Novia instructed John to compile everything he had seen and spoken of into a scroll. Once completed, it would serve as the final chapter of the New Testament.
His only condition: until it was finished, no one else could know—not a soul outside of Novia himself.
"Apocalypse… What on earth is all this…?"
The ever-smiling Novia, for once, showed no concern for appearances. He leaned quietly beneath a tree outside his home, eyes fixed on the world before him.
Above stretched a cloudless blue sky. Beneath, the verdant earth. Warm morning sunlight bathed every inch of the land.
"…Holy Spirit…"
Haa… Novia exhaled a sigh, filled with a deep, inexpressible emotion.
He could hear it—plainly and unmistakably. The "Holy Spirit" described in John's Book Before the Apocalypse was him.
Silver hair, blue eyes—it all lined up. The phrase "reuniting the Father and the Son" likely referred to the doctrine of the dual unity he had tirelessly preached.
And "extinguishing the Fire of Vesta" clearly alluded to the triumph of Christianity over Roman polytheism. Vesta, goddess of the hearth—known as Hestia in Greek—was believed to keep Rome safe so long as her eternal flame never died. For Novia to have extinguished it was to declare the old gods obsolete.
The "calamity" described afterward was even more obvious. Called the King of Antichrists—wasn't that the one who had desecrated Solomon's corpse?
And then, there was the reference to Novia destroying Jerusalem with a spear.
Taken together, it all pointed to one conclusion: the "Holy Spirit" John described… was most likely Novia himself.
But why?
When did I become the Holy Spirit? Novia was deeply troubled.
He understood the doctrine of the Trinity well. But in recent years, he had only preached the dual unity of Father and Son. That was intentional. Christianity was still in its infancy, meant to be understandable to the common people. Concepts like the Holy Spirit—ones that required deep theological contemplation—were best left to future generations. Novia didn't feel it was his place to define something so abstract and mysterious.
After all, the Holy Spirit wasn't some faceless force or power. Within the Trinity, the Holy Spirit was neither the Father nor the Son. There existed eternal distinction between the three—one God in essence, but three distinct persons. Their differences weren't of rank or time or subordination, but of relational and personal order.
"Hmm, Teacher, I'm heading to the Greek peninsula soon, but you're not even coming to see me off? I might get really mad, you know."
Through the full flush of summer greenery, gentle sunlight filtered through the leaves. The rustle of the branches made them seem like giggling girls, whispering secrets in the breeze.
And there stood Nero—golden-haired, brimming with heat and longing—gazing at Novia with starry-eyed affection.
She was supposed to depart today, but when the farewell ceremony began and she couldn't find her teacher anywhere, she postponed her journey without hesitation and rushed straight to his home.
No message, no explanation—how could he not even tell her?
"I'm sorry, Your Majesty, I—"
"I don't want you to call me Your Majesty, Teacher," Nero interrupted, pressing a hand gently over his lips. "Just call me Nero. Or even Domitius, if you prefer. Please?"
She seated herself beside him and boldly wrapped her arms around his waist, her expression a soft mixture of pleading and defiance.
"…I'm sorry, Teacher. I shouldn't be like this…"
Novia stared at her in silence.
The girl before him—radiant as a rose—loved him deeply. That, he knew without doubt. Over the years, he had treated her with care, always encouraging her down kind paths. She had never done anything remotely resembling the Beast of the Apocalypse, "Draco." She wasn't '666,' nor an enemy of God.
But if John's vision was to be believed, this seemingly cheerful Nero also harbored a hidden desire—to drink his blood, eat his flesh, just like Albion once had.
Did that mean… he had led her astray somehow?
He hadn't exactly stifled her desires, true—but he had always let her express them in healthy, controlled ways.
Should I have done more?
"No, no… It's nothing. I was just lost in thought."
Novia shook his head.
"...Really? Truly? You're not angry with me…?"
Her voice trembled. She sounded deeply unsure.
Novia could sense her unease and calmly, gently assured her:
"Not at all. Truly, Nero."
"…Teacher, I am the Emperor, you know."
The light returned to her eyes. She smiled again, voice hovering between teasing reproach and affectionate sulking.
"As Emperor, even if it's you, Teacher… when I say something, you have to remember it, okay?"
It was a ridiculous assertion, but Novia didn't laugh, nor take offense. He responded with calm sincerity, as if what she said was only natural:
"Whether you speak as Emperor or not, your words are always in my heart."
"Then, Teacher—"
There was no pretense in her eyes or voice—only raw, overwhelming emotion, something powerful enough to consume everything.
"If it means being with you… I would do anything, right?"
Fiery eyes, beautiful words laced with danger simply because they came from someone so beautiful.
In the next moment, Novia gently shook his head, and then—
—unlike the last time, when she had tried to steal a kiss as a "reward," this time, he kissed her first.
He pressed his lips to hers, and held the kiss until she nearly forgot to breathe. Yet even as she gasped, her body responded with helpless, dizzying waves of pleasure.
"You don't have to do anything you said, Nero," he whispered, looking down at the crimson-faced girl in his arms. "Just listen to me. That's enough."
"O-okay… Teacher… I'll always listen to you…"
For a girl in love, Nero was impossibly adorable. But then, flustered by her own words, she mumbled even softer than before:
"B-but… if it's like that… I think… maybe you could pull my hair a little… I-I just heard that some people like that! Not that I want it or anything..."
Just a simple wish—that the next time they kissed, he'd cradle her hair.
Of course, Novia did exactly that. No hesitation at all.
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