The door burst open just as the beasts lunged.
I flinched, throwing up my arms, a useless stick gripped tight like it could ward off death. But instead of claws and fangs—light flooded the room. Not ordinary light. No torch, no spell spark. This was different.
This was divine.
Brilliant, golden light seared the air, hot and holy. It poured in like the sun had cracked through the heavens and decided to descend upon this forgotten patch of forest.
A shockwave exploded from the doorway.
The air screamed.
The monsters howled, twisted in pain—black-furred horrors with fangs like scythes, hurled backwards as if caught in the wake of some invisible blade. They slammed against walls, furniture, the far corners of the cabin—then vanished into nothing. Dusted. Obliterated.
I dropped the stick.
My fingers were trembling. No—my whole body was. I stood frozen as the doorway filled with shadows, then shapes, then light reflecting off something polished.
Armor.
Gleaming silver. Pristine white cloaks fluttered behind the dozen figures that stepped through the splintered doorway. Each one looked like they'd stepped straight out of a stained-glass window—faces hard, expressions unreadable beneath wing-crested helms and radiant halos of power that shimmered faintly at their backs.
They weren't human.
Not entirely.
Or maybe they were, and I just wasn't anymore.
Their presence wasn't threatening—but it was overwhelming. Like trying to stand beneath a cathedral ceiling while knowing it was built for something far, far bigger than you.
Sacred.
That was the word.
They felt sacred.
And then I heard it. The faint thunder of boots pounding through the trees. Leaves rustling. The ground shaking. More figures—scores of them—flooded the clearing outside. White armor, polished to a mirror's sheen. Every movement coordinated. Every soldier precise.
I stepped shakily to the cabin's doorway and froze.
The clearing was packed.
Knights. At least a hundred of them. All in full plate, mounted atop radiant steeds whose manes shimmered like braided moonlight. Their formation was so tight, so perfect, it made military drills from my old life look like kindergarten games.
No hesitation. No fear.
Each of them bore a sigil etched proudly into their chest plates: a radiant cross wreathed in a sunburst halo. It pulsed faintly, as if alive.
Holy Knights.
The real kind. Not fantasy knockoffs, not NPCs in some MMO game, not actors in cheap cosplay. These were elite soldiers of divinity, and they were all staring—at me.
A man emerged from the front line.
He was tall—commanding in a way that didn't need shouting. His armor was layered and lined in gold. A sweeping mantle billowed behind him like woven dawnlight. His hair shone pale as wheat under morning sun, and his eyes burned blue—bright, unblinking, like a sky alight with storm.
He took a step forward.
Then another.
And knelt.
"Young Saint," he said, lowering his head. "We are at your service."
I stared at him.
I stared at all of them.
And one by one—clang clang clang—the rest followed.
The sound was deafening. A hundred suits of armor kneeling in unison. Rows of soldiers dropping to one knee, helms bowed, weapons grounded. Reverence in motion.
'What the actual—'
I took a step back and nearly tripped on the busted door frame. "Wait—me?"
The knight lifted his head.
His gaze was steady. Not mocking. Not confused. Just... patient.
"Yesha the Saint," he said softly. "Forgive our delay. We came as swiftly as we could."
My mouth went dry. "H-how do you know my name?"
He smiled faintly, as if the answer was obvious. "It was foretold. The Saint would descend amidst the darkened woods, clad in the shell of innocence, heralded by cries of the devoured."
A poetic way to describe me waking up in a murder cabin.
He motioned, and another knight stepped forward—a younger man who pulled off his cloak and gently placed it around my shoulders.
It was soft. Warm. Too warm. I wasn't even shivering anymore, but the heat of it made my skin prickle.
"What's going on?" I muttered under my breath, dazed.
One of the knights looked at my tattered shirt and scraped knees and winced.
"He's injured," someone whispered with horror.
"His garments... gods above. Threadbare."
"Unacceptable. Utterly disgraceful."
I turned bright red. "I-it's not that bad…"
But no one was listening.
Before I could finish that sentence, I was being lifted. Not like a handshake lift. Carried. Arms under my knees and back, bridal style, like I weighed nothing at all.
"Hey—!" I flailed. "I can walk!"
"We cannot allow that, Your Holiness," said the knight carrying me. His voice was calm, reverent. "Your feet must not touch the soil again until your path is sanctified."
'What am I—blessed bread?'
But the struggle melted away.
Because... they weren't wrong.
This body wasn't mine. Not really. I looked down. Small arms. Pale skin. Thin wrists. I was twelve again. And to them, I wasn't just a kid—I was something sacred. Something prophesied.
Maybe even something divine.
That's why they looked at me like I might vanish.
That's why they held me like I might break.
I didn't fight it.
Didn't resist when they carried me outside into the clearing.
And that's when I saw it—the thing that shattered the last of my doubt.
A carriage.
No.
A sanctum.
Wheels the size of boulders. Frame carved from wood that glowed faintly, laced with gold and crystal. The whole thing radiated light—actual holy light, like sunlight bottled and woven into its beams. At the top, a dome inlaid with what looked like moving glass panels. It wasn't a wagon.
It was a portable cathedral.
And they'd brought it… for me.
My breath caught in my throat.
The knight gently stepped inside and laid me on a bed of velvet cushions. Silk sheets. A warm compress pressed to my elbow. Someone passed me a cup of water. Another tucked the cloak tighter.
"Is this... normal?" I whispered.
The pale-haired knight stepped inside and dropped to one knee again. "It is right."
"You may not remember your past life, nor the burdens you once bore," he continued, "but know this: you are not alone in this world, Your Holiness. We are your sword and shield. We will serve you unto death."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"…Thanks," I mumbled.
His expression didn't waver. If anything, his pride deepened—like I'd just issued a decree from heaven itself.
I slumped back into the cushions as the sanctum began to move, pulled by six radiant steeds. It rocked gently, almost soothing. Through the curtains, I saw the procession begin—an armored wave cutting through the forest like divine flame.
And for the first time since I woke in that nightmare shack… I didn't feel so alone.
Then a thought hit me.
Hard.
'I didn't thank them. Properly.'
They saved me.
They risked themselves. Fought monsters. Dropped to their knees like I was the second coming—and I gave them a whisper of thanks like I was ordering coffee.
I hadn't bowed.
Hadn't acknowledged the weight of it.
My chest clenched.
'What if they think I'm arrogant? Or ungrateful? What if they think I don't deserve to be the Saint?'
I peeked through the curtain. The knights were still in perfect formation, riding with solemn grace, their banners rippling in the wind.
I swallowed hard. Then made a decision.
I unlatched the small window on the side of the sanctum and pushed it open.
The wind kissed my face—cold and fresh, carrying pine and magic and something holy.
"Um—!"
A few heads turned. Knights straightened.
"I-I just wanted to say... thank you! For earlier! I mean it! Really!"
Silence.
Then—
The effect was instant.
Dozens of knights reacted like they'd just heard the voice of the divine itself. The commander at the front turned, his gaze softening again.
"You honor us, Your Holiness," he said. "To be thanked by the Saint is beyond privilege. It is a moment we will carry all our lives."
More knights echoed his words in low murmurs of awe. One woman beside him looked like she might actually cry.
"S-such grace…" she whispered, bowing her head. "We are unworthy, and yet… blessed."
I blinked.
My jaw moved but no words came.
That had been divine to them? A thank you?
I nodded awkwardly and slid the window shut again.
Then I sat back. Eyes wide.
'They're not treating me like a person.'
To them, I was a living symbol. A chosen vessel. The Saint.
And every word I spoke mattered more than I understood.
Every gesture carried weight.
Even a thank-you.
It made me realize something else.
This wasn't going to be a normal reincarnation.
I wasn't just some overpowered kid with cheat skills and a magic interface.
I was the Saint.
And I had no idea what that meant yet.
But one thing was clear:
They believed in me.
And whether I liked it or not… I was going to have to live up to that belief.
Because whatever prophecy they were talking about?
It had already started.
And I was at the very center of it.