The sounds grew distant. In the depths of his darkening vision, Oscar recalled the past. The first memory that surfaced was of himself hiding behind a monastery pillar, secretly watching an investiture ceremony. A red-haired man in white armor knelt before the Pope.
It was Leon Berg. In those days, he had been Oscar’s idol. No, to be more precise, he had been the pride of all the Bergs.
The fact that a child born without God’s blessing was acknowledged as a son of God had a profound impact on people’s perceptions—so much so that even a lonely boy who lived like a ghost in the monastery briefly received attention.
“Hey, is it true that Bergs are born with more holy power?”
Faced with such questions from noble boys, Oscar would fidget uncomfortably, embarrassed by his undeserved name, which meant “Spear of God.” The man standing proudly in snow-white armor, confidently wielding the divine sword, embodied everything Oscar dreamed of becoming.
“I’m your goal? Me?”
At eighteen, he’d had the honor of meeting Leon face to face. The knight Oscar had served at that time, had been a viscount named Louis who was quite close to Leon. Oscar could still clearly hear Louis saying, “This lad has set his sights on becoming like you, Vice Commander,” as he put his arm around Oscar’s shoulder. Wine glass in hand, Leon had surveyed the nervous Oscar with curious eyes, though what he’d said after that had faded from memory. All Oscar could clearly recall was a thoroughly intoxicated Heinz Kraus snickering beside them.
“Listen, reconsider your path. The life of a vice commander isn’t one I’d recommend. Don’t blindly follow in his footsteps only to find yourself at a dead end and resenting him later.”
In retrospect, perhaps those words had been a divine warning clothed in human speech—a premonition that following Leon’s path would lead only to hardship.
“Tonight, I’ll offer prayers in your defense.”
If the eighteen-year-old Oscar had been saved by Leon, then the twenty-three-year-old Oscar had been saved by Veronica. This woman—who wasn’t even human at that point—had spoken the very words his soul had longed to hear.
“I’ll tell God that you were the most godly knight I’ve ever met.”
It wasn’t love he felt for her. It was something much weaker than love, something closer to affection.
If love were like torrential rain, then his feelings were less than a light drizzle.
Even in attempting to fill the void in his heart, Oscar had followed in Leon’s shadow—only much more clumsily. Therein lay the tragedy: those who forever chased another’s footsteps could never forge their own path ahead.
Oscar, ever obedient to God and the Pope, had always maintained a certain wariness toward Veronica. She was a Bahamut, and Oscar couldn’t betray the Pope. He forever felt indebted to the Father who had taken him in at a later age. He had obeyed without question even the unreasonable command to remain at the Papal Office during the war. For reasons Oscar could never fathom, the Pope had shown special affection for him despite his humble origins.
Those days had been both blessed and torturous. Whenever news had reached him of fallen knights, he would cover his ears, drowning in self-loathing. The melancholy boy who had grown up in the monastery’s shadow couldn’t escape that darkness even as a man. Sometimes he resented his father for keeping him tethered close. Then, consumed by guilt for harboring such hatred, he would offer prayers of repentance.
After each prayer of contrition, he would redouble his loyalty, sink deeper into self-hatred—a vicious cycle. In his confusion, Oscar had finally prostrated himself before the Divine, begging for guidance. Show me the righteous path, O Lord. Reveal to me Your sacred will.
After his prayer, he had collided with Veronica while ascending the stairs. She had fled from him as though possessed, and when Oscar had reached the papal chamber, he’d understood why.
Beside the Pope, whose skull had been split by an executioner’s axe, cowered the massive executioners themselves, trembling in the corner like frightened children despite their size.
He learned what had happened from them. It was brutally simple: Veronica had slain the Pope. But why?
In the midst of his shock, Oscar’s mind had achieved an unnatural clarity. His gaze fell upon a book that lay where the Pope’s lifeless eyes stared. Its title was The History of Karta.
The revelation had struck him like a hammer. Reading the first page, Oscar knew with absolute certainty that this was the answer to his desperate prayer.
He slew the executioners without hesitation and set the three corpses ablaze. With a cracked voice, he recited the consecration prayer. Though the act brought him anguish, Oscar felt no regret as he walked away from the Papal Office. For the first time in his life, he had made a choice that was truly his own—free from Leon’s shadow or the Pope’s influence.
Oscar had become wholly himself, had become the Spear of God, and protected his beliefs. That was enough. Perhaps being dragged away by the Bahamuts before he could speak his final words was God’s mercy, too.
He had nearly confessed the feelings that would have been a sin against heaven, even if it was a pale imitation of real love. She was, after all, the one who had slain the man he called father.
Oscar died, embraced by God’s grace. The final vision in his fading consciousness was of a cozy home in the evening—there was a limping man, a pregnant woman, and a pale woman so fragile he wanted to protect her. They were all laughing together. It was warm.