Chapter 32
Makarov stood dazed for a long while.
‘He was a force of nature.’
The Hero who had rescued the Saintess threatened the remaining bishops that he would return tomorrow, then left.
The bishops showed no spirit of resistance.
It was because of the overwhelming display of power he had witnessed.
If they spoke out carelessly, wouldn’t they end up suffering the same fate as Cardinal Marblov or Bishop Ronin?
If one were to classify the Hero, he was closer to a natural disaster than a human being.
No one wanted to provoke a natural disaster for no reason.
That didn’t mean Ashtein would forgive them, of course.
In any case, he had left with Aria.
Though he had left, no one present dared make a careless move.
The Hero’s intervention had been that shocking.
Makarov stared dazedly at the Holy Sword in his hand.
He’d heard it hadn’t chosen a Hero for several decades.
So why was such a sword in his hands?
The Hero had given it to him.
‘Hold on to this.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I’ll take it when I come back tomorrow, so keep it for me. It’s a noisy sword that keeps chattering.’
‘………Pardon?’
‘I’m leaving.’
A noisy sword that kept chattering?
Makarov looked at the Holy Sword.
It was completely silent; he couldn’t hear a word. How was it noisy?
He could hardly make sense of what the Hero had said.
They said the Holy Sword could communicate with its master, generation after generation, so perhaps that ability had manifested.
If so, that raised even more questions.
If it had acknowledged him as its master, why leave the Holy Sword with him?
Ashtein had left the chattering ‘Holy Sword’ with Makarov because he thought it would distract him from tending to Aria, but Makarov had no way of knowing that.
Makarov looked up at the basement ceiling.
A huge hole had been punched through it—the work of Ashtein.
He had a feeling repairing it would be quite a chore.
Through the hole, he could see the sparkling stars and the dark night sky.
‘……I should head back for now.’
He was just about to take a step when—
“………Bishop Ronin.”
A dazed voice rang out.
Makarov turned his gaze toward its source.
A nun with pale purple hair was holding what appeared to be Bishop Ronin’s wrist.
‘Sister Gina?’
Sister Gina had been especially devoted to Bishop Ronin.
She must be devastated.
Her body was trembling faintly.
Was she sobbing with grief?
It seemed even that vile man had someone who would mourn him in death.
Makarov felt a strange bitterness.
“Thank goodness you’re alive.”
Contrary to his expectations, Gina was smiling brightly.
For some reason, Makarov felt a chill.
Was that how a madwoman’s eyes looked?
As Makarov watched her in puzzlement, Gina picked up the wrist and promptly left.
After that, Sister Gina’s whereabouts became unknown.
* * *
The next day.
Just as he’d said, Ashtein came to the church alone and immediately sought out Makarov.
Makarov bowed to him, who was waiting in the reception room.
“You’re here early.”
“Strike while the iron’s hot, as they say.”
“Is that so?”
He was certainly a man of action.
That was fitting for a Hero.
Makarov was about to hand over the Holy Sword he had been keeping.
“You can give it to me later.”
Ashtein looked oddly reluctant.
“……Very well. However, I don’t see the Saintess.”
“I decided there was no need to bring her to a place like this.”
Makarov fully agreed with that.
This place held nothing but the trauma Aria had endured.
A cold gaze fixed on Makarov.
“Try those legitimate procedures you mentioned.”
“I can’t do it alone.”
“You said you could yesterday.”
“What I can do is give voice to a just cause, nothing more.”
Ashtein jerked his chin as if telling him to continue.
Makarov explained what he had in mind. When Ashtein had heard him out, he stroked his chin and fell into thought.
“……That sounds all right.”
It was a positive response.
“Can I trust you to leave this to me?”
“Sure. Nothing to lose by trying.”
Makarov was doubtful at how readily he agreed.
“If the plan I devise goes wrong, what will you do?”
He replied as if it were nothing.
“Then I’ll just sweep them all away.”
His tone was casual, but the words themselves carried no less weight.
Makarov thought he could smell the thick scent of blood in them.
“You’re more extreme than I expected.”
“Have you ever seen a beast show mercy to the one that provoked it?”
It was a crude analogy.
“If you keep acting like that, your reputation as a Hero will hit rock bottom.”
“Thanks for worrying, little snot-nose. But my people matter more to me than my reputation.”
My people.
He must have meant Saintess Aria.
Makarov looked at Ashtein.
Ashtein looked back at Makarov.
The two men Aria cherished had utterly different dispositions.
They were opposites in every way.
“I won’t let things unfold that way.”
“Do your best.”
“Yes. I’ll try.”
Ashtein told him to call anytime he needed help and gave him the address of the inn where he was staying.
Contrary to expectations that he would cause a commotion, Ashtein left peacefully.
* * *
Makarov was a clever boy.
From time to time, he heard his father speak of clergymen who looked out only for their own interests, and each time, he couldn’t hide the deep revulsion that welled up within him.
Why were clergy so universally tainted by worldly concerns?
Weren’t they people whose calling was to spread and glorify the will of God?
He would grow irritated whenever he saw people who had failed to become decent human beings.
Perhaps that was why the boy admired the Saintess.
The Saintess, who devoted herself to faith regardless of the state of the world, was the ideal ‘person of faith’ the boy longed for.
Even if she was a constructed, manufactured mask, the Saintess was a symbol and an idol to Makarov.
The more he learned about what she had endured, the more devastated he felt.
As if sexually assaulting the church’s Saintess weren’t enough, the Cardinal and bishops had even resorted to threats.
‘Had it really been this corrupt?’
He felt a deep disillusionment.
If God truly existed, He should not forgive them.
He should not have stood by and watched.
He should have brought down divine punishment.
They should have paid for what they had done.
But the Goddess did nothing, merely observing.
The one who had actually delivered divine punishment was a single Hero.
Makarov submitted a document detailing the Erotic Cult’s twisted abuses directly to the Pope.
Ordinarily, internal whistleblowers needed to hold a certain rank, but being a Cardinal’s son gave him more ‘leeway’ than he had expected.
‘Though after this is over, I won’t be able to use that ‘leeway’ anymore.’
Several days passed.
Fortunately, the document seemed to have reached the Pope, and a positive reply arrived.
Although the Pope had recently halted all public activity and shut himself away, he had not grown so frail as to refuse to address a matter this serious; he officially stated that he would meet with the Hero and Saintess in person.
‘He must be trying to silence the two of them.’
Wasn’t that obvious?
Even when he had been active, the Pope had cared more about the church’s power than its doctrine.
He was not someone who would welcome such rumors spreading.
A few days later, Pope Rondo Delphirium met secretly with the Saintess and the Hero.
Only they knew what was said.
The Pope personally announced to the people involved that anyone who carelessly spoke about the incident would be severely punished.
It was a matter of crushing them with authority.
Simple, but effective.
After that, things proceeded in no time.
The bishops who had harassed the Saintess were stripped of their positions and sent to the northern ‘Frozen Prison,’ a place notorious for its harsh conditions.
Since it was a place for heinous criminals, the bishops naturally protested fiercely. But the Pope said, “Then shall you offer up the ornaments atop your heads? I’m fond of either option, so I’ll personally give you the choice. Would you rather live out your days in a comfortable cradle, or become dew on the execution block?”
Not a single person objected.
Wasn’t this life better than dying, even if only just?
Of course, that was the bishops’ misconception.
There could be any number of living hells in this world.
It was exactly the outcome Makarov had wanted.
A way to properly punish those who had hurt Aria without reopening her wounds.
That included Marblov—his own father—but he forced himself to look away.
This was the right thing to do.
Makarov sighed deeply, a faint migraine setting in.
It was a reality and responsibility too heavy for a boy of only fourteen.
When he looked in the mirror, the dark circles under his eyes had deepened.
He had run around looking into all sorts of things and had plenty to worry about, so he looked absolutely dreadful.
Maybe he should go to the chapel and pray.
It seemed like that would help calm his troubled mind, too.
Wasn’t that right?
People turned to God whenever things got hard.
Makarov washed his face quickly and left his room.
The chapel was quiet on weekdays.
It was a place he had once considered grand and holy.
And yet, it was still such a place.
Makarov was bitterly upset that he could no longer feel that way about it with an innocent heart.
The boy smiled wryly as he took in the solemn scene, then his gaze stopped at a certain point.
Someone was there.
A beautiful person.
Perhaps noticing the boy’s gaze, she gave him a faint smile.
Yes, even when he’d first met her, there had been something dark about her.
“It’s been a while, Makarov.”
Her voice was clear as a bell.
A voice that seemed to insist she had never suffered anything cruel or painful.
Why are you here?
This place has only ever hurt you.
Are you all right?
Countless questions came to mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to utter a single one.
He was at a loss for words.
Makarov’s head bowed of its own accord, like a ripe ear of rice bending low.
“…Saintess Aria.”
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“There’s something important I’d like to discuss. Do you have some time?”
It was direct.
Makarov nodded gravely.
“As much as you need.”
“Thank you.”
What was she thanking him for?
What could she possibly be grateful for to the son of the man who had tormented her?
His throat tightened.
“Whe…re would you like to talk?”
The Saintess gave him a faint smile.
“How about my room?”
“………Very well.”
The two of them set off.
* * *
Aria’s room was bleak.
Makarov thought it was much like the relationship between her and him now.
Aria was the one to speak first.
“I heard you helped Ain.”
“Ain?”
“Oh, that’s Ashtein’s nickname.”
Aria smiled sheepishly.
Her smile was so bright.
Makarov realized she didn’t address Ashtein with an honorific.
They must be that close.
The boy’s mouth tasted bitter.
“Helped? I only did what I had to.”
Makarov was being modest.
Aria looked at him with pity.
“Makarov, about the Cardinal…”
Makarov corrected Aria.
“Saintess, he’s a former Cardinal.”
If he expected to keep his position after doing such things, he was shameless.
At Makarov’s cold reply, Aria quietly embraced him.
Then she gently stroked the boy’s back.
“If you keep your guard up all the time, you’ll get tired, Makarov.”
Was she speaking from experience?
The Saintess was good at comforting people.
“……I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Saintess.”
Makarov felt wretched.
Just thinking about the pain she must have suffered because of his father made him seethe.
And he was just as awful for having followed Aria around happily, never knowing any of it.
How disgusting must she have found him?
How unpleasant must she have found him?
The thought alone made his heart ache.
“What do you have to be sorry for, Makarov?”
It wasn’t sarcasm or mockery.
It was a sincere question.
“The wounds you suffered because of my father…”
“You weren’t the one who hurt me, Makarov.”
Her words were firm, yet kind.
They seeped gently into his clawed-open wounds.
Makarov felt as though the tears he’d been holding back were about to spill over.
“……Don’t you resent me?”
Aria’s eyes curved gently.
It was a kind smile.
“How could I? I managed to endure thanks to you, Makarov.”
“…Because of me?”
Aria released him from the embrace and patted the space beside her on the bed.
She was telling him to stop standing there and sit beside her.
Makarov sat where Aria had indicated.
“Do you remember the day we first met?”
At Aria’s words, Makarov nodded.
How could he forget the day he got an autograph directly from the Saintess he admired?
“I thought your eyes were so clear. At the same time, you were the person who let me remain myself.”
Aria spoke openly.
Makarov couldn’t say anything.
He had no right to.
“I was always grateful to you, Makarov, for looking up to and admiring someone as dirty as me.”
“………You’re not dirty, Saintess.”
“Hehe, Ain said the same thing.”
Aria’s face was that of the mischievous girl Makarov had once known.
The one who used to tease him, calling him ‘little believer.’
That side of her had disappeared at some point, but Makarov remembered it.
Aria’s slender fingers stroked the boy’s head.
Her touch was awkward, but tender enough to make it clear she was being thoughtful.
“The point is simple. You don’t need to feel guilty, Makarov.”
“……I…”
“If anything, I’m sorry to you. I feel like I showed you a cruel reality too early.”
“…Please don’t say that.”
Aria smiled.
“Thank you, and I’m sorry.”
He had no right to receive her gratitude or her apology.
Makarov’s eyes grew hot, and his throat tightened.
But he didn’t want to make a fool of himself in front of the Saintess he respected.
That was the boy’s last shred of pride.
“Saintess, there’s something I want to ask. Could you answer me?”
“Yes, please ask me anything.”
Makarov asked the question he’d wanted to ask before.
“What kind of person is the Hero? Was he very different from the rumors?”
Perhaps the question caught her off guard; Aria looked taken aback.
But she soon answered with a gentle smile.
“He’s as wonderful as the rumors say.”
“Do you love him?”
Aria looked at Makarov.
Her eyes were serious.
She couldn’t put off answering.
At least, that was how she felt.
“Well, how can I put it? I feel like he’s always there wherever my heart reaches.”
“How romantic.”
“……I never thought I’d say something like that, either.”
“You two suit each other.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Makarov.”
The two chatted about trivial things.
A conversation that seemed as if it could go on forever.
It gave the exhausted Makarov a moment of peace.