THE VILLAIN'S POV

Chapter 591: The Last Stand Beneath the Golden Tree (3)

Uriel Platini had been only six years old when High Priest Platini adopted her, ripped from parents she could not even remember.

From that age, her body had been scarred with bloody symbols carved into her skin. Into her veins, they had injected the blood of the first Saint—so that she might bear the so-called blessing of holy power.

But Uriel’s blessing had been nothing but suffering.

She had known pain since childhood. Pain without hope, for every Saint Candidate understood that death was their only end.

Some clung to blind faith and accepted their fate. Others knew something was deeply wrong, but could do nothing.

Uriel had endured her life with quiet strength, mastering the art of smiling while bleeding inside.

For a time, she had lived as though she were normal, and her years in the temple had been her happiest memories.

There, she made many friends. There, she learned what it felt like to smile with genuine joy instead of a mask.

And at the end of those years... she met Frey Starlight.

The strange boy who had appeared from nowhere, carrying burdens heavier than hers.

Watching his suffering, watching the way he fought, had made Uriel want to help him. She had felt a kinship between them.

But the difference was stark. Frey had chosen to fight against his cursed fate. Uriel had done nothing but wait quietly for death.

He had fought battles far worse than the one she had been born into. Yet despite the endless trials, Frey had always won. He had never broken.

Seeing him struggle so desperately had given Uriel a faint glimmer of hope.

She saw in him the strength she herself lacked, and so, without even realizing it, she had clung to him—selfishly, unforgivably—asking him to save her.

”Even knowing the suffering he endured... suffering far greater than mine, I still dared to drag him down with me, begging him to rescue me...” Her eyes had long since dried; she had no more tears left to shed.

Frey Starlight and Snow Lionheart... both were about to die because of her.

If she could have sacrificed herself to save them, she would have done it without hesitation. But she did not have the power to do so.

”I’m supposed to be the Saint now... I carry the power of my predecessors, these cursed blood runes carved into my flesh!” Uriel screamed, thrusting her hands forward—toward the place where Snow and Frey stood.

”Holy power... angels... anything!”

She had once been able to command every angel upon this world. She still bore a fragment of that power within her body. So she tried desperately to draw it out—for their sake.

”Please... I beg you—give me the strength to save them!”

Her runes bled as she tried to activate them.

”Lord of Light... my ancestors... grant me your power!”

Even one angel, even the faintest spark—it didn’t matter. She would throw her life away without hesitation if it could save them.

She called upon the Lord of Light. She invoked the names of the Saints whose blood and power flowed within her.

She prayed and prayed, but nothing answered.

No matter how she tried, no one came.

Her desperate struggle lasted only minutes before her eyes caught a scene that shattered what was left of her spirit.

The sight of Blattier’s spear piercing both Snow and Frey at once, extinguishing the light in their eyes in a single, merciless blow.

It was over. There was nothing left to save.

”No...” The word left her lips as an empty whisper, drowned beneath Blattier’s triumphant laughter that echoed across the island after he felled his foes.

Uriel collapsed to the ground, tears flooding her eyes though she had thought them long spent.

”I couldn’t do anything... until the very end, I did nothing...”

Helpless, powerless—she had lost everything.

”I killed them... with these hands... I killed them...”

Her blood-stained arms trembled as she blamed herself for it all—for the catastrophe, for their deaths.

And so she resolved to end her life.

”Frey... Snow... everyone... I’m sorry.”

Her apology was a whisper to the dead, as the runes across her body began to glow.

She wished only for death now, to put an end to the torment she could no longer bear.

She had lost everyone she had ever cared for. She carried a guilt too great for anyone to endure. Death, she thought, would be her release.

But even death was denied her. The power within her refused to obey—refused to grant her even the mercy of an ending.

Realizing this, Uriel, overcome with rage and despair, clawed at her own throat, tearing at it savagely, desperate to end her life with her own hands.

Madness consumed her final moments; the burden she carried was too heavy for a single soul.

She ripped at her neck with feral violence, nearly ending herself...

But then a strange golden light burst forth, stopping her hand before she could strike the fatal blow.

The light did not only restrain her—it healed her torn flesh, slowly, gently, suffusing her with an alien warmth.

”This is not your fault.”

Along with the golden radiance came a soft, tender voice, whispering by her ear. Uriel turned toward the source—toward the golden World Tree behind her.

And there she saw something she had never imagined possible.

From within the tree, a pure aura poured forth, weaving and coiling until it formed a shape—the figure of a woman.

A noble lady, radiant with a sacred presence unlike anything Uriel had ever seen. Her long golden hair flowed like sunlight, her face ethereal, with only her nose and smiling lips visible. Her eyes were veiled beneath a black cloth embroidered with a golden symbol Uriel could not comprehend.

She wore the vestments of a Church nun, and in her appearance, Uriel saw a reflection of herself.

But the pressure she exuded defied imagination—greater even than what Frey or Blattier had revealed. Perhaps greater than both combined.

With her holy radiance, the woman illuminated the island, drawing every gaze toward her.

Power divine. Aura noble. Uriel did not know who she was, but she could guess.

”The... Saint?”

For there could be no mistaking it.

This was none other than the First Saint—the one erased from history, the one the world had long forgotten.