Chapter 112
The Saint’s funeral was held on a mountain outside of the city.
As summer’s end gave way to autumn’s first whispers, a heavy wooden coffin was lowered deep into the earth, each shovelful of soil carefully packed to cover it. A stone marker stood facing west, bearing no inscription.
Nameless and without title, only a white porcelain vase of pure water was poured over the stone, symbolizing the “cleansing of earthly dust.”
Wakako watched as people above compressed the soil, pat by pat.
Before her stood Queen Ruijun, surrounded by servants, who bowed gently toward the gravestone as the temple priests chanted their mournful hymns.
The one who would rest there in eternal sleep was her master, and now she offered her final gesture of respect.
Once. Twice. Three times, she bowed, pressing her forehead to the ground so forcefully it picked up dust, which she wiped away with her sleeve.
It hadn’t been long since the trial ended, everything feeling like a dream. For ordinary citizens, the change had been so swift they barely noticed how dramatically the continent’s landscape had shifted.
God hadn’t lied – only one of the two kingdoms could remain.
Mios was the one that survived.
Queen Ruijun had always been a merciful ruler, and even when she stood at the dawn of a new era, she had never intended to eradicate the Eagle Kingdom’s royal family.
Unfortunately, they didn’t accept this decision, choosing instead to end their own lives.
The entire royal family, not one remained.
Before that, Ruijun had met with Alva, the former ruler of the Eagle Kingdom. In political terms, they had long been natural enemies, yet she held no animosity toward him. If anything, she had respected him in her way.
She had promised Alva: “I will not harm your family.”
But Alva declined her goodwill with only a few words: “The victor claims the spoils.”
The next day brought news of the Eagle Kingdom’s royal family’s collective suicide. Beyond a sigh and ensuring they received proper burial, there was nothing Ruijun could do.
In some ways, she understood Alva’s choice. In his position, she too might have found it impossible to live under an enemy’s mercy.
Besides, from the beginning, God had intended to abandon the Eagle Kingdom. This was likely what Alva found most unbearable.
They all understood this truth.
Ruijun had gone from ruling a single kingdom to reigning over an entire continent, and the transition had kept her endlessly occupied.
Yet she did not forget to hold a grand funeral for the Saint. The grandeur lay not in extravagance, but in how many came to truly mourn.
“Master…” beside her, Tsukiyo spoke softly, confused, “Why are you both laughing and crying?”
Was it sorrow or… joy?
Wakako wiped away her tears, silent yet smiling.
She wasn’t the only one crying.
At the bottom of the mountain, a crowd of citizens had gathered to kneel, many of whom had never seen the Saint up close, while others had only caught a fleeting glimpse of her during worship ceremonies.
Many were already in tears, bowing in devotion, joining the priests in chanting the farewell hymn.
“In midsummer’s courtyard,
Dense trees cast deep green shade,
Blocking even moonlight…”
Though they sang of moonlight, even though the sun had yet to set.
Wakako gazed at the orange sunset and pondered.
Looking back, she saw from halfway up the mountain the many, many people below.
The mercenaries… her familiar comrades. Hua Yumu stood silently with Albert, Liu Siruo was saying something to Carol, while Lin Lin stood awkwardly aside, seeming to want to approach Wakako but not daring to disturb her.
Nearby stood long-unseen Miki, along with Omega Squad’s Muna, Lois, and others. Miki seemed thinner but looked healthier than before, her eyes once again full of spirit.
Miki noticed Wakako’s gaze and winked lightly.
Wakako was glad to see her recover.
Senryu stood behind the mercenaries, her smaller frame almost swallowed by the crowd.
She, too, had prostrated herself before the Saint’s coffin, her face and clothes covered in dust. Her gaze shifted between the stone marker above and Miki before her.
Wakako and Senryu shared a smile.
Further back, she spotted the Kitagawa clan—the Second Daughter dressed in mourning white. Though the Kitagawas held no noble title, they had come, their presence simple and far from the front.
The Second Daughter gently waved her fan, acknowledging Wakako’s gaze.
“Saint Miki—”
Someone began wailing first.
A wave of grief followed, the forbidden name of the Saint echoing through the air. But no amount of tears could bring her back.
Their beloved Saint… gone in the prime of her life.
Only then did Wakako hazily realize this scene matched exactly what God had shown her that day.
The setting sun, Miki’s coffin…
Her eyes stung again as tears fell.
Beside her, eleven-year-old Tsukiyo remained bewildered. She instinctively wanted to comfort her master but didn’t know what to say, only awkwardly signaling a servant to bring a handkerchief: “Don’t be sad, Master.”
Wakako smiled as she wiped her cheeks: “I’m not sad.”
“You’re lying.” Tsukiyo didn’t believe her at all. “If you weren’t sad, why would you cry so hard?”
So much that the earth below was wet with her tears.
Wakako thought for a moment, then said: “Tsukiyo, you should know that people cry when they’re happy too.”
“I know, but…” But this was Saint Miki’s funeral! How could her master be happy?
Queen Consort Qinghe ahead heard her voice growing loud and turned to admonish, “Tsukiyo.” She signaled for decorum.
In the queen consort’s arms, the young second princess slept soundly, unaware of the world.
Seeing her adorable appearance, Wakako smiled and whispered to Tsukiyo: “Can the second princess walk yet?”
“She’s just starting to crawl.”
“She’s like a delicate porcelain doll, so cute.”
Tsukiyo suddenly asked: “Will Master accept my sister as an apprentice someday?”
“That’s not up to me. It depends on the Queen’s arrangements,” Wakako replied. “Why? Don’t you want me to take other apprentices?”
Tsukiyo blushed at having her thoughts exposed, turning away to mutter: “Master has to teach me and go on missions, you might be too busy.”
Would she? Wakako hadn’t considered it before, but now she realized the answer was inevitably yes.
With the Eagle Kingdom gone, replaced by Mios expanding across the continent, there would be much to do, both securing borders and maintaining internal peace.
As Queen Ruijun’s sword, the mercenaries would spare no effort in clearing all obstacles.
“Yes, but don’t worry. Things will work out as they should,” she said.
Tsukiyo had read this saying before, but still didn’t quite understand.
The hymn neared its final lines, and Wakako’s mind turned to Saburo.
Not for any particular reason, but because with the Saionji clan gone, he was Miki’s only remaining blood relative.
He should have been there at the grave.
But today, Saburo was absent, having secluded himself in a temple, vowing to remain within its walls.
Wakako and Lin Lin had watched him enter the temple gates that day.
He finally wore white robes openly, his hair styled differently, his face bearing an expectant look.
Lin Lin couldn’t help asking: “Why is he so happy?”
Even she didn’t understand. Being confined in a temple for years – was that something to celebrate?
Saburo heard this question and didn’t anger, instead turning back with a smile: “Of course I’m happy.”
“From today on, I am no longer Saburo Saionji,” he said. “I am God’s chosen servant…”
“As long as I remain here, learning all that the Saint once knew, God will permit me to go where I am meant to be…”
“No matter how long it takes, even ten or twenty years… I’m willing.”
“You wouldn’t understand.” Saburo’s smile became increasingly incomprehensible, his final words barely a whisper, as if speaking to himself: “I will no longer be me; soon, I’ll be just like Miki.”
Wakako stared at his retreating figure, speechless, a single thought echoing in her mind.
Delusional.
If God truly meant for him to be the next “Saint,” why require him to stay here for decades?
Besides, Saints lived short lives; few made it to twenty-five. Saburo was already well along in age.
Was it worth it?
Even Wakako understood this simple truth. Saburo, a noble’s educated son, surely knew this as well.
But if this was what he wanted, then she wished him fulfillment of his desires.
Each has their own destiny, enviable or not.
Remembering that nearly manic figure in white, Wakako said nothing, simply withdrew her gaze and focused on the hymn’s final verse.
The burial ceremony for Saint Miki thus concluded.
The citizens wouldn’t leave willingly, still mourning, forcing the Queen to order the mercenaries to make them depart, asking them not to disturb the Saint’s peace.
When it was all over, the mountain stood empty, no one left on the slopes or at its foot.
Wakako listened to the cicadas, finding their sound oddly calming as she made her way up the mountain.
She didn’t know where she was going or what awaited her, just walking aimlessly upward until she stood before the unmarked stone.
Wakako waited for a long time, until only the last remnants of sunset hung at the horizon, about to vanish, before she heard footsteps rustling through fallen leaves.
Miki rarely wore shoes, walking somewhat awkwardly, deliberately slowing her pace, each step elegant and dignified.
She stood at a distance, smiling gently at Wakako, wearing a light red dress that the sunset made even more enchanting.
Miki called her name softly: “Wakako.”
Wakako’s tears suddenly began falling again.
Her voice trembled as she replied.
“Miki.”
Miki nodded with a bright smile, then extended her hand.
Her hair had returned to its dark, lustrous shade, cascading over her shoulders, beautiful beyond measure as the wind gently lifted it.
Before Wakako stood the person she had always known, the person she loved, seemingly unchanged.
But ten summers ago, it was Miki who had brought Wakako home.
This summer, it was Wakako’s turn to take her hand.
Never again would they part.
