Aether Monroe.

This man had always been shrouded in mystery.

No one could clearly recount the path that led this Sword Saint to prominence.

All knew that throughout his centuries-long life, he remained unmarried and childless.

His persona was that of an utterly steadfast, reliable warrior—devoid of desire, devoted wholly to the Eternal Church. There was no time for romance.

Some claimed he was a fallen noble’s heir who sought refuge in the Church centuries ago, embarking on a divine path.

Others said he was a disciple of an ancient hero, enduring brutal trials to earn his place as the Church’s eternal champion.

Rumors even whispered he was an archangel reborn by Heavenly Father’s decree, tasked with purging all sin and heresy before his soul returned to paradise.

Yet every tale carried exaggeration.

Those who truly knew Monroe saw he wasn’t a cold, ruthless war machine.

He was a courteous old gentleman—merely imposing due to his towering armored frame and reserved nature.

After classes began at the Divine Academy—covering ancient history, Classical Tongue, Eternal Theology, elemental magic fundamentals, alchemy, healing arts, plus swordsmanship, horsemanship, and combat drills—Monroe took the rare role of permanent swordsmanship instructor.

Students thrilled at the prospect: having "trained under Aether Monroe at the Divine Academy" on one’s record outshone any gilded crest.

Even then, Monroe showed Shel special attention. Among hundreds of fervent students, he’d single out Shel to spar with him using wooden swords.

A millennium later, Shel still remembered Monroe’s exquisite technique—the devastating force in every slash, thrust, and sweep.

Even a plain wooden sword gleamed like a blessed blade in the Sword Saint’s grip.

*"Back then, I relied only on brute strength and speed, patching gaps in my form. Against common foes, I might trade one life for another. But before this Sword Saint? I was utterly exposed.*

*He’d lecture students, sip water, and casually send my wooden sword flying within three moves. His blade would tap my wrist, elbow, and knee—toppling me in three seconds flat.*

*Every motion was flawless.*

*After each bout, he’d meticulously correct my attacks and praise what I’d done well."*

Strangely, Monroe’s lessons suited Shel—not Hilna. Shel, a self-taught brawler with mediocre magic talent, desperately needed this training.

In every class, Shel alone received the Sword Saint’s personal guidance.

Hilna’s advanced magic instruction came from senior Holy Sisters; Monroe rarely intervened.

He simply used his authority to shield Hilna from trouble. That was enough.

It was as if Aether Monroe weren’t Hilna’s mentor—but Shel’s alone.

Shel attended history, Classical Tongue, and theology classes just to earn credits.

He befriended older students with similar paths: mediocre magic talent, focusing on practical combat skills.

Most aimed to become Holy Knights or Papal Guards someday.

They knew their limits; none dreamed of becoming master mages.

They predicted Shel’s future: with Monroe’s favor and Hilna’s prominence, he’d surely ride their coattails.

After graduation, he’d likely join the Papal Guard as a squad captain, climbing ranks through merit.

If Hilna became a regional bishop, he’d serve as her knight-protector and local Church militia commander.

Should she rise to Cardinal Bishop? He might become Grand Knight Commander—or even earn a noble title and lands in the City of Glory.

*"Shel, you might wear a dozen titles before forty,"* they’d say, their congratulations laced with a hint of envy.

But Shel cared little for this glittering future.

*"Could I be assigned to the Great Darksend Region? Might Hilna serve there as bishop? Can the Academy grant a year’s leave for me to return?"*

*"Great Darksend?"* His classmates froze. *"Why go back? It’s a broken, starving wasteland. The journey alone takes half a year—where’d you get that time?"*

Shel: *"It’s Hilna’s home. And Lofna—my student there—I promised to visit within two years. The people need me."*

*"Don’t be sentimental. Stay, make your name, then take your ‘princess’ home in triumph. Bring your family to the City of Glory. Rushing back now? Wasting a year traveling? Even with Monroe’s backing, the Academy won’t forgive that."*

Shel: *"But I gave my word."*

*"Explain. Ask her to wait. A sensible girl would understand."*

They were blunt: *"Great Darksend’s a frozen, soggy backwater—tiny bankrupt states, churches scraping by. It’s exile. If you care for Lofna, climb higher first. Then bring her out."*

Shel knew they were right.

If he secured his place in the Holy City, he could bring Lofna and her mother to live near the City of Glory—perhaps a countryside villa near the Port of Saints. Anywhere beat Ipoli.

But he knew Lofna waited daily for his letters.

Every night, she pored over his sketches of Glory’s cathedrals, streets, and gates, reading his academy tales, imagining herself beside him in that radiant city… until deep into the night.

She counted the days on her fingers, waiting for Teacher Charles to return.

The girl had saved every coin. She’d even traveled to the Great Darksend Region’s Church headquarters, spending her savings on swift magic-messengers to update Shel on her half-year in Ipoli.

She wrote that she now lived in his house, keeping it spotless—his books and toys carefully arranged.

Though magic-less, she used his teachings to help villagers draft documents, select wheat seeds, and mediate disputes.

Young and less gifted than her sister, the townsfolk still respected her efforts—for being Shel’s student, and for trying so hard.

She longed for him to see her work, to ruffle her hair in praise…

Just as he once did for Hilna.

How could he tell her to wait longer?