Dawn in Solencia brought a curious hush to the palace courtyard, broken only by the soft flutter of hundreds of newly affixed notices. Itsuki Hiroto, still bound by his oath and sporting the ever‑glowing Glove of Destiny, stirred in his private quarters to find his door plastered with parchment leaflets, each bearing his likeness in crude woodcut style and the bold title:
> "THE TRUE PATH OF SILENCE: Teachings of Captain Hiroto, Divine Variable"
He pulled on a robe and peered at the first page:
> "When the world shouts chaos, answer only with stillness."
"To faint is not to flee, but to commune with destiny."
"He who bites his tongue tastes wisdom."
Hiroto blinked. I never said any of this. He flicked to the back:
> "Join the First Church of Silent Resolve. Meetings nightly in Glintveil Chapel."
He rubbed his eyes. Glintveil? I thought they stopped worshipping dragon‑slayers years ago.
Before he could investigate further, Lady Virelya Arkwright entered, sword‑belt clinking, expression unreadable. "Morning, Hiroto. Word travels fast—people are calling you a living saint. The streets are filled with shrines to you. Some monks have already written a liturgy."
Hiroto groaned. "Did they quote me correctly at least?"
She handed him a pamphlet. Its cover depicted a stylized crate—his favorite hiding spot—in radiant beams. Inside, a chapter titled "The Sermon of the Accidental Punch" included lines such as:
> "And lo, the Silent Hand rose from its slumber and flicked the wyrm's snout as one might swat a bothersome fly."
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's… poetic license?"
"More like complete fabrication," Virelya said, folding her arms. "It's the First Church of Silent Resolve—founded yesterday by Father Mallius of the Midnight Chapel. He's already preaching three services daily."
At that moment, Sera burst in, trailing a string of incense. "Captain! We have a shrine in the east wing. They've constructed an altar made of crates and cabbage leaves. People are lighting candles and chanting your catchphrases!"
Hiroto backed away. "I can't even remember all my catchphrases!"
Virelya steered him toward a balcony overlooking the city. Down below, clusters of citizens knelt before a hastily erected statue of him—crude, wooden, helmetless, and glaring perpetually in confusion. Mummers chanted in unison:
> "Great Clerk of Fate, in silence we wait!"
"Bless our nap, O Quiet One!"
A baker lit a candle beside a loaf labelled "Hero's Rest Bread: Guaranteed to Knock You Out."
Hiroto shut his eyes. This is too much.
---
Determined to stem the tide, he convened a small meeting in his chambers. Virelya, Sera, and Magister Lisette Falnore gathered around a low table.
"I want to disband this church," Hiroto said firmly, pushing the pamphlet aside. "It's distracting, it's inaccurate, and it's turning me into the world's most exhausted man."
Lisette adjusted her spectacles. "A public declaration could help. Denounce the church, disavow their teachings, and remind them you're just a clerk."
"And then they'll rename this palace 'Hiroto's Rejection Hall,'" Sera pointed out. "You might inadvertently create another shrine."
Virelya tapped her chin. "Sometimes you have to give the people what they want—to a point. Offer a simple sermon: 'I am but a humble servant…' then mention—very clearly—that any church or temple in my name is heretical."
Hiroto sighed. "Fine. I'll speak at the Cathedral tonight."
---
That evening, in the Cathedral of Radiant Dawn, hundreds assembled under lofty arches. Candles flickered as the choir sang "Ode to Quiet Resolve," a tune so mournful its melody could drown out a war horn. Cardinal Elgar presided, eyes alight with fanatical glee.
Hiroto stepped onto the pulpit, heart pounding. He cleared his throat. "People of Solencia," he began, voice echoing against stone, "I am not a prophet. I am not a saint. I am a clerk—"
A murmur rose.
"—who has tripped, stumbled, and fallen his way into… well, too much," he continued. "If you seek guidance, look to your own hearts. Do not build temples to my clumsiness. Do not etch my words in stone as scripture—because I change my mind every day."
The crowd shifted. Some frowned, others whispered.
"And if that isn't enough," he pressed on, "I hereby revoke any and all permission for anyone to sing, dance, or build cabbage‑leaf altars in my honor. From this night forward, let my silence speak louder than any choir."
He raised a hand to signal the end. The hush was absolute. Even the choir's final note wilted.
Then, a single voice rang out: "Blessed be the Silent One!"
The room erupted into applause, chanting, and candlelight's warm glow.
Virelya nudged him. "It's hopeless."
Sera grinned wildly. "You just gave them a new slogan."
Hiroto collapsed onto a pew. "I surrender."
---
Meanwhile, far to the north in the Demon King's Citadel, King Gerald peered down from his obsidian balcony as ravens brought unsettling news. A courier knelt before him, trembling.
"Your Majesty," the messenger stammered, "reports from the surface—there is a new cult of mortals worshipping a human named Hiroto. They call him the Divine Variable, the Silent Savior. They chant his words as scripture."
Gerald's eyes narrowed. He leaned on his rune‑etched staff, enchanted flames flickering at its tip. "Hiroto," he murmured, lips curling. "The mortal who punctured the sky‑wyrm with a flick… now a prophet among fools."
The messenger swallowed. "They've built shrines, declared him divine…"
Gerald let out a low chuckle. "Fascinating." He turned to his advisor, a skeletal demon in scholar's robes. "Prepare the couriers. Send word: every demon general must investigate this 'Silent Savior.' If he truly unseals ancient powers, we shall act accordingly. If not—well, we could use a distraction."
The skeletal advisor bowed. "At once, Your Majesty."
Gerald gazed into the moonlit distance. "Let the world fawn over their 'divine variable.' When the gates crack, they will learn whether he is savior… or harbinger."
---
Back in Solencia, under the cathedral's flickering torches, Hiroto slumped in Virelya's protective embrace. Sera offered him a battered pillow. He closed his eyes, thinking:
I didn't ask for this. I don't want it. But if they worship me, and if demons are watching… perhaps I can channel it for peace.
He opened his eyes, gazing at the throng. Let them build shrines. Let them chant my nonsense. As long as it keeps the world from shattering.
And as the chants of the First Church of Silent Resolve echoed into the night, Itsuki Hiroto—accidental cleric, reluctant prophet, and sworn guardian of ancient seals—prepared for the next storm: the gathering of demons, the unsealing tremors in Varn, and the ultimate test of whether silence could save the world.