Chapter 12

An Exalted Prophet

Sylas stared lifelessly at the screen asking him to make a decision that would alter the course of his life… again. He wasn’t really in a hurry, especially now that he’d figured out a way to achieve the victory… but he wondered: what if it was a one-off? What if he never got to convince the Prince again? Wouldn’t he be stuck living out the same, dreadful night over and over again? He shuddered at the thought.

No matter what, the victory was achieved—he’d moved on, and he’d been rewarded with the opportunity to move on. As such, he tenderly accepted and slacked back into the chair as the windows showed a spinning circle for a moment before spitting out just two lines:

New Save Point, ‘New Dawn’ has been initialized.

You will be returned to ‘New Dawn’ upon death.

It still seemed surreal, all of this. And yet, he had to urge his mind to accept it. It was his new reality, however insane it may seem. He continued to sit and rummage the empty thoughts; was he better off now than he was before? He didn't know. It all depended on his next performance. As he couldn't exactly continue playing the role of a 'God', what with the lack of superpowers and all, he did have his backup, and hearing the approaching footsteps, he realized it was time to begin his new performance.

Valen, exhausted not only from the battle itself but also the aftermath where he had to receive thanks from countless souls couldn’t wait to retreat into a familiar space, space reserved only for him: the library. He’d done something unthinkable, but he comforted himself in thinking that he’d done it to save so many lives. There were other ways, he lamented, but he was so taken aback that he let his grueling instinct take over rather than to think things through.

Just as he bound the last corner and stepped into the library, he came to a screeching halt as, sitting in a chair that was his sole companion for months now was a familiar figure, the very same figure that started it all: it was the God. However… now that he had calmed down, Valen realized that there really was nothing godly about the figure in front of him. In fact, he was exceptionally shabby-looking.

He wore guard's clothes, and even those were tattered and worn-out and had a thick, bushy, black beard that covered over half his face. The man's eyes hung low and slanted, as though he was in a permanent state of either confusion or constipation, and the pointy ears that barely peaked beneath the shrubbery-like hair spoke volumes on the figure’s looks.

Furthermore, the figure was on the shorter end of things, likely not even cracking six feet, not to mention that he looked woefully malnourished. Almost every fact about the figure spoke of a very downtrodden commoner and certainly not of the godly presence.

“Ah, young Prince,” the figure seemed to have just now noticed him, lazily glancing and not even showing any respect. “You have returned. It must mean that you have achieved victory."

“… ah, yes, yes,” Valen nodded. This dismissive attitude was the solitary thing that still kept Valen guessing. No commoner that he’d ever seen or heard of, even those rebellious ones, were ever this indifferent to being in the presence of Royalty. “We… we have won.”

“That is good,” the man seemed tired, suddenly, and wasted—it was as though his spirit had been ripped from him and beaten repeatedly. “Forgive my callous attitude—being a vessel weakens me.”

“H-huh? A… a vessel?” Valen mumbled in confusion.

“Ah, yes, He must have not explained it,” the figure said with a bitter smile. “It is always like this—I am left with the awkward aftermath. Alas, it is His Will. My name is Sylas, young Prince, and as you can clearly see… I am no God. I am His, though, to command—and it’s usually in the form of preaching sermons. However, from time to time, I become His vessel, a conduit through which He utters His words. That happened last night—and that is who you saw… but that was not me.”

“…” something clicked inside Valen’s head and it all made sense, at last! It was true! Everything fit! In most of the stories, God’s prophets weren’t men clad in gold and jewels, but were in the ilk of poor and unwanted as means of testing the believer’s faith! The man in front of him was exactly that—and Valen’s faith was on the verge of cracking. Good thing I kept my mouth shut… “Y-yes, of course, Mr. Sylas—”

“Please, just Sylas is fine,” the man interrupted. “Though I may be a God’s messenger, you are the representative of mankind. Myself included.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Valen was even more certain of it now—prophets are, by and large, described as humble and unwanting of any attention. “I am beyond thankful that a God’s messenger was nearby to warn us. Without you… this castle would have undoubtedly fallen.”

“It was God’s will,” Sylas mumbled, hiding a keen and sharp gaze. Isn’t this Prince super fucking naïve?! Jesus Christ… at least ask a couple of questions, man! Like, does this world not have different religions and different gods?! “Ah, forgive me, I have taken your seat.”

“No, no, please don’t get up,” Valen hurriedly raced over to the man and forced him to sit down. “Please, you are a guest of honor here. No, even more than that. As such, tell me if you need anything—anything at all! I will do my utmost to fulfill your wish!”

“Ah, if I could trouble you,” Valen clutched his fingers; there was no free meal, after all. In response to helping him save so many lives, God would likely ask for something equivalent in return. "It has been a while since I have eaten. If I could ask for a simple loaf of bread or even just a slice—anything would be fine."

“…”

“P-Prince?”

“Ah, of course! Yes! No, not just bread! I shall immediately order a feast—”

“—no, no, please—”

“Do not worry, Messenger Sylas! You will never go hungry as long as I am here!” with that sentiment, Valen ran off, leaving Sylas all kinds of confused.

He didn’t have room, didn’t have the opportunity to showcase his talents at all, he lamented. The Prince was so naïve that even the half-baked, barely-explained, utterly-out-of-nowhere story of him being a Prophet was readily accepted. In fact, from the look on the Prince’s face, it seemed as though Sylas being a Prophet fit so well with whatever story the Prince concocted inside his head that he’d immediately stopped asking any follow-up questions.

Sylas sighed, slumping back into the chair yet again, appearing defeated despite achieving a victory. For all intents and purposes, he now had absolute control over the Prince. All he had to do was waste a single run to squeeze as much information out of the Prince as possible, then do a restart and put on a show of him ‘channeling a God’ and spew a heap of information back at the Prince for some neat confirmation bias and bam… he could ask the young man to do whatever he wanted.

That there, however, begged the question: what did he want? For the first time since coming to this word, Sylas dared ask himself that question. What exactly did he want? He didn’t get a new quest, not just yet anyway. For the time being, he was left to his own devices… and he didn’t like it. He had no plan, had no wants, had no desires. Almost like the system heard him, a window appeared just then in front of him, giving him out a quest that he oh-so-desperately wanted.

You have received a MAIN quest: ‘Crown on the Throne’

Your task: help Sixth Prince Valen gather support and forces and assure he becomes the King

Reward: you will receive one of the eleven legendary swords lost to time, ‘the Harvester’

Note: this is an overarching quest and will encompass many sub-quests.

Sylas, once again, stared blankly at the window, wondering what devil possessed him to ask for a new quest. Though he felt bored and clueless indeed, that did not mean he was suicidal. From what little information he gathered, the Prince was not a liked man, not among the commoners and especially not among the rest. In fact, siding with him really was akin to committing suicide. What's more, the two were stuck in the middle of nowhere, miles upon miles away from any form of civilization. While that afforded them the security, it also meant that any plan he could concoct would go nowhere fast all the way out here.

Despite so many drawbacks, however, he didn’t immediately shut his eyes in neglect. It was a direction—almost like a sandbox game where the end goal was to ‘become a King of the land’, but the player could go about achieving that goal however they wished. Sure, at the start, it seemed unfeasible to do something so grand, but bit by bit, gnawing away at the edges, the goal becomes closer and closer.

In fact, compared to yesterday, this goal today seemed far more doable. The Prince had effectively won over Ethwar Castle and all the men and women in it. Though it wasn’t much, not nearly enough to even call it a force, it was a beginning.

A few minutes later, Valen appeared once again, this time short of breath and sweating. He swiftly informed Sylas that the feast was being prepared and that it should be ready in half an hour if he could wait.

“Nevermind that,” Sylas said, sighing. His quest wouldn’t matter whatsoever if the main character of it refused to participate. As such, Sylas first had to confirm whether the Prince even wanted to chase after the throne and then figure out how to convince him if he didn’t. “The God’s spoken to me again, young Prince,” Valen’s countenance immediately shifted to that of respectful youth. “He has another mission for both you and I.”

“For… both of us?” Valen swallowed a mouthful, realizing that whatever it was… it was big.

"Yes," Sylas nodded. "He'd tasked me with making you a King, my Prince, and all that entails."