SALP Chapter 1

The gates of paradise open in the coldest season. Words left by Jibril, the great prophet of Oden.

Though a prophet's words, they were likely not prophecy. Comfort offered to the people enduring that cold and starving season. Like the many poems and songs he'd left behind in life.

A peculiar prophet who'd prized romance and such. A man utterly unlike the practical-minded Penmarkians. Yet he'd received such excessive respect from the common people that he'd enjoyed the glory of being granted the title—

Oden's first "Sage."

Sage...

Fiarelle wiped her sweat-dampened brow with her wide sleeve in the summer heat and thought of the old prophet.

'When will the day come that I'm called Oden's second Sage?'

Her sharp gaze swept the surroundings. The next moment, she spotted a pale woman standing before a dilapidated door.

"...Princess."

Her body trembled with the prophetic sense that struck down like lightning.

She knew at a glance.

A princess. The last daughter of House Entridhal. The seed of restoration left by the ruined paradise north of the Mediterranean, the heir who would revive the kingdom that had flourished for a thousand years and wear the shining golden crown upon her head...

'You really existed. In a place like this.'

The fruit of ten years' labor stood before her eyes. Ten years of combing through uncertain information and rumors, searching every corner of the land to find the village where survivors of the foreign Raphlang people who'd crossed the Mediterranean lived in hiding.

"Your Highness, that young lady there—"

She'd just opened her mouth in her excitement.

"Ah!"

The woman screamed and collapsed to the ground. One of the soldiers searching the village had grabbed her by the hair and thrown her down, now hurling curses at her.

"Move faster, wench!"

"Don't dawdle—everyone outside, you filthy rats!"

"Every last one of you, come out and kneel!"

"Your Majesty Derek, it's that young lady right there."

Fiarelle urgently sought out the king to report. They'd achieved their purpose—she wanted to leave this place quickly. No reason to linger in this slaughterhouse where dirty foreign peasants wailed and bled. The Newbellan soldiers rampaging like butchers reeked just as foul.

"That woman is the princess. I'm certain."

Derek, who until then had been leisurely stroking his beloved horse, shifted his languid gaze.

His expression transformed in an instant upon discovering the princess. It seemed as though bright red sparks flew within his mineral-gray eyes. A flame of passion blooming in a single instant. No—it could be named the flame of destiny.

"You."

At Derek's low voice, the soldiers fell silent and stopped kicking.

"State your name."

The princess, prostrate on the ground, lifted unfocused eyes.

But she only stared at Derek like a deaf woman who couldn't understand words.

"Speak at once!"

An impatient soldier grabbed the shabby princess by the hair and forced her head up. Before there was time to stop him, Fiarelle could see through prophecy the scene of his brutish hand rising to strike her cheek.

Crack! The silence tore. The princess's head snapped around limply.

At the same moment, the metallic sound of a blade scraping its sheath rang out.

"Y-Your Majesty...!"

Derek leapt from his horse and rushed forward in a single bound, bringing down his sword.

Without a death cry. The moment the sword that had been sleeping in its sheath, honed for today's undertaking, flashed sharp light, the soldier's head was severed cleanly and rolled across the ground.

Only meaningless screams erupted. Even witnessing enemy blood, the foreign peasants knew not how to rejoice but startled in fear.

Derek himself, who had cut down his own subordinate, calmly returned his sword to its sheath.

"It's all right now, Princess."

He knelt on one knee before the princess with elegant movement.

"What is your name?"

A slightly husky, beautiful voice that suited his manly build and handsome features well.

"...Lanthe."

The princess moved her jaw stiffly, as if frozen with cold. Her gaze remained fixed only on the ground.

"Lanthe Entridhal."

As the whisper-soft, gentle voice flowed out, Derek's eyes grew deeply flushed.

"Lanthe Entridhal... A name befitting my lovely one."

A bright smile spread across his face.

His cheek, splattered with the red blood of his own subordinate, swelled softly.

"I am Derek, King of Newbella. I came to save you. Come with me."

"I, I'm not really a princess or anything..."

"Fear not and follow me. You're all right now. You will receive the treatment you deserve and rise to the position you must rightfully claim."

A knight of high status and fine appearance politely extended his hand, yet the princess remained prostrate, not moving an inch.

"I'll help you, Your Highness."

Fiarelle quickly stepped forward to support the princess. She took hold of her slender, trembling shoulders and led her toward the carriage.

"Lanthe!"

"No! Where are you taking our Lanthe, you filthy demons!"

Foreigners who rushed forward shouting were cut down and kicked by soldiers. Fiarelle blocked the princess's view with her own body from the wretched sight that made one's brow furrow of its own accord.

The princess neither wailed nor struggled. She only hesitated, looking back, fumbling with empty eyes for the village. No sound escaped her lips.

"Tsk, tsk. How pitiful. It seems she lost her nobility and lived mixed among the lowborn."

Hearing Derek's sigh, Fiarelle looked at the princess with sympathetic eyes, agreeing.

Had she even known this life was miserable? Understanding that a foolish peasant's life is wretched requires at least minimal learning and wisdom.

"It's dangerous here, so please board the carriage quickly, Your Highness."

When Fiarelle coaxed her, the princess finally turned her head slowly to meet her eyes.

But what did it mean? A strange light floated in the princess's steady gaze. Oddly grating, though she couldn't say why.

Even a prophet cannot know most hidden answers in truth, and there are times when even reading the expression in a young woman's eyes is not easy.

However, watching the princess's lips move silently, Fiarelle guessed.

Dangerous?

She seemed to be repeating Fiarelle's words exactly. Shock must have left her in a witless state, mechanically imitating others' words. It had to be so.

To have such a weak spirit. What a waste of royal blood. She clicked her tongue inwardly.

"Withdraw!"

Derek mounted his horse first, then added quietly:

"Leave nothing on this land. Find and burn everything living and everything written in letters."

At the gesture of the knight commander who received his lord's command, soldiers hurled lit torches in all directions. The shabby houses made of straw and timber blazed up in an instant.

The vile stench of death clung even to the carriage departing the village.

Fiarelle glanced briefly through the carriage window gap at the grim scene, then withdrew her gaze with a shudder.

"Rest easy, Your Highness."

She comforted the dazed Lanthe, stroking her hand.

"His Majesty Derek will protect you. He will restore the status you should have inherited from your ancestors."

The two "revelations" Fiarelle had received upon her awakening as a prophet:

First, King Derek would obtain the "Fire Dragon," the weapon of Raphlang, as he desired.

Second, the day when Eründel's angel would open its eyes and sing again was not far off...

A "revelation" was high prophecy that must come to pass. Unlike common prophecies that might miss or be fulfilled depending on circumstances, the revelation a prophet reads upon their first awakening always arrives as absolute future.

As expected, heaven is on King Derek's side.

Fiarelle smiled with satisfaction.

When Eründel's angel sings, the paradise kingdom shall be reborn.

The scripture of ancient Raphlang that Derek had pursued like life itself aligned with the revelation Fiarelle had received.

The world dismissed those words as absurd lyrics invented by minstrels, but Derek believed it was true scripture. And Fiarelle believed Derek. In the end, they had found the princess as their faith dictated.

It would come to pass exactly so. The ruined paradise kingdom would be restored, and the story within the old song lyrics would arrive in reality.

"Everything will be fine, Your Highness."

She smiled, anticipating the future when her lord's ambition would be fulfilled.

When that day came, her lord would become the new master of paradise and, as the hero who created a new era, would rule that land forever alongside the beautiful princess, receiving praise... and she herself would surpass her aged teacher Haloren and be called Oden's second Sage.

"Trust me. It will all be fine."

She grasped Lanthe's trembling hand and smiled brightly.

It would be fine. Naturally it would. The wretched princess too, once she lived in the luxurious palace, would quickly forget the gutter-life she'd swallowed without question due to her ignorance—the likes of which she'd called living.

For several days Lanthe crouched silently in the corner of her room without speaking a single word, and Fiarelle lamented. Disappointing days continued for weeks.

To be this weak. Her situation is perfectly simple and clear—how can she fail to conduct herself wisely? Can she become a queen of a nation like this? Of course, one must consider the environment in which she lived as a commoner, but the possibility that the princess might have an inherently deficient character couldn't be overlooked either, so she grew increasingly anxious.

But after three months passed.

"Have you finished your prayers, Your Highness?"

Fiarelle's worries vanished cleanly.

"Yes. I'm sorry it took so long, Lady Fiarelle."

Lanthe lifted the corners of her lips faintly and smiled. The princess had recovered her reason and health considerably during this time.

"Not at all. How could I, a mere believer, begrudge Your Highness's time conversing with the divine?"

And so Fiarelle could smile generously and warmly as well.

The great undertaking was proceeding smoothly. She was particularly pleased that Lanthe's rustic accent was transforming into the capital Penmark intonation. She was steadily learning the Empire's refinement and even receiving education for conversion. Nothing could be better. Thanks to her different bloodline, the speed of learning exceeded expectations.

She was adapting well to aristocratic life—going to bed late after studying into the night and rising late, departing from the lazy peasant life of sleeping when the sun set.

After all, why wouldn't she adapt? Rejecting a superior and comfortable environment would be nothing but proof of barbarism. Fiarelle smiled with satisfaction.