Chapter 600: Saint Scepter, The Man Who Tried

"The Philosopher Emperor?" Sylvester exclaimed when he recognized the name. "You're the last good emperor of Rome?"

"Was..." Saint Scepter, now Marcus Aurelius, replied. "You know my name, which means you come from a time beyond mine?"

Sylvester was still digesting the fact that he was fighting against Marcus Aurelius all that time, "I don't know if I should be disappointed or impressed. The Philosopher Emperor fought, killed, and betrayed his way up all this time. It went against your character. And yes, I do come from a time far in the future from your era."

"Everything—a horse, a vine—is created for a purpose... For what task, then, were you yourself created?" Saint Scepter replied. "I opposed what I deemed wrong while fulfilling the obligations that were imposed upon me by birth—my purpose. A king has to destroy, murder, and pillage his enemies to retain his position; it is his duty."

When the man said that, Sylvester immediately recalled all the times he spoke with him as the Saint Scepter. Every single time, there was something spoken that was reminiscent of what Sylvester had read in Marcus Aurelius' book.

Sylvester glanced at the massive carcass of the Elder God, "Can you place us in some empty room where we can talk? Being suspended in this void does no good."

Without any kind of response, darkness flickered before Sylvester's eyes, and in the next moment, he felt solid ground beneath his feet. He found himself in a brightly lit empty room with a table and two chairs in the center.

Sylvester took a seat and waited for Saint Scepter to join him. He stared at the famed emperor, who tried his best to live a stoic life despite being the most powerful man in the world, a man who could have indulged in anything—yet he didn't. It was an admirable trait of a strong-willed man. Considering that, it made sense how Saint Scepter was able to plan such a long game against 'them.'.

"You died in the year one hundred and eighty, and I came from over eighteen centuries in the future. Despite you being from an ancient era, even in my time, you remained quite famed across the world." Sylvester openly said, sharing snippets from the modern era with the man. "Especially your book Meditations, it was very popular."

"Meditations? I don't remember writing such a book." Saint Scepter muttered.

Sylvester almost chuckled, focusing on the man's face to see the reaction to his following words, "It's the personal journal you wrote about your thoughts—embracing stoicism and focus. Some historians found it and translated it. In modern times, it became renowned for stoicism."

Saint Scepter was taken aback. He rubbed what was left of his upper face and sighed. Of course, for a man who practiced stoicism to that degree, he wasn't easily angered. Instead, he felt a little embarrassed, but in the end, he understood it. "They were not meant as a guide to stoicism."

"I know, but from the time I came from, humanity has progressed significantly," Sylvester stated, dropping all acts and talking like a fellow man from Earth. "The era of democracies had dawned; there are wars, but not that many. The world had almost come together as one, and people traveled everywhere through flying machines. But, in a modern era where no emperors lived, where greed prevailed more than ever—a glimpse into the mind of a famed ancient Emperor gave some people insight and meaning to their struggles."

Saint Scepter sighed and relaxedly settled into his seat, "I remember my previous life vividly—the onslaught of the Antonine plague, the Parthian War, Germanic and Sarmatian Invasions, the economic and religious strains—in my tent, at night, awaiting battle or resting, I wrote in my journal as a confession to my anxieties and wrote little reminders to myself, to be a good stoic. To think my words inspire people, even two thousand years after my time—It's a relief to know my thoughts weren't in vain."

After taking a few moments to think about his life, Saint Scepter looked at Sylvester and asked in genuine curiosity. "Were you a famed man as well?"

Sylvester honestly had no idea, "I was no emperor, but I lived a life of fighting and death. Betrayed at times, losing those I loved—I died as an old man, and in the manner I did, perhaps every man, woman, and child learned my name at some point in the future."

Saint Scepter didn't ask for details as he noticed the expressions in his eyes. He had seen them many times before, "What of Rome? Did it survive the test of time?"

'I can already smell his doubts. Not very optimistic, is he?' Sylvester sensed it and answered.

"I believe you know the answer already. Your son, Commodus, is by many considered to be the one to start the downfall of the Roman Empire. His rule was strife with political instability. He ended the Marcomannic wars that you started, weakening the Empire's boundaries. He ignored corruption and indulged in favoritism, and I'm sure you knew about his debauchery.

"He had a god-complex, considering himself Hercules. He participated in gladiator fights, assassinations, and conspiracies, neglected governance, and ignored the senate—In the end, he was assassinated in his bath." Sylvester didn't mince his words. "In the year four seventy-six, the Germanic chieftain Odoacer, killed the last Roman Emperor of the west."

"West?" Saint Scepter exclaimed.

"At one point, the Empire was divided into East and West for stability. The western one eventually fell, and the eastern one survived for a long time but became known as the Byzantine Empire—That is why you're considered the last of the five good emperors."

Saint Scepter looked down but didn't appear too disappointed. Clearly, the man expected nothing good from his son and the future, "Disappointing, but not surprising. I often wondered what happened to Rome after I was gone—thank you for satisfying my curiosities. I hope such a fate won't befall Sol and the Church of Solis—I hope you will lead the realm to a better place using your modern knowledge."

Sylvester nodded, reassuring him, "I planned to do so from the beginning. As long as things play out my way, perhaps the entire planet will see peace and prosperity. But this larger conspiracy troubles me as I will have to fight this alone and walk a path unknown."

Saint Scepter placed his palm on Sylvester's shoulder and spoke as an equal, "I believe you have suffered enough, my friend. Yet, I must impose this curse upon you, for I believe this is the best chance to bring the ill destiny of the world to an end. You will walk alone, but know that my prayers are with you... As are the hopes of many who came before too."

Sylvester sounded weary when he spoke, but he knew he had no other choice, "If I don't, then death will be my penalty. If I do, pain will be my reality. What do you think, Marcus—why was I brought into this reality?"

Saint Scepter could only speculate, "I was brought up to be 'their' slave. But you, I'm sure, are here because a path needed to be paved. What occurs among immortals does not matter—only their control you need to shatter."

After a moment, Saint Scepter stood up. "I truly desire to know more about how the world developed after my demise. But what is gone matters no more; we have a greater foe we cannot ignore."

Sylvester knew what was coming next, "Will there be another reincarnator after you are gone?"

Saint Scepter started to perform a strange magic. He bit his thumb until it bled and began to smear his body with it, creating rune patterns all over himself. "Johnathan... Sylvester... I tried to be precise and calculate everything until this moment. As for what comes next, you can only be prudent. Furthermore, you have something that I was denied. You have friends and family by your side."

'I'll have to be careful now. I can't afford another evil reincarnator.' Sylvester memorized that warning.

"I..." Saint Scepter suddenly muttered but couldn't fully speak as he activated the blood runes on his body. It appeared painful as the man squinted his eyes. "Until you ascend above the Supreme Wizard, my remaining life force shall shroud your existence and hide you from 'them.'"

Saint Scepter's physical body slowly began to scatter into fine ash and disappear. But wherever his flesh disappeared, a bright, shining white form appeared.

"I wish you luck and strength to overcome all foes. May you find solutions to all your woes." Saint Scepter's entire lower body eventually faded away with only his head remaining, slowly disappearing as well. "Forgive me for the pain I caused. Too many lives you cherished that I doused. I know it's a sin that deserves no amnesty. But know that I speak this with honesty—Axel loved you like his own grandson."

Seeing Saint Scepter dying, Sylvester wondered about his own end. Will he be able to grow old and pass away naturally, or will he also have to sacrifice himself for the greater good? He found it pitiful that even in two lives, they shared similar fates—stuck in a field of politics, schemes, and treachery.

"If Sir Dolorem were here, he would have forgiven you," Sylvester said emotionally. "That's the kind of man he was—pure in his heart. Be well, Marcus... Saint Scepter... I hope you find peace after this."

Only Saint Scepter's mouth was left, and before it vanished, the last words came. "Zadkiel... was my name."

Finally, only a humanoid form made of brilliant white light remained—likely his soul. Slowly, it began to scatter around and shroud Sylvester, forming a sphere around him. It gave him a sense of warmth and protection as if it was an embrace full of kindness. Eventually, it became translucent and vanished like a hidden shield.

"Sacrifice," Sylvester muttered, the meaning of Saint Scepter's real name. "What do you think, Chonky? Can you forgive him and Axel?"

"Never!" Miraj pouted. "I miss Dol-Dol."

"Me too, buddy." Sylvester didn't mind Miraj's straightforward and unforgiving thoughts. It wasn't easy to forgive one's enemies. "Let's go back... We have a lot to do."

Sylvester tried to speak with the Elder God, "Can you send me back to the door?"

There was a moment of silence. "Do you understand what he did for you?"

Sylvester nodded and took a deep breath to calm his nerves. Of course, he didn't know the magic, but he understood the cost of doing it.

"I know... He burned his soul to... give me this shield." Sylvester muttered.

Elder God sent Sylvester back to the door that led to the Pope's Palace's basement. It looked like a small, brightly lit square in the middle of a black void.

Sylvester touched the door to push it open. But then, Nehilius' voice stopped him.

"He no longer exists in any form," the Elder God spoke monotonously. "No more reincarnation, no heaven nor hell—removed from space and time."

At last, Sylvester pushed the door open, his face filled with grief. There was nothing waiting for Saint Scepter anywhere beyond. There was no darkness or warmth—he was gone as if he had never existed in any world.

"I know... I know... the price he paid."