Dusk had long faded, blanketing the entire City of Glory in darkness.

Mages activated runes on streetlamp posts, conjuring glowing orbs that cast a soft yellow haze over ancient cobblestones. Knights and watchmen patrolled in pairs, their footsteps echoing through the quiet lanes.

But Monroe didn’t take the carriage down the well-lit main roads. Instead, he beckoned Shel into the shadowed alleyways of the city.

The veteran warrior in heavy armor moved with uncanny agility, slipping through narrow gaps like a phantom while signaling Shel to follow his silent steps.

"The child you mentioned... where exactly is she? Why avoid the main roads? Why not take a carriage?" Shel struggled through the unfamiliar alleys, confusion tightening his throat.

After agreeing to accompany the Holy Knight, Monroe had dragged him out without even letting him say goodbye to Hilna.

And these winding backstreets—they felt deliberate, like hiding from unseen eyes.

"I cannot speak plainly," Monroe replied without turning. "You’ll understand when we arrive."

Their pace quickened. Shel realized they were drawing closer to the inner city, toward the Radiant Cathedral at its heart.

"That child... is she in the Radiant Cathedral now?"

"No. The residence beside it." Monroe’s voice was clipped. "We’re almost there."

They stopped before a modest three-story building.

Directly opposite its front door lay the Cathedral’s vast preaching square, separated from the inner city by a single wide street.

Prime real estate facing the Cathedral—worth a king’s ransom.

Religious reliefs adorned its marble walls, blending seamlessly with neighboring structures. Utterly unremarkable.

Except for one detail: the side facing the square had no windows. Only a locked, rune-sealed door.

The true entrance hid in a shadowed rear alley—a discreet back door.

Monroe’s expression turned grave. He produced a key etched with secret runes, tracing symbols across the narrow door. It groaned open after a tense pause.

Shel’s pulse quickened. Whoever they were meeting was no ordinary child.

Before entering, Monroe shot him a look. Shel understood instantly: *What you see here stays buried.*

Regret prickled his skin. He should’ve asked more questions earlier.

But after all the Sword Saint had done for him... refusal was impossible.

Gritting his teeth, he followed Monroe inside.

The ground floor held only a standard sitting room—though every furniture edge was padded, and fresh carpets covered the floor.

Politeness made Shel ask about removing shoes. "Unnecessary," came the reply.

Monroe strode in, armored boots tracking mud onto the carpet. Dust and grime vanished instantly—the rugs bore costly self-cleaning enchantments.

Shel’s curiosity edged toward unease.

Ascending the stairs, muffled sobs reached them—soft weeping, an old woman’s soothing murmurs.

The sounds drifted from a bedroom on the second floor.

Monroe tapped lightly on the door. Only after a faint "Enter" did he push it open, gesturing Shel inside first.

The room was a child’s sanctuary: plush carpets, scattered dolls, crumpled silk dresses, and discarded fairy-tale picture books.

A white-robed nun with a black shawl sat in a chair, gently shaking a rattle while humming a lullaby. Her face seemed familiar—Shel had glimpsed her somewhere public, but couldn’t place her.

Her charge was no toddler. A slender, golden-haired woman in her late twenties huddled before her, clad in a frilly dress. Her bare arms and legs were etched with dense, pulsing magic runes.

Utterly unsettling.

She clutched Shel’s pop-up book *The Knight Who Became a Monster*, tears streaming down her face.

"Catherine? Catherine?" The father’s voice softened. "Stop crying. I’ve brought Mr. Shel. He’ll rewrite the story’s ending. No one dies. Everyone lives."

At the sound, the woman lifted her head. Her hazy emerald eyes locked onto Shel.

She was beautiful—but meeting her gaze felt like drowning.

A torrent of fractured visions flooded Shel’s mind:

A rat-headed beast devouring screaming humans as he raised his sword against it;

Himself bound to a pyre, roaring in defiance as flames consumed him;

Charging a sea of enemies with a greatsword until blades swallowed him whole;

Standing atop a clocktower, hanging a corpse from its peak before ringing the bell...

If these were glimpses of his future—they were horrors indeed.

Catherine flinched at Shel’s stagger, hiding behind the nun like a frightened child.

Only after minutes of gentle coaxing did she peek out, opening her mouth in soundless distress: "Ah! Ah!"

"She cannot speak," Monroe explained quietly. "Only this. I apologize, Shel—I couldn’t explain beforehand. You needed to see for yourself."

"So... this is the child who loves my picture books?" Shel stared at the trembling woman. "You want me to rewrite tragic endings for her?"

"Yes." Monroe’s jaw tightened. "She’s twenty-five. A bloodline curse twisted her body and mind—she’s remained a child since age five. She can’t speak. Raw magic surges within her, lashing out without warning. Her name is Catherine Monroe. My daughter."

Shel froze.

The Sword Saint—eternally devoted to the Eternal Church, sworn to celibacy—had a secret daughter?

"She is no bastard," Monroe said, reading his thoughts. "Her mother and I were wed in secret by His Holiness the Pope himself. Circumstances forced us to keep it hidden... until her death."

The nun nodded. "It is true."

Shel finally studied the old woman’s face.

Recognition struck like lightning.

He’d seen her once before—at a Cathedral mass.

Then, she’d worn ornate vestments, papal tiara gleaming, holding staff and sacred relics from afar.

Now, in simple robes, she was unrecognizable.

Pope Saint An IV. Now over a century old.