MTLNOVEL Chapter 121: The City of God
In the year 423 AD, on an unspecified date, deep into the night, in the capital of Kitland on the Scandinavian Peninsula—
The people here had long drifted into dreams, each carrying their own tangled thoughts. But within the royal palace, in a newly-dug section of the garden, Avia had yet to retire.
Dawn would come soon. The first light would soon dye the night sky. But for now, the silver-haired youth simply sat quietly on a chair, letting the cold, damp air brush against his face.
"Yo, Avia, you're already up?"
The sudden call shattered the fragile stillness.
It was Beowulf—fresh from bed and, as always, bare-chested despite the chill.
"Mm. I'm going to deal with Grendel, so I need to prepare early."
In truth, Avia hadn't slept all night because of Typhon. Last night, when he was about to rest, he happened to pass by here—and the moment Typhon, in her armor form, saw the garden, she refused to leave, reverting to her human form and hopping down to take a look.
A golden eye lit up like a kitten spotting a little mouse, sparkling with delight.
Perhaps it was because the garden was bursting with countless tender sprouts—some breaking through the soft soil, some forcing open the tips of stubborn branches, impatient to see the outside world. Compared to flowers, the grass, eager to show their faces sooner, seemed intent on drawing more attention, lifting their tiny heads and stretching upward with vibrant life.
Curious though he was about why the usually talkative Typhon had grown so quiet, Avia didn't interrupt. Under his gaze, the red-haired girl began digging in the damp, shaded soil around the plants—deeper and deeper, wider and wider—the mound of moist earth beside her steadily growing.
"Good job, good job. It's fine now, it's fine now," she chirped, in a tone so childishly delighted it startled even herself. But she quickly returned to her task, carefully moving the poor plants that hadn't even grown buds from the cold, dark shade to a warm, sunny spot.
Watching her sway her head with that small, contented smile, Avia more or less understood her intent.
Winter lacked the vivid colors of spring, yet it had its own beauty. Still, it was indisputably the season of death—sunlight scarce, the cold biting deep.
Typhon, the Primordial Dragon, was a creature who longed for freedom and had no desire to die. So when she saw these frail plants stubbornly clinging to life, perhaps she felt a faint urge to help... much like a child would.
And so, the girl digging and refilling holes, and the silver-haired youth watching in silence, passed the night in this simple way.
Yet the night's quiet and unconditional gentleness seemed to ease the girl's unease about tomorrow, offering her a sliver of hope.
"No matter what, I'm still troubling you and Siegfried," Beowulf said, his gaze steady on Avia's slightly lowered, tranquil blue eyes. "Honestly, I'm no match for Grendel. Back when we faced the Kraken, if not for you, I might not have made it out alive."
"But you're not the kind to regret things, are you?"
"Hah! Naturally!" Beowulf laughed, a bright, hearty sound, as if truly glad from the depths of his heart. He straightened his chest with pride. "After all, I have to do something worthy of a king. Pain doesn't matter to me—so long as everyone else can live in peace, that's enough."
A man always fights to protect something.
To live on the battlefield, to fight until the last breath, to fall upon the field of war—
That might not be a life meant for an ordinary person. But even so, that golden-haired man had once clenched his fists from the heart and charged the Kraken head-on.
Beowulf's childhood was unfortunate—his parents died early, and at seven, he was taken in by his grandfather, living with his uncles. But tragedy struck: a quarrel between his eldest and second uncle ended in both their deaths. Not long after, his grandfather too succumbed to grief.
The epic Beowulf records it thus:
"Bleak winds replaced the smiles; the knight sleeps, the hero returns to dust.
No more the harp's song, nor the feasts of the hall, nor the merriment of bygone days."
In Avia's memory, Beowulf only became king after slaying Grendel. In youth, due to his father's reputation, he was looked down upon, and he had even lost in public contests. Perhaps this early coronation was the result of some sort of butterfly effect.
As a descendant of Cain, Grendel was theoretically immune to any blade. In a sense, he was a high-order phantasmal creature. But perhaps Typhon's molten breath and Odin's runes would work...
As Avia pondered, Beowulf continued:
"To be honest, thinking back, I was scared. I almost died. I was just putting on a brave face."
The silver-haired youth shook his head firmly.
"Fear of death is normal. No one is immune to it. Before death, everyone is the same. But you took the single most important step forward—that alone is worthy of praise. After all, you gave everything you could."
"Hah, you make it sound good," Beowulf chuckled. "But why do you sound like a preacher? You're quite the talker, Avia. Not to mention, you're good with your fists too."
"Oh? Do they have preachers here?" Avia asked with curiosity.
After all, in the Western Roman Church, pagans were considered less than human, and the Eastern Roman Church lacked the manpower. Perhaps it was some wandering missionary, he thought.
"Yeah, only a few though. Honestly, I find them annoying, but life's been better with them around, so I don't mind."
The golden-haired man paused, as if recalling something.
"Their leader's from Constantinople, staying in Geatland right now. Some 'August—something'..."
Augustine?
"Yeah, yeah, that's the name. Don't tell me you know him?"
"More or less," Avia said.
He hadn't expected Dr. Grace to come all the way to Scandinavia to preach.
Well then—after dealing with Grendel, the Cain-spawn, and rooting out the lurking Norse fire dragon, he could meet with this Augustine.
After all, once the corrupt core of the Western Roman Church was destroyed, he hoped Augustine would be able to write The City of God without hindrance.