Episode 4 - Why Are You Picking on Me?
The Church is a theocratic state. It runs on divine-right politics and absolute monarchy as its political framework, but surprisingly, its elections are pretty democratic. Think Vatican conclave. A week before the vote, the Pope summons all voting priests from dioceses scattered across the continent. Come election day, they’re herded into St. Pasqualina Cathedral—three blocks from the State Council building—under ironclad security from the Inquisition and Holy Knights, and they keep voting indefinitely until there’s a winner. House arrest, basically. Sure, it’s to protect them, but handing out nothing but water, salt, and consecrated bread? Who treats people like that? Of course, whether they actually vote in there, snort drugs, or throw an orgy is none of my damn business. What matters is whether Lucia becomes a saintess or not.
Both outcomes have crystal-clear pros and cons, enough to drain the blood from anyone watching. I don’t know how it’ll turn out—I’m no shaman. But whatever happens, I’ll have to deal with the fallout. I’m the Hero’s companion and a ducal aide, after all. So I waited for the results with the same nail-biting tension as an American presidential election. And finally, they came.
“The Saintess will arrive here today.”
“...How’d it go?”
“The morning star has risen.”
Lucia won.
A new saint has been born. Once Veronica’s handmaiden, Lucia now stands shoulder-to-shoulder with her. She’s succeeded the 58th Saintess to become the new 59th. I got the news at my lodging. According to the Inquisition agent who knocked cautiously at dawn’s dim light, two saints of the same gender in a row is a first in 43 years. An election held with the predecessor still alive—no precedent in Church history. She overcame scandals and smears from the candidate phase to be elected a saint. Technically, she hasn’t gone through canonization yet, so she’s not officially a saintess, but with bait this juicy, it was prime breaking news material.
“Lucia’s become a saintess.”
“Huh? For real?”
“Yes.”
Camilla Lowell, mid-bite on her toast, glanced at the TV, then at me, then back at the TV before snatching the newspaper. She flipped through politics, society, international, editorials, cartoons—and then said:
“No article about it.”
The news of the new saintess wasn’t in the morning papers or broadcasts. Like someone had cast a spell. Of course, I knew why. With an unprecedented national security crisis still fresh—a string of massive spy scandals just a week ago—governments needed time to sort their political angles. In short, everyone’s catching their breath. For now. The question was who’d break the ice first. Afraid of losing face, they’re all playing eye-tag, so the Church stepped up, shouldered the burden, and slapped an embargo on every media outlet. Whether the press meekly complied or got a “friendly warning” in an interrogation room and shut up... who cares. Not me.
But Camilla Lowell doesn’t need to know that. Shouldn’t know. I plastered on a smile and brushed it off.
“No official announcement yet. Articles’ll drop today, probably.”
“Hmm... Well, good news anyway, right?”
“Why’s that?”
“Saints are people with real prestige in religion, yeah?”
“Uh, sure...?”
“Means Lucia’s that amazing, then.”
“Yeeeaaah...?”
Calling a booze-and-smoke hound “prestigious” feels off. The Church doesn’t ban priests from smoking or drinking, but the way they hide it? They know it’s not exactly saintly. Veronica or Lucia.
“......”
I paused, calmly weighing who was less saintess material: the one who spied for the Empire, or the minor who boozed and smoked underage. Impossible to pick a winner—perfect harmony, El Clásico itself.
Lost in thought, Camilla beamed at me as usual.
“Not everyone can save lives, y’know?”
“What’s that mean?”
“Don’t you remember? Last time you collapsed, it was Lucia and Ver... Ve...?”
“Veronica.”
“Right! Saintess Veronica who saved your life.”
Hmm. Yeah, that happened. It was impactful, but back-to-back crises buried it. If Camilla hadn’t mentioned it, I wouldn’t have bothered recalling. Time to quietly wash my mouth of it. Honestly, a shame.
Camilla eyed me like a teacher spotting a lying student.
“...You didn’t forget, right?”
“O-Of course not.”
“Knew it. Oh, right—when can we see Lucia?”
I checked my watch and stood.
“Now.”
The saintess was due any minute.
*
"...Control. This is Army 207S. Reception good?"
"Army 207S. This is Desert Control. Signal strength three-four, good."
"Control. Requesting heading change to 255."
"Approved, Army 207S. Turn right to 255."
With the airspace locked down, only military and police mages buzzed the capital skies. From the control tower, controllers kept the aerial traffic from colliding.
“Train incoming soon. ETA one minute.”
“Mana disruption device ready.”
“Outer guard teams, rooftop sniper teams—report status.”
The Capital Guard Command and police handling event security sealed off roads near the station. Barricades blocked civilians; armed riot and military police scanned everywhere, plainclothes mixed in the crowd watching for suspects. A sharply dressed honor guard paraded the station. They awaited one person: Lucia, visiting to meet her comrades. The Abbas government treated her as state guest. Overkill for one person? Maybe, but she was a saint-to-be, pre-canonization. Not just anyone becomes a saintess. They need top prestige to even be candidates, then win endorsement from Church brass to stand pope-level. Snubbing her would spark diplomatic hell. Plus, she came as saintess-in-waiting, leading a retinue with multiple cardinals—Abbas had to roll out state honors.
Right on cue, the most famous church spire in the capital rang clear.
“She’s here!”
“No feed—fix it quick!”
“What the hell.”
Broadcast jammed for bomb threats—scramble’s a bitch, media. Sucks to be you.
The train rolled in to brass band fanfare. The honor guard fired salutes. Amid the booming, I asked Camilla Lowell:
“Not too loud?”
“Huh? What?”
“The cannon fire. Not deafening?”
“Pfft.”
She grinned.
“This? Loud?”
“...?”
My ears were ringing, but okay. Tough or bluffing? Come to think, she shrugged off a bomb blast up close—freaked inside, sure, but stone-faced. Tougher than most kids.
The train whistled, slowed, entered the station. Band played on; honor guard snapped heads toward it. Doors opened—there they were. Comrade, soon-to-be saintess: Lucia. She’d ditched the drab black priest robes for pristine white vestments. Striding under warm sun, she seemed haloed in soft glow—like an icon saint from an old Eastern Orthodox church I’d seen. Just needed canonization rites. Spot on.
Lucia approached with her usual serene smile. We shook hands, greeted warmly.
“Long time.”
“Honored to see the saint. Great to meet you, Saintess Lucia.”
“Yay, saintess!”
“Just call me Lucia, casually.”
She stepped close, whispering so others wouldn’t hear. While Camilla and Lucia hugged it out, I approached the figure behind her. The Church delegation wasn’t just Lucia.
I smiled, offered a hand.
“Long time. Good to see you again.”
“...Yes. Likewise.”
“Bernard Cardinal.”
Bernard, Inquisition Safety Director—visiting briefly to secure the saintess and retinue.
“Pleasure.”
“Oh, you here?”
“Yes, on business.”
“But why the nun habit...?”
“......”
Rebecca Priest, Inquisition Chief’s secretary—suddenly in nun garb.
And then:
“Um...”
Someone called me mid-greeting.
“Yes?”
“Why no hello for me?”
“Who’re y—wait.”
Ebony waterfall hair over shoulders. Alluring beauty mark, abyss-black eyes. Tall, long legs. Voice I’d love; face that exhausts.
“Uh, uhhh...”
“Missed me?”
“...Why the hell are you here?”
She smiled with her eyes.
“Missed you?”
Veronica.
The psycho showed up.