Silence pooled in the dim office, thick and breathless.

Orthran sat perfectly still, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His eyes stayed fixed on Charlotte and Noel—two young people who now carried a truth heavier than anything he had borne in decades of service.

And then his voice broke the quiet.

"If not the truth we knew," he whispered, each word trembling, "then what? What should the faithful believe now?"

Charlotte inhaled softly.

Noel felt her hands tighten on her lap beneath the table, and he discreetly brushed his fingers against hers in reassurance.

Orthran leaned forward, eyes searching—pleading.

"You say we cannot reveal the whole truth. That we cannot continue the lie," he murmured. "So tell me… what survives? What do I tell the elders, the priests, the children who pray every night? How do I lead people who suddenly have no ground beneath them?"

His voice cracked on the last word.

Charlotte swallowed, her heart squeezing painfully. She had never seen her grandfather look small. But now, sitting in the half-light of the lantern, he looked like a man standing before an abyss.

She forced her voice steady.

"Grandpa… I'll explain everything. Everything I've been thinking. But you need to know something first."

Orthran waited, breath tense.

Charlotte continued, soft but unwavering:

"The truth we learned… is too big. If we shared it with the world as it is, it would crush them. People would lose hope. Faith would collapse. And despair would spread faster than corruption ever did."

Noel nodded silently beside her.

Orthran's shoulders sagged, grief deepening the lines on his face.

"Then tell me," he whispered. "How do we save their hope when the foundation has been a lie?"

Charlotte's expression softened—kind, resolute.

"Not everything was a lie," she said. "And what was true… that's what we keep."

Orthran looked up sharply.

"What do you mean?"

Charlotte folded her hands on the table, leaning in slightly.

"We can't preserve the entire doctrine," she admitted. "But we can preserve the part that matters. The part that inspired people. The part that helped them live better lives. The part that was real even after history twisted it."

Noel watched them quietly, tension slowly coiling in his chest.

This wasn't just telling truth anymore.

This was reshaping the faith of an entire continent.

Charlotte took one more breath, gathering courage.

"I'll explain my idea," she said gently. "How to rebuild the doctrine so it protects the faithful instead of destroying them."

Orthran closed his eyes for a brief moment—then nodded.

"Then speak, child," he murmured. "I am listening."

"First… we keep every part of the story that was true. The parts that people love. The parts that gave them hope."

She lifted one finger.

"Elarin was good."

Another.

"He helped humanity when it was struggling."

Another.

"He brought mana into the world and taught people how to use it safely."

And another.

"He protected the world more times than history even remembers."

Orthran's throat tightened, but he stayed silent.

Charlotte's tone shifted—gentler, but firmer.

"But we remove everything that can break people."

She looked directly at him.

"We do not say he went mad."

"We do not say he was sealed."

"We do not say he was betrayed or stopped by another god."

"And we absolutely do not mention a divine collapse."

Orthran's breath caught.

Noel felt the shift too—the rising fear in the old man's eyes.

Charlotte pressed on, calm and steady.

"Instead," she said, "we give them the truth they can live with."

Orthran whispered, "And what truth is that?"

Charlotte took a breath.

"…Is it about Noctis," she murmured quietly.

Noel felt a faint shiver—Orthran had spoken the name with reverence and dread, as if invoking a forbidden chapter of scripture.

Orthran leaned back, exhaling shakily.

"I always suspected history erased more than it revealed," he said. "Noctis… his existence was whispered only once in the deepest records. A brother… a protector in the shadows. But nothing more. No details. Only fragments."

Charlotte's gaze softened.

"Then now we give the world the truth they can accept."

Orthran swallowed, listening with rigid attention.

Charlotte continued:

"The final battle people speak of—the one where Elarin supposedly died fighting 'something evil'—wasn't what they think."

Charlotte continued gently:

"We don't tell people Elarin lost control. Or that his power pushed him beyond sanity."

Her voice softened further.

"Because the world never knew any of that. To them… Elarin simply vanished."

Orthran's breath caught, a deep, shaken exhale.

Charlotte leaned slightly closer, speaking with careful clarity:

"So instead of saying he 'fell' or 'broke,' we frame the truth in a way the people can accept. We say that his body couldn't withstand the amount of mana he carried. That his divinity reached a limit no being should cross."

Orthran nodded slowly—understanding now, not agreeing yet.

"…An overload," he murmured. "A strain he bore alone… until his body could no longer contain it."

Charlotte nodded.

"Yes. A collapse born from too much power, too much responsibility.

Just… the consequence of trying to save too many."

Orthran's face tightened, grief lining his expression.

"And because the world only knows that he disappeared," Charlotte continued, "our doctrine simply fills in the missing piece: that in the moment of his disappearance, he chose to protect the world one final time."

Orthran's breathing was still uneven, his fingers trembling faintly against the wooden table. The candlelight flickered across his face, revealing a mixture of sorrow, dawning understanding… and something like fear.

Charlotte watched him quietly for a moment.

Then she took another breath — deeper, steadier.

"There is one more change I want to make," she said softly.

Noel's head turned toward her.

Orthran lifted his eyes.

Charlotte continued:

"If we only retell Elarin's final moments, we aren't fixing the doctrine. We're just patching it."

Her voice grew firmer.

"I want to reshape the entire foundation. And to do that… we need to bring Noctis into the story."

Orthran froze.

Noel felt his heart tighten.

Charlotte kept going, her tone unwavering:

"The world believes Elarin walked alone. That every miracle, every act of protection, every discovery was done with solitary divine brilliance."

She shook her head quietly.

"That was never true."

Orthran's lips parted. He didn't interrupt.

Charlotte placed a hand gently over her own heart.

"From the moment Elarin discovered mana… Noctis was there."

Her voice grew a little stronger.

"When Elarin learned to shape it, Noctis learned beside him."

"When Elarin helped the first person in the world — no matter their race — Noctis was the one who encouraged him."

"When Elarin healed the wounded, Noctis carried them to him."

"When Elarin battled terrors born of early mana storms… Noctis stood at his back."

Orthran swallowed hard, the truth quietly shaking him.

Charlotte looked determined now — blazing with conviction.

"Elarin was brilliant. Elarin was extraordinary. But he was never alone. His legend is incomplete without the one who walked beside him from the beginning."

Noel felt the warmth of pride rise in his chest — Charlotte wasn't just editing doctrine.

She was rebuilding an entire faith.

"And I want people to know that," she said. "I want them to know that their god's strength wasn't solitary. That the miracles they cherish didn't come from a single perfect being… but from two brothers who believed in the world together."

Orthran slowly lowered his hands from his face.

"…You want to make Noctis a central figure," he whispered, voice hoarse. "A co-founder of our belief. A god of quiet strength… the hidden protector."

Charlotte nodded. "Yes. Because he was."

"But if we do this," Orthran said shakily, "we rewrite centuries. Every scripture. Every hymn. Every prayer taught to children…"

Charlotte met his gaze with calm determination.

"Grandpa… the world needs a faith built on truth, not perfection.

A faith that teaches that even gods needed someone beside them."

Charlotte finished, voice gentle but unshakably firm:

"Elarin did not build the world alone. And neither should the people who follow him. Let the faithful learn that partnership, compassion, and shared strength were the foundation of everything from the beginning."

Orthran remained quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the flickering candle as the implications of everything Charlotte had said swirled through his mind like a storm.

Then, very slowly, he lifted his eyes.

"And if the people ask," he murmured, voice fragile but steady, "where this brother is now…? What happened to him? Why he did not step into the light after Elarin vanished?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and inevitable.

Charlotte didn't hesitate.

"Noctis saved the world," she said softly. "He saved his brother… and he saved all of us."

Orthran's breath shivered.

Charlotte continued with careful precision:

"We tell them that when Elarin faced the final calamity, Noctis stood at his side. And when the moment came… Noctis carried out the final act that preserved the world."

Her eyes dimmed with tenderness — for the truth, and for the lie wrapped around it.

"It's not false," she whispered. "He did save him. Even if the world will never know the full meaning."

Orthran closed his eyes for a moment, absorbing both the truth and its safer version.

Then:

"So we say," he murmured, "that the two brothers protected the world together… but in those last moments, Noctis was the one who acted?"

"That's right," Noel said before Charlotte could answer.

Both turned toward him.

Noel leaned forward, his voice calm, grounded, deliberate.

"Think of it like this: Elarin and Noctis are both protagonists of this story. Both shaped the world. Both brought hope. Both saved lives."

He paused.

"But if we highlight Noctis's final act… if we make him the one who ensured the world survived when Elarin's burden became too great… then he becomes the cornerstone of the new doctrine."

Orthran breathed out slowly.

"…And it allows us to protect Elarin's legacy without lying."

Noel nodded.

"It's a half-truth," he admitted openly. "But a half-truth is better than a life built on complete misunderstanding."

He looked down at his own hands for a moment.

"Only a few people in this world know what really happened. You, Charlotte, me… and a handful of others."

His voice softened, the weight of responsibility palpable.

"And we'll have to live with that."

Orthran's expression tightened — but he nodded.

Noel continued:

"But one day… maybe not far from now… we might be able to tell the full truth. The real truth. When the world is ready."

Charlotte turned her head toward him, golden eyes widening slightly — because she understood immediately.

Noel wasn't talking about doctrine.

He wasn't talking about faith or scriptures.

He meant:

"When we've defeated the Second Pillar."

"When we've defeated the First."

"When the world isn't on the edge anymore."

Charlotte's voice softened with that understanding.

"Yes," she whispered. "One day. When the danger has passed… when the world can handle it."

Orthran looked between the two of them — shocked, fearful, but also filled with a fragile, emerging hope.

"…Then let us build a doctrine that can hold until that day arrives."

Orthran rubbed his forehead with a trembling hand, as if centuries of doctrine weighed directly on his skull. The candle between them had burned halfway down, wax dripping like slow tears.

When he finally spoke, his voice was stripped bare.

"This… will not be easy."

Charlotte and Noel exchanged a quick look — not of surprise, but acknowledgment. They knew.

Orthran continued, staring at the wood grain of the table as though reading the future there.

"I am the High Pope," he murmured. "And Charlotte… you are the Saint of this generation. Our influence is greater than any cleric or crown."

He lifted his eyes toward them — tired, wise, painfully aware.

"But even with our positions… even if every Cardinal bowed to this new doctrine without question… there are not hundreds of believers."

His voice dropped to a whisper.

"There are not thousands."

A pause.

"There are millions."

The word hung in the air like a falling stone.

Noel felt Charlotte go still beside him.

Orthran leaned forward, hands clasped tightly.

"Millions of faithful. Millions who have lived their entire lives believing one story — a story older than empires. A story their parents believed, and their parents before them. Changing the doctrine is not merely political."

His breath trembled.

"It is invasive. It cuts into the soul. Many will resist. Some will reject us. And if this is done poorly… the entire Holy Church could collapse."

Charlotte swallowed softly, but her resolve didn't falter.

"We can't let that happen," she whispered.

"And we won't," Orthran said, though uncertainty cracked through his tone. "But we need a plan. We must decide which cities hear it first. Which sermons change quietly. Which hymns are rewritten before the announcement. Who can be trusted to spread this new foundation… and who must be watched."

He exhaled sharply — a man preparing for war.

"And above all… we must act quickly."

Noel's heartbeat slowed, then sharpened.

Quickly.

Suddenly he felt the cold, metallic whisper brush the edge of his consciousness:

[ Mission ]

Do not let the Holy Church fall into despair.

Time remaining: 20 days.

Noel didn't flinch, but the numbers branded themselves into his thoughts like a countdown to disaster.

Twenty days.

Twenty days to restructure a religion.

Twenty days to reshape the spiritual foundation of millions.

Twenty days to prevent chaos, revolt, or collapse.

And Orthran didn't know. He couldn't know. No one could know except Noel… and the women who trusted him with their lives.

Noel inhaled slowly, masking the pressure curling beneath his ribs.

"We'll make a plan," he said calmly, though the weight inside him tripled. "And we'll follow it step by step. Nothing rushed. Nothing reckless."

Orthran nodded, relieved by Noel's steady tone.

Charlotte's hand brushed lightly against Noel's beneath the table — a quiet, knowing touch, the kind only she could give him.

But then she inhaled…

and straightened her posture.

"I think," she said softly, "I'll have to return to my position as Saint a little earlier than planned."

Noel blinked. He had just said: "Nothing rushed or reckless."

Charlotte smiled sheepishly.

"Noel… I want to stay at the academy longer too. I love it there. But…" She placed a hand over her heart. "…I also have a duty to the world. And I think it's time."

Noel opened his mouth — but Charlotte raised a finger.

"And don't think this means I'm leaving you," she added with a tiny pout. "Absolutely not. You'll have to make time to visit me." She paused… then brightened. "Or actually… maybe I could come to an agreement with Grandpa to live in the city of Valon. That way you'd have me right next to you."

Noel stared.

Speechless.

He wasn't used to any of his girlfriends making decisions like that so casually — and yet, he trusted them more than anything.

"…Are you sure?" he asked quietly.

Charlotte nodded, golden eyes firm.

"Of course."

Noel exhaled, a soft smile forming.

"This increases our chances. A lot."

Orthran, who had remained silent out of respect, finally spoke — eyes gentle, voice heavy with concern.

"Charlotte… are you certain about this? We can find another path. You still have time to enjoy your youth before—"

"Grandpa," Charlotte interrupted with a warm smile, "when I officially return to my role as Saint, I'll make some changes."

Orthran blinked.

Charlotte tilted her head, teasing.

"The rules the Saint has to follow are a little outdated, don't you think? I suppose someone will have to fix them."

Orthran stared at her for half a second…

And then he laughed — a soft, tired, genuinely proud laugh.

"Perhaps you're right," he said. "It seems our generation is the one that's outdated."

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