Type-Moon: Does even a sneak peek make it official?

A mere heretic daring to claim he would destroy the Holy Church — words so absurd that even magi who had no faith would instinctively laugh upon hearing them.

After all, the Holy Church was a vast organization that had flourished for centuries, a sacred faith that would continue to exist even if Rome itself fell. It had always been so since its founding. Neither the Dead Apostles — humanity's sworn enemies — nor the phantasmal races abandoned by the planet could threaten it.

That prosperity, too, would continue forever. No one doubted what was taken for granted.

Yet Augustine simply listened quietly, not taking Avia's words as a joke. He listened intently until the silver-haired youth finished speaking.

Then he asked:

"What is the City of God? And what is the City of Earth?"

At present, neither the Western nor the Eastern Roman Empire had yet suffered an invasion by "barbarians." More accurately, such people had no power to challenge the Rome that still stood in full glory; they could only move about on lands outside Roman control. Naturally, the city of Rome itself remained impregnable, never once breached.

"The supremely glorious City of God — whether journeying through time, or moving among the irreverent, living by faith, or seated securely upon the eternal throne of the future — is not any tangible political entity, but an invisible one formed by the covenant of goodness in people's hearts."

"The City of Earth, by contrast, is every sort of institution one encounters in mortal life. Both good and evil people share in its benefits and its harms. As long as one lives in the mortal world, death will come to all; thus, death itself is not the key question — the key is what fate awaits after death, a fate judged according to what one did while alive."

"Whether in this life we love one another, wage wars, or slaughter each other, in the end we will all gather in the Heavenly City to face judgment. The good will be rewarded, the evil punished — like Cephalus from the Republic, who in his youth committed grievous wrongs, or the tyrant Thrasymachus, who sought only the strong's advantage and oppressed the weak. In the end, both will be condemned at the Last Judgment."

"Good begets good; evil reaps evil. The best life is that of goodness — and to obtain such a life does not depend on anyone else. Whether you are in Rome, Milan, or Britain, as long as you fulfill the good that God desires, your soul will be saved. Even the prodigal can return."

"The Holy Church's creed should have been founded upon that covenant of goodness and carried on from it."

When Augustine recovered from his astonishment, a slight shiver ran through him.

As a believer well-versed in philosophy, he understood instantly from just these few sentences that Avia's words, though they might sound like mere preaching to the faithless, were in fact both theological and profoundly connected to political philosophy.

Until now, traditional political thought had always placed its core focus on worldly life; religion had been subordinate to politics. Such a political life encouraged people to seek career success and honor. But the division between the two "cities" stripped traditional political life of its essential meaning: the honor of the fatherland, the gains and losses of political power, the outcomes of war — in his view, none of that truly mattered.

These all belonged to the "City of Earth," and even the tangible Church itself was placed within that category.

Augustine could not understand how this man before him — who by rights had never even been baptized — could speak such words. At this moment, one thought filled his mind:

More.

The black-haired man's expression said it all, his eyes fixed on the silver-haired youth.

"...Augustine, do you think this world is beautiful?"

It was such an abrupt question that he could not help but look puzzled.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you think humanity is beautiful? Gentle? Good?"

Augustine did not answer.

Avia glanced at him and smiled.

"I see… you think it's unlikely too, don't you."

People were fickle; they could never remain the same forever. Avia knew this well.

Even if, one day, the preached "City of God" placed the tangible Church within the "City of Earth," once the Church's leaders came to power, they would inevitably make it the representative of the "City of God." Thus, in theory, the Church would hold the highest authority over mankind. It could not be avoided — human desire always reached higher.

And yet, the silver-haired youth's thoughts remained as they had been on that day: as long as the most basic bottom line was upheld, without corruption, that alone would be enough.

For that very reason, some things could only be left to others to accomplish—

"Augustine, this thesis I have only begun… could you understand it, complete the rest, and once again let the world know the meaning of doing good?"

Avia paused, then added:

"I'm counting on you."

Hearing that unwavering tone, Augustine was taken aback and bit his lip.

If he were a believer, he should have no dealings with a Dead Apostle. If he were not, how could he possess such deep understanding?

Unable to fathom it, Augustine suddenly found himself unable to understand this man named Avia.

But in that instant, it was as if he had returned to the day in Alexandria when he first heard the holy words. Before his eyes lay the central square of the city — and slowly, the figure before him overlapped perfectly with that person's form—

"You are… no, I…" Augustine suddenly nodded. "I understand. I will complete… the thesis you've given me."

"No," Avia shook his head, still smiling. "Augustine, this was always your thesis. That's why I have to thank you — thank you for accepting it."

Avia's words were odd, but Augustine did not dwell on them. For the first time, he asked, a little anxiously:

"Do you truly mean to destroy the Church?"

"One way or another, the Church must be destroyed."

This phrasing was borrowed from the Roman Republic statesman Cato the Elder: Carthage must be destroyed. After the Second Punic War, Cato believed Carthage could become a future threat to Rome and therefore ended every Senate speech with those words.

"You truly… won't regret it?"

"I regret some things — thinking if only I'd done this, or that, it might have been better. But there are also other things that make me think, 'I'm glad I did it that way.' I don't look back from the perspective of gains and losses, but from whether I once had warm and good thoughts in my heart, acted on them, and still feel glad afterward that I did."

The silver-haired youth turned his head toward the pitch-black sky.

Countless tears of light, the strings of night traced in their wake — a rare meteor shower swept across the heavens, each tail of light shining with tranquil, profound beauty.