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He was a priest who came to Rondon on a pilgrimage, temporarily residing in Rondon’s largest church, praying with fellow believers. When the news spread that he had obtained the key to Rondon’s Grand Library, D’arce learned of his existence. “What is his name?” Even though they were in the same church, D’arce had not noticed him. His presence was too dim, like a shadow that could not be detected unless one deliberately paid attention. By then, he had already gone to the Grand Library, and D’arce was in no hurry to meet him—after all, there would always be an opportunity, wouldn’t there? After a simple lunch in the dining hall, D’arce headed to the library closest to the church and casually picked out a few books. Most were religious history texts. As D’arce recited poems praising God, she recalled the past. She had once applied for permission to enter the Grand Library, back before she left the Royal Guard. Encouraged by her companions, they applied together, and as expected, they were rejected. Though it wasn’t a deep grudge, there was still a slight unwillingness. “Was her dedication and loyalty insufficient to enter that paradise of the wise?” After her break ended, D’arce returned to the church to carry out her duties. The priest hadn’t returned for days and nights, and when she saw him again, he came back with a thick stack of draft papers. His dark circles were deeper than before, and his skin was even paler and more frightening. After a brief exchange with the father, he retreated to his dormitory and didn’t come out again. The nuns brought meals, but he refused to open the door, and most of the food was simply taken back by those who delivered it. Whenever D’arce passed his room, she could smell the smoke seeping through the cracks—she disliked that scent. Sometimes she considered knocking on his door to make him stop that excessive tobacco use. Most of the time, she pretended nothing was wrong, passed by his door, and continued with her prayers, chores, and daily life as usual. D’arce originally thought such days would last a long time—until he had devoured all the knowledge in that Grand Library, until they formally met. One day, D’arce noticed he hadn’t gone out for a while, and the smoke smell from the room had gradually faded. In the end, she knocked on the door. It wasn’t locked, and only then did she realize the priest had left some time ago. The basic room was empty, with nothing left but a light layer of dust. The scent faded with time and the wind blowing through the open curtains. Those books he had intended to borrow might not wait for D’arce to return and fulfill the promise. She changed out of her clerical robes, donned her knight’s attire once more, and left her country without looking back.
She traveled on foot without a horse, camping in the wilderness and staying in churches when she reached towns. In the dead of night, by candlelight, D’arce wrote down the landscapes she encountered along the way and the various people she met. There were essays and poems, carrying the distinctive writing style of Rondon people—somewhat chaotic, disordered, yet pure. Before setting out the next day, D’arce entrusted some of her works to the church staff. “Is this really okay?” The clergy confirmed with D’arce again, and with a reassuring attitude, she said, “It’s fine. When you see him at first glance, you’ll know it’s the right person without a doubt.” D’arce lay on the soft grass at night, no longer as a knight or a cleric; in her free time, frequent reflection became a habit. Why wander everywhere? At first, it was because of a stranger she knew nothing about. But being in the quiet wilderness, gazing at the night sky that was rarely visible in the city, wasn’t bad either… D’arce knew what she would write next. As time passed, her silver coins gradually ran out, and she spent more time wielding a spear as a mercenary than writing. Perhaps due to her long periods of creation, D’arce had become an excellent listener, actively hearing the stories spilling from the mouths of fellow mercenaries, women, and children—sometimes about family trivialities, sometimes about national myths and legends. Some became inspiration for her creations, others experience for conversing with people. D’arce didn’t notice the passage of time; she just kept walking, leaving stories in the corners of the world. After one mercenary assignment ended, D’arce encountered an old acquaintance from her hometown in a tavern. He teased, “You’ve changed—is it because of that priest or the people along the way?” D’arce didn’t answer the question; she believed she had never changed. The man continued, “You left the country and traveled on foot for years to chase him—do you like him?” D’arce set down her beer. “No! No! What are you thinking?!” Her tone was a bit too strong—perhaps she was drunk. “More importantly, it’s the experiences along the way—not to mention liking him!” This scared the other person into silence. Fortunately, at that moment, a bard burst into the tavern, ready to scrounge tips from the guests with stories. No one paid attention to what had just happened, immersed in alcohol and tales. D’arce pondered; it wasn’t just the name. Through the tavern window, she gazed at the scenery outside.
“His voice, his appearance…” From the beginning, D’arce hadn’t known. Lost in thought, she murmured, “I like the version of myself while chasing him.” A year later, a plague, war, and death erupted in the powerful country of Rondon. When D’arce heard the news and returned to Rondon, the residents’ corpses were piled up in the streets, while the wealthy hid in their golden “cradles.” Though D’arce had long retired, her heart ached for the people, and she couldn’t abandon her country. Having already severed ties with her noble parents, she could only complete several smaller tasks to gain more opportunities to participate in command work. In her own name, she gathered talent to form an army for better management. Those hands “bestowed” by the goddess Sylvia, originally meant to spread divine blessings, once again took up weapons; her plate armor was stained with the blood of friends and enemies. Those foolish, infighting nobles with dirty secrets saw D’arce as a thorn in their side, but fortunately, during this time, supportive nobles lent her aid, sparing her unnecessary troubles so she could devote herself fully to the recovery efforts each day. She wouldn’t stop until the country ceased its decline. From the long war’s end to the unrelenting civilian casualties, D’arce was always rushing down different paths. Five years, ten years, twenty years—until D’arce forgot the people she met on her journeys, the landscapes she saw, the roads she walked. Those unfinished poems flew from D’arce’s hands to distant places. When everything ended, what D’arce could do at the end… D’arce felt a bit dazed. “Is everything really over?” A young noble who supported her gently took her hand, no longer fair and beautiful. “Yes, everything is over.” D’arce leaned on the windowsill, looking at the streets beginning to recover. The young noble continued, “We all thank you for your guidance and strategies all this time.” D’arce closed her eyes; the smell of blood seemed to linger. The noble went on self-absorbedly. “The church is preparing to grant you a title, and the kingdom is discussing restoring your noble status…”
In the past, these things would have made D’arce happy for a while, but to her now, they were no longer so important. Before the noble could continue, D’arce finally spoke: “Open it for me once more—the Rondon Grand Library.” The noble said no more. Two guards respectfully opened the doors of the Grand Library for D’arce. She casually passed through the massive bookshelves, lightly tracing the spines of a few books. Though some volumes were somewhat outdated due to the country’s long stagnation, they still held extraordinary value. She pulled out a thick history book recounting Rondon’s heroes and stood by the shelf, reading it for an entire day; no one could disturb her during that time. As night approached, D’arce finally put the finished book back on the shelf and let out a breath. A man nearby saw this and slowly approached her. A servant behind him offered a cup of red tea that had been waiting for this moment, but D’arce gestured that she didn’t need it for now. The man bowed humbly, showing an eager expression to claim credit: “Lady D’arce—we heard that in the past, you traveled far in search of a priest. As it happens, he once came here—” D’arce knew what he was about to say. She turned away. “No… please don’t tell me. It shouldn’t be in this form that I learn his name. I’ve completely forgotten everything about him, even his shadow…”
D’arce returned to her residence, but her hand gripping the quill couldn’t write a single word. There was a knock at the door; with permission, the servant brought in hot red tea and pastries as usual. Along with them was a letter addressed to D’arce, containing old, yellowed paper. It was sent by a priest she had once entrusted with delivering letters; he had passed away. He didn’t want D’arce’s letters to be carelessly discarded by unaware people, so returning this undelivered letter was one of his final wishes. The servant was dismissed, and D’arce gently opened the fragile, folded letter. Those immature words depicted a certain achievement where D’arce conquered the unknown and the joy of saving others. D’arce decided to leave; she would depart her country once more, clad in plate armor and spear in hand. As she was about to go, that man appeared again: “We investigated En… that priest. His birthplace is the Vatican.” D’arce paused, turned back to thank the man, and then walked away without looking back. “The Vatican…” Crossing the stone-paved road, a gust of wind rustled the map in D’arce’s hand. Such a title might feel heavy, but D’arce still blurted it out: “My beloved comes from the Vatican.”