The Price of Hubris: Ilivy’s Burden

The Glorious Grand Expedition was a farce from beginning to end. Perhaps it was the Papacy’s final, desperate act, facing their own relentless attrition during the Demon King War. They simply could not accept that after countless sacrifices, tens of thousands of Holy Soldiers, and the utter decimation of their three glorious Knight Orders, all they had achieved was the Demon King Army’s retreat. They yearned for a victory, a decisive triumph. The acclaim bestowed upon Rajes, the King of Heroes, who led his forces to repel and seal away several Demon Kings, shone far brighter than the Papacy’s repeated, costly efforts to resist calamitous enemies just to create such opportunities. In the eyes of the common people, the exploits of Rajes and other Otherworld Travelers constantly challenged the Papacy’s authority. Thus, they needed a complete victory, at least a conclusive war that would cement their triumph.

However, by then, the Papacy was at its breaking point. They failed to see themselves clearly, and they failed to see their enemy. Their vision was blurred by their own arrogance and hubris. They squandered their last remaining resources, originally meant for revival, on a plan that, by any reasonable standard, was sheer madness. With virtually no contingency plans, they committed over 300,000 royal soldiers from seven kingdoms, tens of thousands from several hastily assembled Knight Orders severely lacking in experience and combat prowess, and, most crucially, over fifty thousand reserve monks and nuns from various monasteries—the very backbone intended for the Papacy’s post-war revival. Three kings and four bishops, a total of approximately 430,000 people, were all thrown into the unknown, perilous realm beyond the Rift—the Demon World, the very source of humanity’s calamities.

–[A Comprehensive History of the Papacy: The Truth During the Demon King War, Penman’s Preface to the Penultimate Chapter]

“It was a farce. A… massacre.” At this very moment, Ilivy, having redressed, sat still. She gazed blankly ahead, oblivious to her parched lips, confronting what was likely the darkest recess of her memory:

“At the beginning, everyone had a premonition. Fragile supply lines, an offensive plan utterly devoid of contingencies, and they didn’t even consider how ordinary people would fare under the influence of the Demon World’s miasma. But they didn’t care. They only wanted to hear what they wanted to hear, to receive validation from others. Any dissenting opinions were dismissed. The King of Heroes had come to warn them, standing with his people, blocking the entrance, unwilling to let anyone advance an inch. Yet, by then, reason had become utterly useless; they chose to abandon it themselves.”

Ilivy recounted the scene of that day, every detail vivid in her mind:

“They incited the masses, swayed public opinion. People, who had lived under the shadow of the Demon King Army’s terror for eight or nine years, naturally grew arrogant in the face of sudden victory. This newfound confidence fueled their desires. Counterattack, counterattack became the prevailing sentiment. Revenge, counterattack, complete victory.”

“But when it actually happened, everything was so ludicrous,” Ilivy said slowly, speaking through gritted teeth.

“On the first day, nearly a thousand succumbed to the miasma’s influence, their minds fracturing. The Holy Light could not possibly encompass everyone. An army of 300,000, facing an inexhaustible Demon King Army on their home turf… scattered like sand with a single blow. The moment the Holy Cross Barrier was destroyed… hundreds of thousands were instantly transmuted. The remaining people had only one goal: to flee, ceaselessly flee, back through the Rift, back to the continent.”

“…You returned… from such a place?” Anto asked. Ilivy took a deep breath.

“My… my sisters, my comrades, my family… in just one day, in just one instant, they were all gone. Less than one-twentieth of us returned. Most were Holy Servants and wielders of the Holy Light who could endure such an environment. So when people eagerly awaited the triumphant return of the legions, what came back was…”

–It was only the Papacy’s people who returned! They dragged our men to their deaths! And then they came back shamelessly!

–What right do you have to live! We believed in you! Is this how you answer our hopes?

–Fall! Damn you, Cross-worshippers! You are more demonic than the Demon King Army! You are the ones who truly make us suffer!

–End your lives! End your lives! End your lives!

After that day, the Papacy, once regarded as the guardians of the human world, collapsed spectacularly. They orchestrated their own insane funeral, at the cost of 300,000 lives. All their former glory was trampled, and the Knight Orders, symbols of honor, became executioners who had slain their own kin.

“After that war, many of those who returned took their own lives,” Ilivy whispered. “Those who take their own lives cannot enter heaven, but she… she had already ceased to believe in such things anyway.”

“She?” Anto listened. From Ilivy’s statements, she could sense the emotions surfacing in Ilivy’s eyes. She was not a person without feelings; she simply refused to show them, forcing herself to learn numbness to survive.

“Hmph… she was my savior… my comrade, my sister,” Ilivy said softly. “Though sisters in the monastery refer to each other as such, we also have a custom where elders guide younger companions. Such sisters… hold a special significance.”

“She trusted me. We supported each other, faced hardships together along the way, and that’s how most of our group managed to return,” she continued, lifting her head. “But in the end… I didn’t even have the right to give her a proper funeral.”

Those who take their own lives cannot enter heaven, cannot receive mass, cannot be blessed. The rites of the Holy Light are unworthy of them, for self-slaughter itself is an act of betrayal and abandonment of faith.

“The Black Cross Church was founded by monks and nuns who returned from that war, just like that. The world refused to accept them, and they, too, considered themselves guilty. Thus, they no longer set foot on human territory, or they self-exiled, monitoring the Demon World army within the Rift from the borders, thereby ‘atoning’ for their sins,” Ilivy explained.

“Many people I know are there. Some even invited me. In truth… there was a time I really wanted to go, to become an atoner myself.”

Facing a desolate monastery, with all her old friends either dead or exiled, and the outside world filled with scorn and curses, no one could simply ignore it indefinitely, could they? Even the most resolute person would feel despair in such circumstances. Ilivy was no exception. She trained relentlessly to forget and ignore it all, but every time she picked up her sword, the faces of those people, the memories of those times, relentlessly assailed her heart.

“And it was precisely at that moment… a divine miracle descended,” Ilivy turned, looking at Anto. This was the first time Anto had felt such intense emotion emanating from her.

“The Holy Stigmata manifested… I suddenly perceived a simple phrase: ‘Protect the Holy Child.’ The Holy Light guided me to clues, leading me through countless discarded records to find you… the faint traces of the legendary Holy Child. This is a miracle,” Ilivy stated with conviction. “This… truly is a miracle. It’s the only thing… I have left to rely on.” In that moment, Anto watched the knightess, usually as resolute as iron, weep before her. Her tears were never a sign of weakness; they were a burst of emotion born from despair, a conviction, a profound obsession, sustained by an unyielding will in the face of adversity, allowing her to persevere.