Location: Imperial Guest Wing – Hiroto's Quarters (Early Morning)
The first light of dawn seeped through the heavy drapes of the Imperial Guest Wing, painting Itsuki Hiroto's quarters in soft gold. His cot, rumpled and betraying last night's reckless summit collapse, beckoned him to return. Hiroto rolled over, only to be met with the harsh reality of daylight and responsibility.
A gentle pounding at the door punctured his fleeting hope. "Captain," Sera's urgent whisper filtered through, "World Meditation is about to begin. They're calling you already."
Hiroto groaned, flopping back onto the mattress. "I… need five more minutes of sleep."
No answer came, but the clicking knock resumed. "Five more minutes?" Sera's voice was muffled, but the implied dare was clear. "You know how important this is now."
He sat up, tousling his hair. Yesterday's "faceplant prophecy" had cascaded into global rumor—now every corner of the realm expected him to demonstrate silent healing through slumber. His head ached at the thought. "Fine," he muttered, reaching for his battered cloak. "Let's get this over with."
Location: Palace Courtyard – Mid‑Morning
By mid‑morning, the vast courtyard outside Hiroto's quarters had been transformed into an open‑air sanctuary. Marble fountains spouted silently, and clusters of marble benches formed concentric rings around a central dais draped in white silks.
Hiroto stood before the dais, clad in his battered flour‑smudged apron and floppy baker's hat. Beside him, Sera handed out jeweled blindfolds—part of the ritual, she said, to block distractions. Virelya adjusted her swordbelt and placed a calming hand on his shoulder.
"You ready?" Virelya asked, brow furrowed.
"Ready as I'll ever be," Hiroto replied, wiping sweat from his brow. "Does a blindfold help me nap?"
"It's symbolic," Sera said. "And it looks very solemn."
Hiroto allowed the soft silk to be tied around his eyes, then closed them. He took a deep breath, willing the world to vanish.
Location: Sunlit Dais – Late Morning
A hush fell as Hiroto lay upon a dais cushioned with down—custom‑embroidered pillows bearing his crest. Delegations formed a vast ring: Elves in silken green, Dwarves in runic mail, Beastfolk in fur and leaf, Merfolk in finwork enamels, Sky Riders in feathered cloaks, and curious arrivals from the Merchant Consortium, the Fire Cult, even the clandestine Thieves' Guild—each eager to witness the "Sleeping Saint."
A high priest from the Imperial Chapel intoned: "By the Concord of Solencia, let the Divine Variable's slumber weave peace through mortal realms." He raised a censer of frankincense, sending tendrils of smoke spiraling over Hiroto's prostrate form.
Soft choruses rose simultaneously:
Elven lullabies threaded like moonlight.
Dwarven pipes played gentle notes of earth.
Beastfolk drums thrummed the heartbeat of forests.
Merfolk voices hummed the rhythm of tides.
Sky Riders whistled the hush of high winds.
Fire Cult acolytes whispered embers into the air.
Merchant envoys chimed silver coins as a blessing.
Thieves' Guild rogues bowed in respect, silent except for the clink of hidden daggers.
Under the silk blindfold, Hiroto's breathing slowed. In that shared stillness, the world seemed to pause. A lone breeze stirred the banners above, carrying the scent of jasmine, cedar, and salt water.
Location: Ceremonial Garden – High Noon
Sunlight shifted to the western pavilion, where Emperor Caldor's personal envoy had erected a small shrine: an altar of polished ebony and crystal lanterns. As Hiroto slept on the dais, envoys moved in turn to present offerings:
The Elves placed moonwater in chalices—a dew said to grant clarity of dream.
The Dwarves hammered a tiny iron anvil—symbol of unbreakable resolve.
The Beastfolk laid woven vines—emblems of growth.
The Merfolk offered pearls of quiet tides—tokens of tranquility.
Sky Riders left feathers of stilled wind.
Fire Cult handed glass beads of cooled embers.
Merchants pressed silk pouches of rare spices.
Thieves' Guild laid uncut gemstones—symbols of hidden potential.
Each gift brought a murmur of gratitude and awe. The silver‑lighted crystals in the shrine glowed softly, absorbing the tokens' magic. Hiroto, dreaming somewhere beyond sight, remained the calm center of this swirling reverence.
Location: East Pavilion – Early Afternoon
As the spokes of ceremony turned thin, Virelya and Sera retreated to a quiet corner beneath a wisteria‑covered arbor. Sera fanned herself with a scroll.
"They're calling this the 'Global Sleep Mandate,'" she sighed. "Orders have gone out: all border patrols will pause for one hour; markets will close; farms will rest. They want everyone to join him in slumber."
Virelya shook her head. "He'll collapse half the economy. You saw the merchants—some already drafted 'Peace‑Rest' contracts."
Sera snorted. "And the Fire Cult fancies themselves as pyromancers of calm. They've banned public forge use."
Virelya glanced toward the dais, where dignitaries still knelt in silent prayer. "Wake him soon. If he sleeps another minute, they might build a temple here."
Sera set her jaw. "Then we wake him… gently."
Location: Central Fountain – Mid‑Afternoon
A sudden trumpet fanfare echoed as a young page with pale cheeks raced into the arbor. "Mistress Virelya! The ritual is ending! They ask you to help awaken the Saint!"
Virelya stiffened. "Let's end this before it becomes a weeklong festival."
They hurried back to the dais. Virelya carefully pulled back the blindfold; Hiroto's lashes fluttered.
Sera knelt, offering a goblet of cool water. "Wake up, hero," she murmured.
Hiroto's eyes blinked confusion into focus. For a moment, he lay quiet, then groaned. "Did I—did I save the world in my sleep?"
Murmurs rippled through the assembled envoys as he sat up. The shrine's crystals pulsed, release of stored magic rippling outward. The crowd exhaled in relief and awe.
An Elven Songweaver stepped forward, voice trembling: "O Sleeping Saint, your meditation has brought peace to all our hearts."
A Dwarven Elder slapped him on the back. "You're a legend! Sleeping for hours and forging alliances."
A Beastfolk druid draped him in garlands. "May the forests always heal by your hush."
A Merfolk priest sprinkled brine‑kissed water on his head. "Blessed be your dreams."
Sky Riders released white doves overhead. Fire Cult flicked embers into the air. Merchants bowed, handing him trade agreements. Thieves' Guild couriers pressed sealed scrolls of gratitude into his hands.
Hiroto staggered to his feet, water dripping, flowers in his hair, scrolls under his arm. His head spun like a top.
Virelya cleared her throat. "Captain, the world awaits your speech."
Hiroto's gaze flicked to the dais's central shrine, now glowing softly. Behind it, towering banners proclaimed:
"The Sleeping Saint: Bringer of Tranquility"
He coughed. "I… don't have a speech."
Sera handed him her scroll. "Use this. It's five lines—just thank them and declare you're neither god nor saint, merely human."
Hiroto eyed the scroll. May as well try. He cleared his throat:
"Honored friends, I thank you for your faith—though I am but a clerk, not a saint. May my rest remind us all that peace is built in the quiet moments between our struggles. Let our actions, not my slumber, guide our world. And, uh, let's never schedule another global nap, agreed?"
The gathered crowd fell silent—then erupted into warm applause, doves fluttering, drums beating. The shrine's crystals shone bright, then dimmed.
Location: Sunlit Terrace – Late Afternoon
As the delegates filtered away, Hiroto, Virelya, and Sera escaped to a sunlit terrace overlooking the palace gardens.
Hiroto stripped off the garlands and brushed petals from his robes. "I never want to sleep publicly again."
Sera handed him a bowl of steaming noodles. "On the bright side, they'll call you 'Sleeping Saint' for generations."
Virelya sheathed her sword. "Better than 'Chair‑Fu Master,' I suppose."
Hiroto slurped a long noodle, savoring its simple warmth. "If the world must have a saint, may he at least eat well."
They watched the late‑afternoon light dapple the fountains. For once, Hiroto let himself rest—not in orchestrated ceremony, but in genuine camaraderie.
Above them, a lone white dove circled, its wings tipped with silver—an unspoken reminder that even in wakefulness or slumber, the Silent Savior's legend lived on.
And as the walls of Solencia shimmered in golden dusk, Itsuki Hiroto realized that peace—like sleep—was a gift best shared, but never forced.