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The Honorary Cardinal Lee Kiyoung.
A man known by unforgettable titles—Son of Light, Son of Benigore—a mortal of whom only the finest qualities were spoken of. A being revered for his holiness and mercy, mercy so unyielding it rivaled a warrior's blade. He stood as a beacon, guiding those trapped in their mortal frailties to a path of spiritual and purity.
Once the Vice Master of the Guild, later the Archbishop of the Church of Light, and husband to a legendary dragon—above all, he was human: a friend, a lover, and a brother.
Under the sacred wings that bound him to the merciful goddess Benigore, he held a corrupt and malevolent continent, bringing light to selfish mortals with a compassionate smile as radiant as their sun. He was their sun.
He was.
---
The sun shone brightly, its piercing rays reflecting in his eyes—one gleaming with the pure gold of divine light. Standing in the shadows of the temple, his gaze was locked on a statue at the end of the sacred hall. The figure bore none of the beauty or purity of the man who had once turned his back to the swordsman with unshakable trust.
That had been his first mistake. The swordsman had felt disgusted by his audacity to think so lowly of his brother—his savior and the dawn of his days. Lee Kiyoung had trusted in the purity he believed Hyunsung once possessed. Even after Hyunsung stumbled into chains of hatred and bitterness toward the world, Lee Kiyoung had been the first to grab his wrist and pull him from the shroud of self-loathing.
He trusted Hyunsung with his life, believing in the goodness within him. And that belief cost him his life.
The statue stood as an enduring testament to the absence of such goodness. It was not divine judgment nor heavenly laws that had driven the blade into Lee Kiyoung's stomach. It was the sword that once bore the mark of their shared adventures, now stained with his blood. No matter how much Hyunsung wiped the blade, it would never gleam as it once did.
Now, all the blade reflected were lifeless eyes and a trembling smile.
The bond they shared, immortalized in a part of their very beings, was shattered. The eye that had once gleamed with the brilliance of sunlight and the purity of gold—an eye that had lit up with joy and warmed his heart when they met—was destroyed by Hyunsung's own hands.
---
There was a memory Hyunsung kept buried, a moment between them that no one else was allowed to know.
It was a night under the moonlight, its silver glow bathing him as he moved, every part of his body flowing in harmony with the rusted blade in his grip.
He moved, the cool air brushing against his sweat-slicked skin. He danced with the sword, a part of him he could never forget, its weight forever a reminder of what it had made him and how it set him apart. It was the only thing that eased his tense shoulders as he sliced through the air, releasing the heavy breath trapped in his lungs—a reprieve from the days spent cutting down foes and former comrades alike.
“Can’t sleep?” The voice behind him was soft, gentle, almost a whisper caressing his ears. Yet it felt like sin, as if turning to face it would lead only to the end of his road.
“You’ll tire yourself if you cont—”
He swung his sword toward the voice, freezing when he saw wide, startled brown eyes staring back at him. His breath caught in his throat as the blade nicked the pale, delicate skin of the Vice Master.
Hyunsung gasped, throwing the sword aside as quickly as he could. His hands trembled, caught between the urge to flee or fall to his knees in apology. "I... I’m sorry! Kiyoung-ssi, I’m so sorry! You startled me and—!"
Lee Kiyoung smiled gently, waving a hand to calm Hyunsung’s fears. His other hand pressed against the bleeding scratch on his neck, as though to stop the blood.
No.
He wasn’t trying to stop the blood—it was a facade. Kiyoung wanted to hide the injury to avoid scaring Hyunsung further. That was the kind of person Kiyoung was. No matter how hurt he was, he’d look into the eyes of the person before him, not thinking of himself, offering a gaze that was warm and comforting, speaking words that could soothe any soul—pure or tainted.
“It’s alright, Hyunsung-ssi. It was my fault.”
But to Hyunsung, it wasn’t alright. It felt like he was violating Kiyoung in some way. He had hurt him, again and again. No matter how much Kiyoung bled or broke under the weight Hyunsung had placed on him, Kiyoung would still meet his eyes, smile, and forgive him. And Hyunsung had exploited that mercy without guilt.
“I... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I swear... I didn’t...”
No matter how many times he apologized, the fact remained—he had hurt Kiyoung.
Kiyoung remained silent, waiting for Hyunsung’s words. His calm eyes showed no concern for the wound on his neck; instead, they focused entirely on Hyunsung.
“Let’s sit... I’ll treat your w-wound,” Hyunsung mumbled hesitantly, unsure if he even had the right to touch Kiyoung. His hands hovered awkwardly around him.
“No need. I can heal myself with a potion. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about som—”
“No, no! I should—”
Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps interrupted them, pounding against the ground with a force that seemed almost capable of breaking it. The harsh thuds were accompanied by loud sobbing and frantic mutterings.
“Ah... ahh... ahh!! Oppa! Oppa! W-who dared? W-who h-hurt m-my... oppa?!”
It was Ha-yan. Her wild eyes darted around the room, tears streaming down her flushed, oversized eyes. Her trembling lips, pressed tightly together.
When her gaze landed on Kiyoung, his smile faltered for a moment before widening even further.
As if driven purely by instinct, Ha-yan ran to Kiyoung, throwing herself into a tight embrace. He held his smile as he stroked her hair, letting her muttered curses and sobbed threats spill out muffled against his chest.
Hyunsung stood awkwardly to the side, clenching his hands into tight fists, his nails digging into his palms. Yet no matter how deep they pressed, they didn’t hurt—not like the pain he had caused Kiyoung.
Kiyoung looked at him silently, his eyes speaking louder than words ever could.
Hyunsung didn’t even realize his feet were moving away until he was already gone. He couldn’t breathe.
---
There were moments when Hyunsung wondered about the kind of person Lee Kiyoung had been—before everything. Before the weight of the continent, the gods, and the world's system pressed upon him. Before the Blue Guild, and before Hyunsung himself.
He couldn't recall much of Kiyoung before they left the tutorial. Back then, he had been singularly focused on achieving some semblance of self-satisfaction through saving the innocent, deluding himself into thinking he had accomplished something meaningful—something that had changed him. He wasn’t the same person who once hid and surrendered under the crushing weight of his burdens.
Kiyoung had been one of the few who stood by his side. A person who trusted him before Hyunsung could trust his own mind or even himself. Kiyoung walked ahead, and Hyunsung followed—exposing his neck either to the executioner's blade or to the warm embrace of kind words, because Kiyoung was always there. He had accepted him, flaws and all, whether as a sinner or an enhanced being unworthy of redemption.
What had Kiyoung’s life been like before he was bound to a fate of endless torment? What had his life been like on Earth, where he wasn’t forced to sacrifice and suffer until his memories eroded?
What would his life have been like without Hyunsung?
---
The statue looked nothing like Kiyoung. It was a flawed image, a false representation of who Lee Kiyoung had been. Those grand wings lacked the sanctity that had once embraced his fragile, shattered brother, whose soul had been on the verge of disappearing.
The eyes, always open and watchful, were missing. The very eye that had formed their spiritual bond, the eye through which they had fought side by side against their enemies. The connection that had allowed Hyunsung to unleash his chains and fight with unrestrained power.
All of it had been Kiyoung's doing. Kiyoung, who illuminated him with everything he had.
And Hyunsung had taken everything from him, leaving nothing behind but a corpse.
Hyunsung stared at the statue, his steps unsteady as the weight on his chest and shoulders crushed him. Yet that weight was all he could carry. How had Kiyoung borne it all?
“Tell me… Kiyoung,” he whispered, his voice cracking.
“How… how do I bear your burden?”
His trembling hands reached out, brushing against the cold stone of the statue. It would never feel warm, not like Kiyoung had.
“Hic... ahh... Kiyoung... Kiyoung... I can’t... not without you...”
“I won’t be selfish again... I won’t let anyone... hic... anyone hurt you… ever again.”
“Kiyoung…”
“...”
“Tell me what I should do.”