The Leads' Story (1)

Pat. Pat.

"Aigo, this shoulder of mine..."

The old man patted his shoulder and complained of the fatigue. He still prided himself that his spirit, at least, brimmed with vigor, yet the body would not be lied to by the years, and there was hardly a place on him that did not ache. He thought of closing his eyes for even ten minutes, just long enough to ease it—but.

"Cardinal Raphael! The Monster Front has requested priests be sent. They say it is urgent. How shall we handle it?"

"—So I am not even to be given time to rest."

He had to take the priest's report, urgency soaked through every word, as if the very notion of closing his eyes did not exist.

And it did not end there.

"Word from the frontier! The monsters are on the verge of swarming, and they say healing priests or healers are needed!"

"Th-there are signs of plague. From a month ago the priests assigned to the provinces ran short, and it seems disease has broken out in the villages that were poorly looked after."

"Urgent word from the Royal Castle..."

"......Ha."

Report followed report, until Raphael's skull ached.

"Star King!"

"...I am not a Star King."

"Ah! Cardinal!"

"Mmm..."

Yes. He had given up on that as well. He could not tell whether the brothers did it on purpose, but they kept calling him Star King, or Cardinal. The titles sat badly with him, and yet Raphael could not bring himself to scold them.

And little wonder.

"—They have no one to lean on but you. It cannot be helped."

"Oh, Brother Roen."

"Do not call me brother. I am not even a believer of the Light of Radiance, and I loathe the temple more than anyone."

"Then I shall call you young master."

"...All of it is uncomfortable. Just use my name."

"Hehe. Yes, Lord Roen."

"......"

Roen Dmitri de Lionel. Blood of Lionel, and in practice treated as heir to the North—a handsome black-haired youth had come into Raphael's office with a frown between his brows, and not a soul found it strange. For a month already he had appeared at the office without fail, as punctually as a man clocking in to work. And more than that—

"The temple's greatest patron has arrived. We ought to offer tea, at least."

"No. I don't want anything to drink. Don't bring a thing."

"Then holy water, perhaps."

"......"

—he was a patron who had, in effect, bought the collapsing temple with money, as if acquiring it outright. There was not one person in the temple who could bar his way. The bitter joke was that Roen, now holding a temple that had once wielded authority to rival the royal house, looked thoroughly displeased in every respect.

"Haa. If it weren't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for the Instructor's 'advice,' I never would have gotten tangled with the temple at all."

"I am always grateful to Brother Lee Han. And to you as well, Lord Roen. Thanks to you, the temple is doing the work it ought to do."

"...Tsk."

Whether it discomforted him that Raphael, dozens of times his age, treated him with such deference, or whether he simply disliked the situation itself, Roen only clicked his tongue, low.

...What a load of shit.

Was it strange that a curse learned from the Instructor should set his heart a little more at ease?

...That I, once called the temple's nemesis, should be standing in a place like this. Absurd.

In the past—no. Roen of the first cycle, before he had undergone the miracle of time, had been the temple's nemesis and its adversary, and that was no exaggeration. The butcher who had slaughtered so many Inquisitors and Holy Knights had been none other than him.

Some, looking upon him, had called him cruel, a butcher of men. But the Roen of the first cycle had had something to say as well.

—I will state it outright. The cruelty I committed is scarcely a sparrow's track of blood beside the temple and the noble alliance.

So it was. If Roen had been a vengeful ghost, they had been demons walking the mortal world, and the evils of the temple had driven the Roen of the first cycle to ever crueler methods. Now, living through his second cycle, he had poured himself into preparations to destroy ahead of time the corrupt high priests and the nobles of that alliance—worse than monsters—so that he would not repeat the life of the first.

I never expected one of my enemies to destroy himself like a fool.

Had his comrades from the first cycle seen it, they would have found it every bit as ridiculous. And the funny part was that even now, a month after the thing had happened, it remained just as hard to believe.

I never imagined those vicious demons would die so emptily.

Cardinal Michael, the loathsome enemy of Roen's first cycle, was dead.

A man I thought would rise again as an undead, even if he died.

It was absurd. Galling, that he had not killed the man with his own hands, and yet both hollow and refreshing that the man had died under torture. Harder to believe than Michael's death, though, was this.

The temple has fallen.

And fallen utterly.

Some seven-tenths of the high priests seated in posts of importance were dead. The temples spread through the capital and the provinces lay half in ruins. To restore them would take ten years at the least—no. Considering the distrust of the temple now spreading, it might take thirty. A half-ruined temple could simply be rebuilt, and priests could simply be replaced. But—

Trust, once lost, is not a thing one easily finds again.

Roen could not tell whether he ought to rejoice that the temple he had wanted to pull down with his own hands had destroyed itself, or whether he ought to feel empty. And when he thought of the ripples that collapse had sent out, rejoicing seemed a strange thing as well.

Healing priests have grown scarce, and plague has begun to break out. Was that it?

However rotten it had been, the temple was revered, and its sins discounted, because it could not be replaced.

Holy Power.

Proof that a god existed, and a Mystery that god had granted. When the supply of that Holy Power was severed everywhere at once, unending chaos was only to be expected.

If I had not already poured my effort into raising healers to stand in for the healing priests, the damage would have been worse.

Of course, the healers were not yet enough to take the priests' place. And for that reason—

"—that is why I am helping a temple, of all things."

"I am always grateful to you, Lord Roen. Thanks to the support you have given, the temple can at least begin to move again. Hehe."

"It is not what I intended. I merely..."

...chose the greater cause over a private grudge.

Roen called back the conversation with the Instructor.

And he alone had come out the ugly one.

No. Was I already ugly.

Roen smiled bitterly. Yes—to put it plainly, most of his old enemies, Michael among them, were already dead. The practical thing was not to keep nursing a grudge against the temple, but to think of using it. Yet he had not thought even that far. He had held nothing but his revulsion, and led with resistance.

How very—

A pathetic man.

How pathetic. How foolish. Look back at himself, and he was pathetic indeed. And yet, had the Instructor read this thought of his, he would have said it so.

Like that.

A soft breath of a laugh escaped him.

This isn't like me.

A funny thing, that a day should come when he leaned on someone this much. Even so.

It isn't bad.

The fact that there was someone to lean on.

He let the breath out, as if the self-reproach had run its course. And so, now.

"I will say it again, Cardinal Raphael. Understand that from this day every organ of the temple is to undergo an audit. The Office of the Inquisition will be closed, and the selection of priests will come with a great many restrictions."

"Only natural."

"The priests' private fortunes will also be disclosed to the public at all times."

"If that is the road back to trust, then we must disclose them gladly."

"Ties with the nobles must be cut as well."

"Indeed. So they must."

"...Are you truly all right with all of it? The backlash will be no small thing."

"Hehe. That, too, is a trial that will pass in time."

"...Is that so."

The temple's last conscience, sure enough. Well. It was because a man like this existed that he could loathe the temple and still trust it enough to fund it. Roen gave a deep nod and set down the last, and most important, condition.

"Then this is the last. Become Star King in earnest. As the temple's new center, and its symbol—"

"Ah, that I must decline."

"......"

"A more capable junior ought to sit as Star King. What would an old man like me accomplish, climbing so high..."

"...I could not say how many times we have been over this."

He would say it again. The temple had destroyed itself, by its own sins. And yet if it could still hold even this shape, it was because that man existed.

It holds its shape on nothing but that old priest's presence.

The one who had protected the temple's young believers and priests when the great fire broke out? Raphael. The one who had knelt until his knees bled before them, when denunciation of the temple rose and riot threatened? Raphael. The one who, through the past month, had stamped out every plague in the capital? Raphael.

Which was to say that the only new captain who could bring to a second birth a temple ready to collapse like a castle of sand was this old priest. Even while all the South cursed the temple, feeling toward Raphael alone stayed favorable. Present opinion held that no one but him could ascend as Star King. He was, quite literally, a man who could not be replaced.

Decades of riding the circuits and laying on healing shine at a time like this.

So the only one fit to lead the temple as it stood was this old man, and no one else could become Star King. For anyone to ascend now, some dead saint or saintess would all but have to return to life before an acclamation was even possible.

Of course.

Even if those people came back alive, I would not acknowledge them.

Roen meant to raise this man to Star King no matter what. To reach the end he wanted, he needed a mighty strength. For instance—

Influence enough to bring down even the royal house!

Even if only to take that first step, he meant to make the stubborn old priest Star King.

Without fail.

"That's some obsession..."

"His lordship does have that side to him. Please look kindly on it, Saint."

The girl who had happened to overhear clicked her tongue. It was a talk that called spear and shield to mind, and she thought a vicious exchange of blows would look much the same. A moment later her eyes flared, and she glared at the one who had called her Saint. Of late it was the title she least wanted to hear.

"Mr. Jack. Want to fight me?"

"...I was wrong."

"If you know that, don't call me ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Saint. My head hurts enough already."

"Even so, everyone admires you, Miss Irene, so please don't dislike it too much."

"...I know that. That's why I'm keeping quiet. Tch!"

Kururung!

Irene swung her staff, steeped in mana the color of clear water.

In an instant—

Fwaaah!

A clear, pure scent of clean water soaked into the ground, and earth blackened by fire turned clean, as if filthy clothes were being washed. Nor was the cleansing only on the surface. Fresh sprouts unfurled their green leaves, and trees whose roots still lived regenerated, running time backward until they recovered the shapes they had once worn.

In a breath, part of the forest was restored. Sparrows, squirrels, wild things that had been hiding who knew where, showed their faces in woods gone green and fresh again.

"Aigo, I'm worn out. How much of the ground we have to restore is left?"

"......"

"Mr. Jack?"

"...To say you aren't a saint even after doing this—isn't that the greater deception?"

"Huh?"

"...It's nothing."

Jack shut his mouth tight, so as not to rasp the girl's temper. He knew better than anyone that beautiful mana could split a person clean in half.