The air rushed past his ears as Luther plumted down from the courtyard wall. For one dizzying mont, he wondered if this would be the grand finale of his so-called "saintly journey." A saint with broken legs, splattered across the temple courtyard—how poetic.
But he didn’t fall far. His boots slamd against a slanted roof, the impact rattling his bones. He slid, half-controlled, half-panicked, before leaping again. The next drop landed him in softer earth.
Groaning, he rolled onto his back, chest heaving. "I... hate... temples," he muttered between breaths. "And... bandages. Saints shouldn’t run when injured but well... here i am."
When his eyes finally opened, he blinked in surprise. He wasn’t in another stone courtyard or endless corridor. No—this place was different.
Before him stretched a garden.
The healing wing of the temple, he realized, though it looked more like a sanctuary carved out of paradise itself. Rows upon rows of flowers sprawled in perfect patterns, their petals shining faintly as though brushed with starlight. They ford a radiant sun design on the ground, with fountains placed at intervals, their crystalline waters glittering as they cascaded.
The fragrance was thick yet soft, the kind of scent that seed to seep directly into one’s chest, loosening every knot of tension. Luther staggered forward, still catching his breath, but slowly his pace steadied. His hand stretched out almost instinctively.
When his fingers brushed across the nearest petals, the flowers glimred faintly, their light rippling outward like a quiet wave.
Luther froze.
Then, despite himself, he kept walking.
His hand grazed the flowers as he passed, and each one lit up in turn, releasing faint motes of shimring dust into the air. The sight was beautiful, breathtaking—completely unlike the suffocating chaos outside.
For the first ti since waking in this cursed world, his heart eased.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.
The wind stirred, playful, wrapping around him. It carried the fragrance of the flowers, the sound of water, and sothing else—sothing old, sothing powerful. It was intoxicating.
A faint ringing sound echoed, like a crystal bell far away. Then, without him trying, his magic responded.
A current of energy welled up within him, surging outward.
The air rippled. The winds he thought sealed long ago flared to life, swirling around his body in a wild yet graceful dance. They lifted his cloth, tugged at his hair, embraced him as if welcoming him ho. The dull ache in his muscles vanished; the sharp sting in his ribs dulled. He felt lighter—no, freer.
When he opened his eyes, they burned gold, radiant like sunlight reflecting off a lake. But the glow faded quickly, his irises returning to their usual blue as the magic dispersed.
Luther stood silently, staring at his hand.
"...It’s been a long ti," he whispered, his voice trembling with a strange mix of wonder and bitterness. "A really long ti since I felt this."
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Ever since the day... Mariana sealed it."
The mory bit like frost. His master’s stern gaze, the way she’d forged a crystal that locked away eighty percent of his ability. Her explanation: to protect him, to keep the world safe from him, or maybe both.
Well.. he did still request for it.
He clenched his fist, then released it, letting the last remnants of magic fade into the garden air. "It’s been so long I almost forgot what it felt like. To feel whole again."
And for a fleeting second, he smiled.
Then a squeal broke the mont.
Luther stiffened, snapping his head to the side. It wasn’t human—not quite. More like the sharp cry of a squirrel or bird.
He frowned. "Great. First the garden makes nostalgic, now it’s summoning rodents."
But then he noticed them.
Faint lights, bobbing and swirling like playful fireflies. They giggled—actually giggled—as they darted around his head. He recognized them instantly.
"The motes," he muttered. His lips pressed into a thin line. "Of course. Haven’t seen you little pests since you dragged to that blasted tree in Envelon."
Alisa’s mother, the Yarian Tree. That day had changed everything.
He was skeptical. Every fiber of his being scread to ignore them. To turn, find another exit, climb another wall if he had to.
But the sound of shouts and boots thundering in the distance made the decision for him.
"Saint! Search the wing!"
"They said he jumped this way!"
Luther cursed under his breath. "Back’s not an option, is it?"
The motes seed to laugh harder, darting in the direction of a narrow path deeper into the healing wing gardens.
"...Fine," he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "If I get eaten by so magical squirrel, I’m blaming all of you."
And he followed.
The motes led him past the fountains, beyond the flowerbeds, into a clearing he hadn’t seen from before.
And what he found there made him stop in his tracks.
It wasn’t another corridor. It wasn’t a dead end. It was... a field.
A wide, open garden. Unlike the orderly designs of before, this one contained only a single type of flower: roses. Thousands of them, a carpet of crimson and pink, their petals shimring faintly as if kissed by dew and moonlight at once.
In the center of the sea of roses rose a statue.
It towered high, carved with detail so sharp it seed alive. A figure stood proudly, sword raised to the sky, a cape flowing behind him that the sculptor had made look as though it rippled like water in the wind.
The sight stole Luther’s breath.
"...The hell?" he muttered, stepping cautiously into the rose bed.
The roses reacted as he passed. They brightened, their colors deepening, blooming fuller as though recognizing him. A shiver ran down his spine.
"Oh, no. No, no, no. Don’t start glowing for too," he grumbled, glaring at the roses as though they’d betrayed him personally.
Still, he couldn’t stop. Sothing about the statue pulled him forward.
When he reached its base, he circled around it slowly, taking in every line, every detail.
"I’ll give them this much," he said grudgingly. "For a temple full of self-absorbed idiots, they sohow managed to put this together."
Then his eyes caught the inscription carved into the pedestal.
Here lies Yieli,
the Son of Asthan,
Savior of Our World.
(1770–1935)
Luther’s lips twisted. "Called it. No way this temple made this themselves. They built the temple around it."
He turned back to the statue, muttering, "So this was the first son, huh? The great savior. The one Asthan chose."
He tilted his head, squinting up at the stone face.
And then he froze.
His heart dropped into his stomach.
"What the..."
The face looking back at him from the statue—
—was his.
Almost identical.
His jaw fell open. He blinked rapidly, rubbed his eyes, even slapped his own cheek. But when he looked again, the resemblance remained.
"...Why," he croaked, staring upward in disbelief, "does this guy... look like ?"
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