Amid the looming chaos of war and fraying tensions between this nation and its volatile neighbor, the young nun remained uncertain. How could she possibly explain centuries of political strife, hidden agendas, and broken treaties? Her silence said enough.
"Then let's just find shelter," the man beside her offered casually, making no demand for answers.
He rose to his feet, glanced at her still seated on the crumbling pavement, and extended his hand. She reached out almost instinctively, her small fingers slipping into his as he helped her up—only to trip on a piece of slick stone and tumble straight into his chest with a startled gasp.
"I-I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, flustered, her voice trembling with embarrassment.
"No need," he replied warmly, catching her gently. "If anything, I should be thanking you… Sister."
His smile was calm, and it was only from such a close distance that the nun finally saw him clearly. His hair was long, his features refined, his body tall and lean. His garments were not of modern origin—they resembled the intricate robes of a forgotten era, elegant and archaic.
Why would someone like him have been locked inside a crate?
"I'm Aisha Algette," she said brightly, as if to reset the tone. "Just call me Aisha."
He paused, then spoke with theatrical gravity: "Solomon."
She blinked, tilting her head. Was he referencing the ancient king? Maybe he was just another tourist drawn to myths of wisdom and sacred ruins.
"Solomon—my name," he clarified.
"Eh? Wait—you're serious?" Her tone cracked with disbelief.
He grinned mischievously. "Just kidding. Can't believe you fell for that so easily, Miss Aisha. You're far too trusting."
Pouting slightly, Aisha puffed her cheeks, clearly irked.
"Call me Byakuya—White Moon."
And with that mystery laid bare, their escape began. Within the hour, a search squad from the Church arrived at the scene they'd fled.
"The box is empty?"
"Expected. It must have disintegrated midair—contents spilled."
Three millennia sealed in containment. No wonder the remains had become bone instead of flesh. And with the neighboring nation's bombardment turning the town into a battlefield, retrieving anything intact became exponentially harder.
"Damn those demons. Damn the traitors. They'll pay for this."
—
Chapter 136: Saint or Demon?
A polished steel wall reflected the image of a man whose appearance bore a strange resemblance to his own past self. It resembled his avatar in the Valkyrie World—a character he once embodied across realms and timelines.
But this body he now possessed was truly his own—not borrowed, not reanimated. It was as if one had transferred a beloved character across gaming platforms, like the system he'd seen in Sword Art Online, migrating a hero between digital worlds.
And the golden-haired, sapphire-eyed nun named Aisha? Her name and gentle demeanor rang curious bells. Could it be that this world belonged to one of the stories he knew?
"Aisha shouldn't have saved that man," someone muttered angrily nearby. "He was supposed to die."
"Saving him was meaningless."
Disapproval hung heavy. The man she healed had been one of many casualties from stray shellfire. But though he hadn't committed any grand evil, his petty crimes stacked up—enough for the others to deem him worthy of death.
Yet Aisha, innocent and devout, had chosen compassion. She healed him simply because he was hurt, helpless… and human.
He, White Moon, watched the man's expression twist with cruel pleasure as his eyes settled on those who had condemned him. A flicker of malice—unmistakable, poisonous—flashed in his gaze.
It was going to get messy.
—
Around four in the morning, White Moon gently shook the nun awake.
"Mmm?" Aisha stirred groggily. Who…?
As her vision cleared, she recognized the man who cradled her in his arms.
"White Moon… sir?"
She blinked, startled—and then blurted out a small shriek.
"Shh." He pressed a finger to her lips. She nodded obediently, cheeks flushing crimson, and he gently placed her on her feet.
They were no longer in the shelter. They stood in the hushed ruins of the town itself, quiet now after hours of bombardment.
A few scattered homes still burned with light—residents unwilling to flee, clinging to familiarity amid the chaos.
"That's the spot you need to see," White Moon said softly, pointing toward a dim corner of the street.
There, in the flickering shadows, two figures writhed on the ground—and beside them stood a third. He delivered a brutal kick to one of the injured, sneering as he held a blood-drenched dagger.
A malfunctioning streetlamp above sparked and flickered, bathing the scene in intermittent light.
Aisha's breath caught. Her eyes widened. Her body froze.
The two on the ground were soaked in blood, barely alive. The man standing—the one with the dagger—was someone she recognized with chilling clarity.
The very person she'd saved.
The very one others had begged her to let die.
And the victims?
The very ones who'd warned her.
Her mind twisted violently, confusion and horror churning like a storm.
"No witnesses!"
The attacker lunged at White Moon, blade gleaming red.
Just as the tip neared his chest, White Moon's hand snapped up, catching the wrist mid-strike.
A cold smile crossed his lips as he twisted. Crack. The bone shattered.
The man barely registered the pain before White Moon kicked him through the air.
He slammed into a crumbling wall, which promptly collapsed atop him, half-burying him alive.
Not dead. But close.
"What are you waiting for?" White Moon asked sharply. "Go save them."
"Oh—right!" Aisha stumbled forward, activating her healing magic, kneeling beside the two bleeding victims.
She bit her lip as she worked, her powers flowing. Slowly, the wounds disappeared. There were no more responses—because there were no more injuries left to mend. They were healed.
And then came the sound. A groaning, desperate plea from beneath the rubble.
"Help me… please, Sister Aisha… I was wrong…"
The attacker. Crying. Begging. Pretending?
"I-I…" Her hands hovered over him, uncertain.
"You really believe this?" White Moon's voice cut through the tension like steel. "Can you guarantee his repentance?"
"I—"
"If you save him, and he kills again… what then?"
"That's… not fair…"
"This man was fated to die. You intervened. Now two innocents nearly died because of your mercy. Tell me, Aisha—are you healing people, or condemning them?"
"No, I wasn't—I didn't mean—"
"You gave a murderer life, and he used it to destroy. That blood… it's yours now. Are you a saint? Or a demon in disguise?"
Tears welled in her eyes. Her breath became ragged. Her soul cracked open under the weight of guilt.
She reached for words. For denial. For refuge.
None came.
She was breaking.
"Enough," one of the healed men interjected. "Don't speak that way to her."
"She did nothing wrong!" added the second, tone laced with compassion.
They shielded her with their voices. But that only made it worse.
Her guilt surged deeper.
"I curse you…" croaked the man beneath the rubble. "If I'm going to hell… I'll take you all down with me…"
And so the night continued. A war not of weapons—but of morality, identity, and the cruel ambiguity of compassion itself.
Was she a savior?
Or an unwitting executioner?
Was her love of life righteous—or tragically naïve?
Perhaps, thought White Moon, this world asked its saints to become devils—just to protect what little light remained.