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

A mere heretic daring to claim he would destroy the Holy Church — that was the sort of thing even a magician with no faith would instinctively laugh at.

This was, after all, a vast organization that had shone brilliantly for centuries — a sacred faith that would endure even if Rome itself were to fall. Since its founding, this had always been so. Neither the Dead Apostles, mankind's eternal enemies, nor the abandoned phantasmal species of the planet, were enough to threaten it.

This prosperity would continue forever. No one ever questioned such a certainty.

But Augustine simply sat there, listening quietly. He did not take Avia's words as a joke. He listened carefully until the young man had finished speaking.

Then, he asked Avia a single question:

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

At this moment in the Roman Empire, neither the Western nor Eastern half had suffered any "barbarian" invasions. More precisely, those peoples were far too weak to challenge Rome's glory; they could only linger in lands outside its dominion. Naturally, the city of Rome remained impregnable, never breached.

"The supremely glorious City of God," Avia began, "is that which, throughout the passage of time and among the irreverent, moves onward by faith and thus gains life — or else sits steadfast upon the eternal throne of the future. It is no tangible political entity, but an unseen fellowship bound together by the covenant of good within people's hearts."

"The City of Man is every kind of earthly institution we witness in this life. Benefit and harm are shared alike by the good and the wicked. So long as one dwells in the mortal world, death is inevitable. Thus, death itself is not the true issue — the real question is one's fate after death, and that fate is judged according to what one did in life."

"No matter whether in this life we love or wage war, kill each other or protect each other, in the end we will gather together in the heavenly city to face judgment. The righteous will be rewarded, the wicked punished — like Cephalus in The Republic, who in his youth committed grievous sins, or Thrasymachus, who pursued only the strong man's gain and the tyranny of the winner-takes-all. In the Last Judgment, they will meet their due punishment."

"Good will be rewarded, evil repaid. The best life is not one that pursues excess, but one that guards the most fundamental bottom line. It matters not if one is rich or poor, king or beggar, united or divided — as long as you do not abandon the goodness at your core, your dignity as a person remains. That alone is enough."

"The Holy Church's declaration of faith should also have been grounded upon that same covenant of good."

When Augustine returned from his astonishment, he felt his body tremble faintly.

As a believer well-versed in the great philosophies, he understood in an instant the depth behind Avia's words. To the nonreligious, this might have sounded like mere preaching. But in truth, the argument was not only theological — it intertwined with political philosophy.

In traditional political thought, politics centered on the concerns of real life; religion was generally subordinate to politics.

Such a political life encouraged the pursuit of success and honor. But this distinction between the two cities stripped away the essence of that ideal — the glory of one's homeland, the winning or losing of political power, the victories and defeats in war… in his view, none of these mattered anymore.

These all belonged to the "City of Man," and even the tangible Church was counted among it.

Augustine did not know how Avia — who by all rights had never received baptism — could speak such words. But at this moment, his only thought was:

Is there more?

The black-haired man's expression said everything, his eyes locked on the silver-haired youth.

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

The question came out of nowhere, and it left Augustine with a look of puzzlement.

"What do you mean by that?"

"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?"

Human nature is ever-changing — never fixed. Avia knew this well.

Even if the City of God were later defined as something apart from the visible Church, those who came to hold power in the Church would inevitably make it the very emblem of the City of God. And so, in theory, the Church would hold supreme authority over people. This could not be avoided — human desire always grows.

Yet the silver-haired youth's belief remained as it had been that day: if one could keep to the most basic moral baseline, if that alone did not rot away, then that would be enough.

For that reason, there were things only others could do—

"Augustine, this topic that I have only begun — could you be the one to understand it fully, to complete it, and let the world once more know the meaning of doing good?"

Avia paused, then added:

"I'm asking you."

Hearing those unwavering words, Augustine was momentarily taken aback and bit his lip.

If one were a believer, one should not have any dealings with a Dead Apostle. If one were not a believer, how could one possess such profound understanding?

Unable to figure it out, Augustine suddenly realized he could not fully comprehend Avia.

But just then, the black-haired man felt as if he had returned to that day in Alexandria when he first heard the holy word. Before his eyes was the city's central square — and the figure before him slowly overlapped, in stance and bearing, with that person from the past—

"You are… no, I…" Augustine nodded suddenly. "I understand. I will complete… the work you have entrusted to me."

"No," Avia shook his head with a gentle smile. "Augustine, this was always your work to begin with. That's why I must thank you — thank you for accepting it."

The phrasing was odd, but Augustine did not dwell on it. For the first time, he asked nervously:

"Do you truly mean to destroy the Church?"

"However it happens, the Church must be destroyed."

Avia's words echoed the famous line Carthago delenda est — "Carthage must be destroyed" — spoken by the Roman statesman Cato the Elder. After the Second Punic War, Cato, seeing Carthage as a future threat to the Republic, ended every speech in the Senate with that phrase.

"You really… won't regret it?"

"I used to regret some things — thinking, if only I'd done this, or that. But there are other things that make me think, 'I'm glad I did it that way.' I don't reflect on the past in terms of gain or loss, but rather, if I once had a warm and kind thought, acted upon it, and can later look back and still feel glad I did — that's enough."

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

Countless tears of light traced the harp-strings of night — a rare meteor shower streaked across the heavens, leaving serene, deep trails of radiance.

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