The path turned wilder with every step I took.
Gone were the marble walkways and flower-stitched hedges. The cobbled elegance of the palace grounds had faded behind me, replaced by uneven soil littered with loose stones and crooked roots that jutted out like the bones of the forest.
The further I went, the more the world seemed to unravel—stripping away the Holy Empire's carefully cultivated order until nothing but raw, untouched nature remained.
The sky above dimmed into a somber gray, veiled by a latticework of old trees whose branches knotted together like outstretched arms. Birdsong faded. The wind no longer hummed politely through petals and leaves; it howled low and restless, as if resentful of the intrusion.
It wasn't a gradual transition. It felt like stepping through an unseen veil. One moment I had been walking beside sculpted hedges and blooming wisteria, and the next... I was in a forgotten woodland.
As if the empire itself had drawn a line here—this far, no farther.
I stumbled over a thick root, cursing under my breath as I caught myself against a moss-stained trunk.
'Seriously… wasn't this a garden a second ago?'
Every few steps, vines reached for me, thin as thread but persistent. Wild brambles tugged at the hem of my already inconveniently long robe, while thorns nipped like mischievous spirits.
My ceremonial attire, blessed and pristine when I'd first stepped out, was beginning to resemble a curtain dragged through a swamp.
"This is absurd," I muttered, plucking leaves from my sleeve. "They call this a palace? It's a wilderness with a fancy gate. Why's the training ground buried out here like some state secret?"
Still, I pressed forward.
Despite the humidity. Despite the aching in my legs. Despite the dozens of tiny frustrations biting at me from every angle.
Because something far more important tugged at me from ahead.
Possibility.
'If the timeline's the same... he should be here.'
The hero. The story's destined savior. The boy whose every action would ripple outward and shake the fate of the continent. The one who was never meant to meet me like this.
But I refused to let the world run its course unchecked.
I had no interest in watching a story unfold from the sidelines. I would break the script.
Flip it on its head.
A low fence, barely more than a line of slouched posts wrapped in moss, rose in front of me. I clambered over it with all the elegance of a half-grown goat, my boot catching on the top plank. I landed in a tangle of robes, grass, and dignity.
"Excellent," I muttered, brushing off a beetle. "Real dignified, Saint Yesha."
But then—
Voices.
Clangs.
The sharp ring of metal on wood.
I crept forward, heart pounding.
Through a break in the trees, a clearing opened up like a forgotten stage behind the curtains. The land had been flattened by years of footwork, the earth hardened into a field of scars.
Training dummies, some split down the middle, stood watch like wounded sentinels. Others leaned drunkenly against the fence, still awaiting repairs.
At the center were two figures.
The first was a man—tall, weathered, shoulders squared with the weight of years. He wore dull silver armor that caught none of the light, as if even it had long given up on vanity.
He held a wooden training sword, not with aggression but with intent. Each movement was controlled, deliberate—meant to teach, not wound.
The second—
My breath caught.
A boy. Slightly older than me, perhaps thirteen. Black hair fell in wet strands against his forehead, clinging with sweat. His eyes, a dark umber, burned with a quiet intensity that refused to flicker.
He moved with the awkward grace of someone who had fought more out of necessity than training—raw, unpolished, but undeniably present.
Simple tunic. Calloused hands. Boots crusted with dry mud.
No silk. No crest. No privilege.
Just fire.
'That's him.'
The protagonist. The one the world would rally behind. The boy destined to stand atop battlefields and break through the clouds with light.
The boy who, in the original story, would meet me just once—only to hold my dying body in his arms.
But not this time.
'Your name was…'
"Reivan," I whispered, almost reverently. "Reivan Caelum."
A commoner. Son of a seamstress and a soldier, born far from the capital in a village carved into the empire's outer fringe. In the novel, his story began the day he defended a priest with nothing but a stick—untrained, terrified, but unyielding. That act had changed everything. It caught the eye of a retired paladin, who saw not luck, but potential.
And that paladin—the one now standing beside him in silence—had raised Reivan like his own.
I hadn't realized how still I'd become until the man noticed me.
He froze.
His eyes locked on mine, and in an instant, I knew.
He recognized me.
I stepped out from behind the trees, brushing down my wrinkled robes and lifting my chin.
The man's hand hovered near his sword, instinctive. But he did not draw.
Before tension could build, Reivan broke the silence.
He lowered his wooden blade, squinting at me.
"Uh... hey," he said, unsure. "Sorry if we're not supposed to be here. We're kind of... off the path."
I blinked.
That wasn't what I'd expected.
Not fear. Not awe.
Just a boy offering a sheepish apology.
He didn't recognize me. Not yet.
A smile pulled at my lips, quiet and amused. "Hey," I replied, walking closer. "Don't worry. I'm not here to scold anyone."
Reivan tilted his head. "...Then?"
I stopped a few paces away, heart racing.
I couldn't tell him the truth.
Not yet.
'I came to meet you' would sound insane. And I wasn't ready to explain just how much I knew about the things even he hadn't discovered.
I laughed softly, scratching my cheek. "I got lost," I said simply. "Didn't realize the gardens stretched this far. Took a wrong turn, and well… here I am."
Reivan blinked. "...You got lost?"
"Mm. Happens more often than I'd like."
I tried to appear harmless. Small. A stray piece of ceremony that had wandered too far.
His brow furrowed. "Aren't you from the palace?"
"I am," I nodded. "But I've only been here a short while. Everything's still a maze to me."
And then—
Thud.
The paladin dropped to one knee.
The forest seemed to hush.
Armor groaned as he lowered his head, one hand pressed over his chest in a reverent salute. The kind reserved for only the most sacred.
"For—Forgive me," he said, voice grating like stone. "This one failed to recognize Your Holiness. I beg your pardon."
Reivan flinched.
His wooden sword hit the grass with a soft clatter.
"Y-Your Holiness?" he stammered. "Wait—he's the—?"
His eyes snapped to my robes. The embroidery. The sun-etched pendant. The gold that shimmered in spite of the shade.
The Saint.
The vessel of the Divine.
Reivan looked like he wanted the forest to swallow him whole.
"Oh no," he whispered. "Oh no, oh no."
His hands fluttered helplessly. He stared at his mud-caked boots. The sweat-soaked tunic. The crude training sword.
"D-Do I kneel too? Should I have bowed? Am I gonna be arrested?"
I raised both hands, alarmed. "No, no—it's alright. Truly."
I turned to the paladin. "Please, rise. I'm not here for ceremony."
He hesitated, then obeyed—rigidly.
I turned back to Reivan with a softer smile. "As for you… you greeted me just fine."
Reivan exhaled like he'd been punched in the lungs.
"That's... that's a relief. For a second I thought I just committed some kind of holy crime. Maybe I should wear a sign: 'Will accidentally offend saints—approach with caution.'"
I blinked.
Then laughed.
He flinched at first, but when he saw I was genuinely amused, he relaxed—just a little.
"Not a bad idea," I said. "Maybe I'll make one too. 'Saint in Training—May Wander Into Restricted Areas.'"
"Fair trade," he said with a half-smile.
He bent to retrieve his sword. Then hesitated, glancing at me again.
"You… really live in the palace?"
I nodded. "They gave me a wing. It's quiet. Almost too quiet."
"Quiet sounds good."
The paladin coughed lightly.
"Most of the time," Reivan added quickly.
I smiled and looked around.
"This place has more life," I said. "More dust, more roots—but also more truth. I like it."
Reivan's eyes lit up at that, and the paladin, finally composed, stepped forward.
"There is honor in your visit, Your Holiness," he said carefully. "May I ask… is there a purpose beyond chance?"
I met his gaze, steady.
"There is," I said softly.
But I wasn't ready to tell him everything just yet.
Not until I saw it with my own eyes—
The flicker.
The spark.
The beginning of something vast and world-breaking, hidden inside the boy before me.
Reivan Caelum.
The story had already begun. But this time, I would not be a footnote in someone else's tale.