The polished floors of Rome's Gemelli Hospital reflected the harsh fluorescent lights as Valmer paced outside the intensive care unit. His long brown hair fell messily over his shoulders as he ran anxious fingers through it again and again. The sterile smell of antiseptic burned his nose, mixing with the faint metallic scent of fear in the air.
James, the Holy Father's closest friend—who Valmer had long considered an uncle—rushed down the hallway with several cardinals trailing behind him. Their shoes squeaked against the too-clean tiles.
"What happened? Is the Pope alright?" James demanded, his usually composed face twisted with worry.
Valmer swallowed hard. "The doctor says he's stable now. I got him here in time." His voice sounded strange to his own ears, too tight, too controlled.
James began pacing, his polished dress shoes clicking rapidly against the floor. Outside, Valmer could hear the growing chaos of reporters shouting questions, their camera flashes flickering like lightning through the hospital windows. The media frenzy had already begun—the Pope's collapse was international news.
Valmer's chest ached. He remembered all those afternoons when the Holy Father would personally take him to visit his siblings at the orphanage. How they'd stop at toy stores first, loading up with gifts just to see the kids' faces light up. The Holy Father had given him everything—a home, a family, a purpose.
A doctor in a white coat approached, his stethoscope swinging like a pendulum. "The patient is awake. You may see him now."
They rushed in. The Holy Father looked frail against the stark white sheets, but his green eyes were alert. Valmer didn't speak, but relief flooded through him so intensely his knees nearly buckled.
Five days later, they discharged the Holy Father. None of them knew it then, but the shadow creeping through his body was an incurable cancer.
**Five Years Later**
The same hospital room. The same antiseptic smell. But this time, the beeping monitors sounded like a countdown.
The Holy Father, now gaunt and pale, lay propped up on pillows. His once-vibrant green eyes had dimmed. He'd asked to speak to Valmer alone tonight.
"Valmer Valgrace van Ruvoch," he whispered, the name trembling in the air between them.
Valmer, now twenty-two with his sable-rose eyes glistening, clenched the bedsheet. "Don't—don't say my full name, you old geezer," he choked out. "Nothing good ever happens when you do that. You'll get better like last time, right?"
The Holy Father's thin hand found Valmer's. "I see you still refused to call me Holy Father, but that's alright. Listen Valmer... I had a vision."
"A vision?"
The hospital room felt too dark, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the sterile white walls. Valmer reached over and turned up the small bedside lamp, its warm glow illuminating the Holy Father's gaunt face. The light caught in his fading green eyes as he spoke with sudden intensity.
"Yes. The world... will soon change," the Holy Father whispered, his voice gaining strength. The heart monitor beeped steadily as he continued. "Beings with unimaginable strength will emerge - creatures beyond human comprehension. The world as you know it..." He paused, drawing a labored breath. "The world we've built will soon exist only in our memories, only in the past."
Valmer leaned forward, the light now revealing the fear in his sable-rose eyes. His grip tightened on the bedsheets.
"But when that darkness comes," the Holy Father continued, his voice firm despite its weakness, "your protection - your endless strength - will be the shield that guards the Earth itself." His bony fingers found Valmer's hand. "The light you bring into this world must outshine the coming darkness."
The lamp's glow seemed to pulse between them, casting their joined hands in sharp relief against the white sheets. Outside the window, the first hints of dawn began to color the Roman skyline, as if the world itself was holding its breath for what came next. He paused, drawing a rattling breath. "I couldn't change your... urges. Though it pains me you'll never be Pope... remember my teachings. Stop chasing women. Find one to love... unconditionally. This is my last wish... as your father." His grip tightened slightly. "I love you."
Valmer's head dropped, his long hair curtaining his face as hot tears splashed onto their joined hands. "Why—why are you saying this, you old geezer?"
Silence.
Valmer looked up. The Holy Father's eyes were still open, still gazing at him, but he no longer had the strength to speak.
"Father?" Valmer's voice broke. "I'll—I'll call you Holy Father properly from now on. No more nightclubs. I'll study the Bible every day, so—so don't leave me. Please. I love you."
As if in answer, the Holy Father's lips curved into a small smile. Then, peacefully, he closed his beautiful green eyes for the last time.
"FATHER! NO!" Valmer's anguished scream brought James and the others rushing in. The cardinals fell to their knees. James, the stoic uncle, openly wept.
But Valmer didn't see any of them. All he saw was the still, smiling face of the man who had saved him—the only father he'd ever known.
***
The sky over Rome wept.
A sea of black umbrellas stretched from St. Peter's Basilica to the edges of the square, a mosaic of mourners standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the relentless rain. Cardinals in crimson-lined vestments formed a silent procession, their faces shadowed beneath hoods, their breaths fogging the cold air. The scent of incense and damp wool clung to everything.
At the center of it all, the Pope's casket lay atop the basilica steps, draped in white and gold—his cross resting atop the pall.
And there, at the foot of the bier, stood Valmer.
His black coat was soaked through, his long hair plastered to his face like streaks of ink. He didn't move. Didn't blink. The rain ran down his cheeks in rivulets, indistinguishable from tears.
James, ever the stoic guardian, stood beside him, his jaw clenched so tight it trembled. His hands, usually folded in perfect composure, were fists at his sides.
The choir's hymn swelled—*Libera Me, Domine*—a haunting plea for deliverance. The Latin verses wrapped around the crowd like a shroud.
Then, the first sob broke.
A woman in the front row collapsed to her knees, wailing into her hands. A ripple of grief followed—whispers, cries, the shuddering breaths of those trying to hold themselves together. A child, too young to understand death, clutched a rosary and asked, "When will the Holy Father wake up?"
Valmer's breath hitched. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if fighting the urge to reach out and shake the casket, to demand the old geezer sit up and scold him one last time.
James finally broke. A single, ragged exhale escaped him, his shoulders bowing under the weight. He reached out, gripping Valmer's sleeve—not to steady him, but because if he didn't hold onto something, he would shatter.
Valmer didn't pull away.
The cardinals began their final rites, their voices trembling as they anointed the casket with oil. The scent of myrrh mixed with the rain.
And then—
A scream tore from the crowd.
Valmer's head snapped up. A man near the front was pointing at the sky, his face contorted in terror.
Above them, the clouds parted. Not naturally—not like weather. Like something had reached down and ripped them open.
A beam of golden light—too bright, too perfect—descended, illuminating the Pope's casket in a radiant glow.
The crowd gasped. Some fell to their knees in prayer. Others backed away, murmurs of "Miracolo!"spreading like wildfire.
Valmer didn't move. He stared, unblinking, as the light bathed the casket, as if the heavens themselves were acknowledging the Holy Father's passing.
And then, as suddenly as it appeared, the light faded.
The clouds closed.
The rain returned.
Silence.
James exhaled, his grip on Valmer's sleeve tightening. "He would have hated that," he muttered, voice thick. "Too dramatic."
Valmer's lips twitched. Just once.
Then the dam broke.
His knees hit the stone steps. His forehead pressed against the edge of the casket, his shoulders shaking with silent, heaving sobs. The rain drowned out the sound, but the tremor in his hands—the way his fingers clawed at the pall—betrayed him.
James didn't try to stop him. He simply knelt beside him, one hand on Valmer's back, his own tears lost in the downpour.
Around them, the world mourned.
But Valmer?
Valmer was saying goodbye.
****
A few weeks after the funeral of the Pope
The golden afternoon sun bathed the Vatican cemetery in warm light as Valmer approached the grave of the Holy Father. Sunbeams filtered through the leaves of ancient cypress trees, casting dappled patterns across the polished marble headstone. The light caught motes of dust floating in the air, giving the sacred space an almost ethereal glow.
Valmer adjusted his black coat against the crisp autumn breeze, the single white lily in his hand trembling slightly. He knelt on the well-tended grass, the sunlight making his sable-rose eyes glisten as he studied the engraved name: *Pope Van Ruvoch*.
He had shut himself away for weeks, studying the Word of God, the only strong connection he had to the Holy father. When he came out, the first thing he thought of doing was visiting his father.
He swallowed hard, remembering how the Holy Father's visions always came true with terrifying accuracy. There had been the pandemic prediction three years ago that saved countless lives when heeded. Then the economic collapse he'd foreseen months before it happened. Most chilling of all had been his vision of the Cardinal's assassination, which they'd failed to prevent despite the warning.
The lily's petals felt fragile between his fingers as he placed it carefully against the cool stone. "Old geezer," Valmer murmured, his voice thick. The sunlight made the marble so bright it almost hurt to look at, highlighting every vein in the stone. "With you gone, who's gonna stop me from going to nightclubs now?"
A shaft of light broke through the trees, illuminating the grave like a spotlight. Valmer had to blink against its intensity. "I miss you, you old geezer. I brought—"
**BOOOOOOOM!**
The explosion of light was blinding. The entire sky flashed white, then red, then an unnatural violet. Valmer threw up his arms against the sudden brilliance, the flowers at nearby graves trembling from the shockwave. Even the shadows seemed to vibrate as the world itself appeared to fracture under the overwhelming radiance.
Then came the voice - not from any direction, but from everywhere at once, echoing through the supernaturally charged air:
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
Attention: All Players.
A critical system error has been detected.
Your ability trees are currently under revision.
Tutorial stage has been extended to 3 days.
Difficulty: [EXTREME]
Reward multiplier: 3x
Survival is now your top priority.
I wish you good luck.
Let the game begin.
The light show continued to pulse across the cemetery, casting eerie, shifting colors on every surface. Valmer's shadow stretched impossibly long one moment, then disappeared entirely the next as the unnatural illumination intensified.
"What the hell is going on?" he gasped, shielding his eyes from the painful brightness. As his vision adjusted, he realized with dawning horror - the Holy Father's final vision was unfolding before him, in this storm of impossible light and sound.