The lingering glow of the sunset bathed the Church in warm golden light, as if quietly mourning the departure of this lifelong seeker who had suffered so deeply. Steve gazed silently at his face, frozen with a satisfied smile. And as he watched, a distinct regret – the kind only a playwright would feel – welled up in his heart.
He was not grieving Kirei's death; rather, he was mourning the loss of an eternally fascinating possibility. If, ten years ago, he'd given Kirei this answer sooner, without that detached, conservative coldness and indifference... Perhaps, in the current Fuyuki City, there would really have been an oddly cheerful monk, joyfully cooking, running a wildly popular mapo ramen shop in the shopping arcade.
That kind of timeline, Steve thought, would be even more absurd and interesting than this one.
He shook his head lightly, banishing such unrealistic speculation from his mind.
He did not touch the still-warm body, nor did he linger on any unnecessary words. For an actor who has already reached a satisfying conclusion, any post-coital confusion is simply unnecessary.
The heavy wooden door of the church closed quietly behind him, signifying that an era had truly, finally come to an end.
Bathed in the evening breeze, Steve slowly walked toward his apartment.
When he returned home, the modern, cozy living room was in striking contrast to the suffocating silence of death that filled the church.
Steve sat deeply into the soft sofa. The quiet of the room reminded him of the conversation he'd just had. He closed his eyes, and a thought rose naturally to the surface:
"...If it was him, how would he answer?"
The power of Magic of the Root quietly activated. Steve traced his fingertip through empty space, causing countless tiny particles of starlight to swirl together, forming a semi-transparent, softly glowing blue interface – like a smartphone surface materializing in the air.
Dexterously, he input a single line of text; it immediately shimmered with light, crossed physical dimensions, and shot straight toward the Throne of Heroes beyond this timeline.
[To: Jesus]
[Sender: Steve Weis]
[Reason: I've just seen off a lost lamb, but I have a question. If you could personally answer the lifelong agony of someone like Kirei Kotomine, a born evil, what would your answer be?]
After sending the message, Steve closed the interface, leaned back against the sofa, and closed his eyes to rest. He didn't really expect a reply. After all, the recipient was really busy.
This wasn't like chatting on Messenger or X; it wasn't instant messaging, more like sending out a written wish.
But, in the next moment, an unbelievably gentle yet infinitely majestic golden light shone vertically from the ceiling and slowly condensed into a line of holy words before Steve's eyes:
"[The shepherd never abandons the lost sheep. Even if that sheep bites the shepherd's arm. Because getting lost is itself part of finding the way home.]"
Seeing this answer, filled with both metaphor and universal love, Steve let out a long sigh.
The truth is, people who have achieved spiritual salvation are fundamentally different from someone like me, who in my past life only achieved material salvation.
He didn't think further, just sank deeper into the sofa, quietly waiting.
He didn't know how much time had passed before he heard the soft click of a key in the apartment door. Caren was home.
Humming off-key hymns, the girl hurried in, took off her school shoes, casually tossed her backpack into a corner, and headed straight to the living room. As was her weekend routine, she'd first play a new hymn on the gigantic old organ, then use her usual sharp tongue to prod Steve into preparing dinner.
But today, as she walked toward the organ and was about to sit down, she caught a glimpse, out of the corner of her eye, of Steve sitting silently on the sofa. Her movements halted.
Something was off.
At this time of day, he would either be busy in the kitchen or lazily watching TV, never sitting here with his eyes closed, emanating a tired and pensive aura she'd never seen before, heavier than usual.
"...Hello." Caren's voice broke the silence of the room. She did not approach, but stood by the organ, her golden eyes glinting with their usual touch of mockery, but there was a seriousness in her look as she stared intently at Steve.
"What's with that expression? Been constipated for three days, three nights? Or finally realized how bad your cooking is? What's wrong?"
Steve slowly opened his eyes and looked at his foster daughter, who was hiding her real worry beneath a barbed tongue. After a brief pause, he spoke in a calm, almost indifferent tone. "Caren, about Father Kotomine… I went to see him one last time today."
That instant, Caren went perfectly still. Her hand, about to press a key, froze in midair.
Kirei Kotomine – that man was her so-called father, the source of her misfortune, and her only blood relative. For her, his name represented something too complicated for words.
"...He finally found the answer for his abnormality that he'd been seeking all his life. From me."
Steve continued in a voice so soft it was as if he was afraid to disturb something. "And… he passed away peacefully, with a smile."
A silence deeper than any before settled over the living room. The last rays of sunset outside the window cast their final brilliance on Caren's face, turning it slightly pale.
She stood there, quietly, unmoving. Her golden eyes lost focus, as if recalling something—or simply accepting the sudden end of an age.
She did not cry or laugh. The sharp, thorny tongue she always used was nowhere to be found.
She simply stood completely silent...
Finally, as if releasing all the complicated emotions she'd held inside about that man for fifteen years, she let out a long, gentle breath.
Turning to Steve, for the first time, she showed an expression of pure, almost unbelievably gentle sincerity.
Almost in a whisper, in the kindest voice he'd ever heard from her, she quietly spoke:
"…I see."
"For him… that was its own form of atonement."
"In the end, someone finally listened to his confession at the close of his life."
…