level_act16side_07_end

Urgh...

That's enough, Patia.

It's... not over...

Patia, right?

Most of the Gun-Knights have been reassigned to the envoys' village. Your mission is over.

I don't really get it, though. It's not like Andoain doesn't know who the most powerful guy in the Basilica is... Why the whole charade?

He probably wanted to make sure he got an audience with His Holiness.

Hm? You were actually listening to Lemuen?

This has nothing to do with that.

He is free to settle his score.

But that doesn't mean I'm letting him get away.

Sure. Shall we get going?

Once we get Patia settled in.

Right.

How should we face this Revelation? These mysterious, indescribable moments; these ambiguous, yet to be explained urges; these unascribable, esoteric intuitions...

Where will it lead us? What kind of choice does it want us to make? Or, perhaps, this is merely a hallucination caused by the fatigue of life?

But Revelation is called as such only because we willingly believe in it or were told to believe in it.

We could even say that if we knew it to be absolutely temporal, even if we deconstructed it into ice cold, objective logic...

Regrettably, man will still shine a spiritual light upon 'Revelation.'

Thus, when this cruel reality befalls us, the cowards can point fingers at the ambiguity of the Revelation, while the devout can repent their insufficient understanding. In any case, we can at the very least ascertain that we ourselves are not the root cause of everything.

Ah, Andoain. I was expecting you.

You don't seem surprised at all.

I can't say this was the result of any particular manipulation. The greatest lesson that I've learned in life is that people always cross paths, no matter their intention.

But, in the end, we all have our own goals.

The guardian, keeper, and executor of the most supreme law.

The eleventh man to take the name of Yvangelista, the Patron Saint of Sacrifice and Unity, and to stand atop the Lateran Curia as the Apostle, His Holiness the Pope.

Why recite all these titles you do not believe in?

The girl does not remain in your grasp.

She's still young. There is still much for her to experience.

Yet we are old. So old that we know our way around conspiracy, political machination, and internal strife.

What will you do now? Will you use this fine gift you spent decades preparing on her?

I'm not foolish enough to stand in a young girl's way.

Even if she triggered some kind of 'miracle?'

No, this miracle is Laterano's. It belongs only to Laterano. God's grace has fallen upon us. There is nothing more to it.

Do you enjoy history? I love history. For history to become history, you generally need an origin point, and when some kind of variable is introduced to stir up the water and form ripples—those ripples are history.

What of the object that was thrown into the water in the first place, then? Perhaps history does not care about it.

And neither do I.

The girl called Cecelia will go where she wants and do what she wants. Some day in the future, perhaps the name Cecelia will be known far and wide—it could also remain forever in obscurity.

But that has nothing to do with you or me.

It has nothing to do with the both of us. We have a mutual understanding regarding that, do we not?

You make yourself sound like a kind grandfather sending his granddaughter away.

This is nothing more than you getting what it is that you seek. You now get to explain this miracle. In exchange, Cecelia earned the right to leave this place.

This cannot even be called a trade. She never had the right to choose.

No, I never wanted to do anything to her. Laterano has stood for millennia, and neither should it nor shall it ever waver for a mere mixed-blood child.

I only hope that Apostles before and after you feel the same way, and that those expunged names were not erased for nothing.

We cannot ask for too much. Sins shall always be sins. Only time can wear them down.

And it wears them down to the point that no one remembers they were once sins.

I cannot cast blame on our forebears' cautiousness. However, neither shall I accept those sins in order to cover them up.

So long as our mutual understanding stands, am I right?

Hmm... as I said, it is very boring to grow old. Thanks to all the things that we experienced in the past, we are always fearful, on the fence with just about everything.

The old don't have the luxury of 'possibility,' Andoain. We have no choice but to continue down the path that was already laid.

A path that was already laid...

That goes for you too. I know of your journey.

My journey...

Right, I once journeyed... and I heard the purest of prayers and the most vicious of curses.

I stepped into sumptuous palaces and plucked my shoes out of bloodstains.

I saw shameless sinners beg for mercy, and I closed the simplest of caskets on innocent children.

It was always the same. Their cries always died down, and their tears always dried up, and I... I always stood there right next to them, attempting to comfort them.

I told them that salvation would come, as long as we believed.

But no, nothing ever happened. Not even the briefest passing glance.

The Holy City of Laterano has weathered every storm that came its way. How would a saint sitting in his soft armchair and the Sankta that know only to sing the praises of their own dignity know that there exist hardships in the lands beyond?

All the hopeless penances, withered consolations, and deafening silences.

Do you know how heavily silence weighs on my heart?

I seek only an answer.

We will never find salvation, will we?

'Salvation.' I often hear this word from the faithful, as though a sort of incomprehensible accedence, as though an ark that will rescue all the drowning.

Behold, our grand and glorious Lateran City. It is so splendid and magnificent, solemn and refined, with a perpetual aroma of vanilla and sugar wafting in its air.

All of this is a reward for abiding by the laws. All of this is our proof of salvation.

Yet this paradise is only a paradise because of the harshness of the wastes beyond.

We could have been a star in the barrenlands, a torch in the cold night!

Don't you dare say I'm wrong! Laterano is not some ancient concept that floats only in scripture! It stands right here and now! Laterano can save everyone!

She cannot.

And why is that?

Because we are only 'us.' Because we are the Sankta of Laterano.

And 'they' are not 'us.' 'They.' They conceal, they become disillusioned, they consign, they become disappointed, they struggle, and they hate.

They themselves mold and shape their own enemies. A man-eating monster of both lust and disgrace, with the flames of destruction hidden in its heart.

Why do you think these lands have seen countless dynasties and nations come and go in the flames of war while the miraculous Laterano has withstood the test of time?

Andoain, they are Inferno itself.

And you, you chose to leave 'us.' You left behind the virtues that shaped us under the stubborn belief that your water could extinguish the flames of Inferno, that your candle could illuminate the night.

Why seek my answer? You chose despair for yourself long ago.

Three times have I visited Laterano. For the rest of my life I wandered the lands beyond.

I've met many men and women, and I do not need the Lateran Pope to tell me how dark their hearts can get. Yet there is also a ray of light in them. A radiant, blinding light that I can never forget.

That I will never forget.

I was set ablaze by the light. Perhaps the fire is destined to be extinguished the moment it is first lit, but I could never again return to the eternally radiant Laterano.

Yet this perpetual radiance is cold and distant. Laterano's light shines on only a select few, and its might exists only to project this image of fabricated glory.

In that case, I would rather be the torch that burns by the feet of those who are freezing to death.

Even if its flame will soon be extinguished.

Andoain, flames are destined to be extinguished. You seek to turn this perpetual light into a flame, and the flame will meet its fate one day. When that happens, there will be no more light, not even a cold and distant one.

If you shatter the twin moons in the sky, then those struggling in the cold night will do so in darkness. Left only to close their eyes. Light will ultimately become a fantasy, a lie of a dream. Would you call eternal night a kindness?

You despise the small size of this paradise.

But do you know how hard it is for a small paradise to upon these lands?

You scorn its small size, but have you ever considered that there are those who try to live an honest life? What right do you have to turn this paradise to tinder for that wildfire of yours, destined to be put out?

This world is hostile to beauty. To allow this beauty to persist forever, do you know how much the Lateran people, countless Laterans, generations of Laterans have had to sacrifice?

Andoain, who are you to so handily deny all this with a few trivial words?

Preposterous.

There are those trying to live an honest life in Laterano, but does that somehow make the lives of those outside any less real?!

They hold out hope despite their hardships, they follow the scriptures and the laws, they believe that they can change their lives, and they look forward to the rewards for their hard work.

Mrs. Baelen from the rock salt and sundries store, Deacon Landi of the Tidal Chapel, little Sagre, who ties the ropes on their bells...

Tell me, is there anything wrong with their faith, with their hope?

Tell me, oh great and glorious Apostle, Pope Yvangelista XI, the great protector of our paradise and defender of history.

Why did Rocamarea deserve to be destroyed?

Answers.

Questions.

So this is the answer that I sought.

So this is the question that I wanted to ask.

Something has come loose.

Something that once had me tied up... for so long.

Something is roaring... struggling.

Yet I feel only at ease.

As though I'm bathing under the saliferous sunlight.

The gunshots rang out almost at the same time.

The law is carved into each Sankta's flesh and blood.

And one must pay a price to break it.

I knew that.

There is a bottomless abyss beneath my feet.

I've taken that step already.

A great force slams me into the wall, and the sculpted relief presses into my bones, with the statue behind me crumbling to the ground.

There is no question that it was the strength of a patron firearm.

Though Yvangelista XI's body is old and frail, he is far stronger than he seems.

However...

I try my best to open my eyes and make out his figure among the smoke and dust.

The old man is still standing in the middle of the Basilica, but there is no longer a smile on his face.

He looks even older than he did when I stepped into this place.

But the halo above his head shines as bright as ever—

'The law in our flesh and blood. The painful price to pay.'

Price...?

Then, I realized what the real question here is.

The halo above my head is not glowing any darker than it used to.

I see.

Both you and I came out of this unscathed. What a surprise. It's worthy of celebration, though.

I was prepared to pay the price.

You're a pious follower, Andoain. Perhaps that is because you were not born in Laterano.

In Laterano, we don't believe in our faith, do we? We live as part of faith itself.

We Sankta have been its prisoner ever since the very moment the halos above our heads started to glow.

It...? What exactly is this law that we... the Sankta believe in?

What exactly... does it mean to fall...?

Throughout Laterano's long history, each apostle has had the authority to interpret the Commandments and derive from them new rules and decrees, even placing them above all others.

Laterano is built upon this law.

All Sankta know: violate the rules, the Commandments, or the laws, and you must pay the price.

The fallen Sankta are no longer connected to all other Sankta. Their patron firearms reject them.

Fallen Sankta are no longer Sankta.

What 'is' a Sankta?

A Sankta cannot point his firearm at another Sankta. That is a Commandment, and it is also our instinct, just like how a man cannot bring himself to take a step forward off the edge of a cliff.

Of course, there are those who can, and it seems to me you have more than earned the right to speak to that end.

What makes me different from her?

I told you the Commandments are instinct, and I told you the Commandments are interpreted. Surely, a man of your intellect can tell those statements are mutually exclusive.

If the law was constant, then the 'interpretations' that were added over time throughout our ever-changing history could never have been 'instinct.'

Correct, but you are calling the wrong premise into question. The law is naturally constant... but our 'interpretation' isn't really as 'ever-changing' as you are making it seem.

Interpretation isn't a coincidence, Andoain. Do you understand?

You said 'the old don't have the luxury of possibility.'

The law is much older than either of us.

The apostle does not interpret the law. The law interprets itself. Why do you think the law is capable of this?

Take a look at these—Oh, my apologies. I made such a mess here—these structures, statues, stained glass, the exquisite domes and frescoes all around us.

Do they seem like they have constructed a particular illusion for us?

Do you recall the 'Revelation?'

If we knew it to be absolutely temporal, even if we deconstructed it into ice cold, objective logic...

Regrettably, man will still shine a spiritual light on it.

There has only ever been one true law.

—We are to continue our existence.

Who are 'we?'

Follow me.

I follow the old man into the depths.

Everyone knows that the saints of old are buried under the Basilica.

They are the most knowledgeable and outstanding men and women in Laterano's long history. Their brilliant marble statues have no eyes, rendering them blind to those who pass by.

We head down.

Stela recounting the achievements of the past popes line our path.

Among them were the conceited, the noble, and perhaps even the crazed, but not a single one of them ever allowed Laterano to be besmirched. Now, they stand here in silence.

We head down.

This is where the oldest of saints lie.

They were the ones who plucked the Sankta out of chaos. They were the embodiment of all the virtues of mankind. All those who came after merely imitated them. The nameplates on which their miracles are described are dim and lightless.

We head down.

I do not know where I am.

For as far as my eyes can see, nothing here has never been mentioned in any texts or literature. I cannot understand any of this.

This should not be part of Laterano.

A low humming sound fills the entire space around us.

Strangely, I find myself flustered by all this.

It is not the answer that I sought. It is not something man is capable of establishing or interpreting...

It is not something that interpretations, analyses, debates, or reforms could influence...

It is not a matter of whether or not you believe in It, why you believe in It, or how you believe in It...

After all, this is an undisputable existence.

In such a manner...

It exists.

What is Laterano?

What are Sankta?

I see.

We are us only because—

It links us all together.

It molds us.

It is the criterion upon which all things are based.

The path you and I follow was paved by law.

The paths you and I have trodden both lead to the same destination.

It allows you and I to continue making our way forward.

This is the path It has deemed as correct.