
And I knew who was out there.
The protagonist.
In the original novel, around this time, the future hero would begin training under a reclusive paladin hidden near the palace's edge—unknown to the church.
Unregistered.
Forgotten.
That man would become his first mentor. A quiet guardian forged in regret.
The story said they would meet next year—when tragedy struck.
But what if I found him first?
What if I could rewrite the story before the first page turned?
So I walked.
The flowers thinned. The marble path became soil. The light dimmed under thick trees and distant birdsong.
And I didn't look back.
Because I knew who waited at the end of this path—
And I wasn't ready to die a second time.
Not without fighting for a different ending.