Chapter 363
Chapter 363
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 363
Chapter Title: Saint and Completer (19)
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The Red Mutant. Its notoriety was so widespread that finding a noble who hadn’t heard of it would be the harder task.
Why wouldn’t it be? Back when Mutants were dismissed as mere slime variants or beast plagues, it had infiltrated the heart of Lordric, demolished the mage tower, slaughtered mages, and planted the flag of Mutants as a hostile race in human territory as the vanguard.
Its range of operations was vast too—it had razed the Empire’s border count’s domain to the ground, assaulted the tomb of the great archmage Felix Drixiel and left hideous scars on that beautiful magical structure, and most recently, brazenly infiltrated the western front to behead Hedern’s entire command staff and neatly display their corpses. Its overt atrocities were countless.
Some even said that 80% of the units that had been completely wiped out without so much as a report of contact had fallen to ambushes by that Red Mutant—a ghostly monster.
The infamous monster dubbed the “noble-slaying blade” forged by Mutants had bared its claws right before their eyes, leaving nobles on the verge of fainting. And yet, the hand wielding that blade wasn’t a Mutant’s—it belonged to the Church of Light, the fanatics of radiance.
The Red Mutant was a monster raised by the Church of Light? One that danced to their tune?
‘If that’s the Red Mutant... doesn’t that mean the assaults on Tobrune, the Empire, and Hedern were all carried out at the Church’s behest?’
‘Damn it! Those blind zealots have been pulling the strings! Fanatics who charge at heretics and evil gods without a second thought!’
‘It adds up. Our Free Trade Alliance began countermeasures against Mutants right after that Tobrune raid. The Church wanted to forge a battlefield no one on the continent could escape.’
The nobles could only think along those lines. The shadow of the Church of Light, known only through rumors. The Church’s secret society, willing to use any means for their cause.
Its reality was far grander than they’d imagined.
The incomprehensible violence had approached in a way they could grasp. The hidden truth beneath the surface. The concealed meaning. And beneath it all, the grand ambitions of the colossal power known as the “Church of Light.”
As nobles who thrived on shadowy maneuvers for their goals, they understood it all too well—making the terror hit even harder. They had been tossed to the sharp edge of the Church’s “most covert solution.”
‘...This is bad. The situation’s spiraling out of control.’
Zigis Palem swallowed a groan as he watched the commanders, now fully grasping everything, gripped by bone-deep fear.
It would’ve been better if the Church’s monster had just slaughtered them all gruesomely right there.
But the monster, having revealed its identity—something that absolutely should’ve stayed hidden—didn’t raise its claws. Instead, it stood at the center of the round table, persuading the terrified nobles.
“There’s no need for fear. Though I bear this form, both my body and soul are dedicated tools of Light and Roharam. Flesh is always mere means; what guides us is the soul shining brightly.”
“If you claim to be God’s tool in that form... p-prove it!”
“How dare you demand the Saint prove his faith, you blasphemer...!”
“Brother Gregorian. Unbelievers lack our faith. They need proof they can see.”
“...Latura. If I may, Your Holiness is far too indulgent.”
Whoooosh—
At the monster’s fingertip, sculpted as if from raw savagery, a holy power burned purely white like flame, settling softly.
These were high nobles who summoned priests for holy healing at the slightest scratch, so they knew well what holy power felt like.
“Ooooh... It’s... it’s real holy power.”
“The monster—er, ahem! The Saint with a Mutant’s flesh is indeed the Saint of Light!”
“We’ve heard rumors of experiments using Mutants in various nations. But Light outpaces them by leaps. A holy knight wielding that monster’s power...”
The overwhelming embodiment of terror. The verified monster had become comprehensible, proving it could communicate with them.
Greed. And envy.
Like a ferocious beast encountered deep in the night forest not snarling, but lying beside them, seeking to share warmth.
The moment an overwhelming terror shows goodwill, the fear turns to anticipation and longing. Already, nobles imagined cozying up to the Church—how that fearsome “noble-slaying blade” would carve up their rivals, how it would shield them.
‘At this rate, we’ll be dragged along by that monster Saint’s whims. The Church wants swift Mutant extermination. For the greater plan, we must stop that.’
Palem recalled his goal here, watching nobles now fearlessly peppering the monster with questions.
Duke Zigis Palem. Head of the Palem family, founding merit of Teldrat, and longtime friend of the king now ruling it.
[Zigis. As you know, if not now, the Teldrat royals have no future.]
His friend, met in Aedran territory, hid his shame with trembling fists.
[...Volter Aedran barely bows to me anymore. Why wouldn’t he? In Teldrat, where gold is the constitution itself, he’s launched that absurd airship.]
[Your Highness. That’s...]
[Call me as in private, like old times. Zigis?]
[...In 20 years—maybe 10—the Teldrat royal castle will be the Aedrans’. No nobles sniff money like Teldrat’s, nor are weaker to it.]
[...This war is our Bellaster royal house’s last chance. War is a monster devouring supplies. Escalation means surging demand—and selling Teldrat wheat at higher prices.]
[No matter how mighty the Aedrans, they can’t match the royal demesne’s granary lands. The bigger the war, the wider our lead.]
[Your Highness! No—Shiodell!]
[I beg you, Zigis! If Lordric falls, the war spreads to the Free Trade Alliance, Teldrat, and the Empire beyond Blueline!]
[You’re saying drag war’s flames into Teldrat soil!]
[It’s the only way! The sole way to stop that money-grubbing Aedran from devouring the throne! To survive, we must pile a taller golden tower than theirs! No other path! This is it!]
[Shiodell Bellaster!]
[As a friend, not king—I beg you! Zigis, save the Teldrat royals!]
.
.
.
.
.
.
Once a great power’s vassal, Teldrat had amassed gold to break free, reborn as a vast kingdom. From that history sprang Teldrat’s unique culture.
“Gold is the law.”
Aedran’s lord hadn’t even stepped beyond his domain to greet the visiting king—he’d long placed the royals beneath him. Teldrat’s king, Shiodell Bellaster III, saw this war as the final chance to reverse the flipped hierarchy, to widen the wealth gap with House Aedran.
And his friend, the royal house’s loyal retainer, Duke Zigis Palem of the founding house, couldn’t bear watching the royals crumble before the golden cartel. So he’d come to the western front.
Scraping every last soldier, including royal guards, he’d seized speaking rights in the alliance, inciting noble commanders.
Humanity’s crisis? Sure—but after, what then? Would rivals truly spare them for “sacrificing” wealth and troops for the greater good? In a war offering no rewards, shouldn’t they claim fitting compensation themselves?
Greed sufficed to move them all. As Zigis and the Teldrat royals wished, the human alliance crafted the widest, defeat-friendly front. All that remained: let Lordric erode to ruin, guide the alliance’s retreat toward Aedran—the richest domain with airships. Easy enough, he’d thought.
“Regathering the already expanded front is impossible. Fortunately, the western front still tenuously holds land routes between strongholds under enemy pressure. First, my holy knights and I will restore those to safety. Until the Empire’s infantry arrives, we focus on shoring up western defenses.”
“Your Holiness, our private troops guard this sector’s passes...”
“Your Holiness, our forces are archer-heavy...”
‘That bastard... that bastard ruined everything!’
The Saint now casually commanded the commanders—dropping honorifics naturally—while they deferred and cooperated.
The Saint. Light’s famed luminary, the Church’s de facto supreme commander.
He’d meant only to intimidate and manipulate them into inaction.
In a blink, what was mere political courtesy among nobles had ballooned into bloodshed with the Church’s highest dignity right before them.
Before the confused nobles, the Saint used the overwhelming terror of the “Red Mutant” to gut them, exposing their innards.
Then, as a “benign, communicative terror,” he etched himself deep into those exposed cores.
Like a small wave becoming a tsunami, it crashed in an instant—no time to react.
Noble commanders were already leashed by fear (“Defy him, vanish without trace!”) and greed (“Play nice, gain that insane power as backup!”), neighing assent to his plans like tamed steeds. They knew well how risky devouring enemy lands mid-war was; with the mood soured, they opted to flip sides ASAP.
Something had to be done. While his authority lingered, stoke their greed or fear to make them blunder worse.
“Duke Palem. Duke Palem?”
“...Hm? Ah, yes.”
“Hahaha. I understand your trepidation. A commander’s mistake wastes countless lives. When a well-intentioned plan backfires into allied losses, the burden is indescribable.”
“Mm... Honestly, concentrating our remaining strength on the western front per your plan... doesn’t that abandon isolated eastern forces...?”
Gulp.
Voicing opposition to his plan, Palem feared the monster Saint’s unmoving gaze—not because it was a monster or “noble-slaying blade,” but simply those eyes. Terribly transparent, as if peering through to rummage his brain, like... like...
“Duke Palem.”
“Y-Yes...”
“If no private words, shall we continue?”
Like it knew everything, staring. Eyes brimming with certainty. Of all that had happened, and would.
‘Ahh, Your Highness. Forgive this incompetent friend’s failure...’
Reading cold killing intent in those eyes, Zigis quietly bowed.
****
“...Let’s end here for today. Light’s brethren are weary from the journey, and we must tend Köurn’s forces who blocked us.”
After hashing out urgent troop reallocations, he slipped from the flushed nobles’ round table to the balcony.
The anticipation unique to those sharing grave secrets. They’d trade his secret as currency.
‘A secret bound to leak soon anyway. Better I reveal it than some investigation—easier to spin.’
He’d overplayed the Red Mutant card.
The Empire border count’s domain lord had clocked it, and that domain’s bishop knew Saint = Red Mutant.
The bishop had gazed up in rapture, yet the tale hadn’t spread among faithful... Meaning, right after holy comms report to the archbishop, a gag order dropped. Archbishop Norman surely knew.
Beyond them: Ottman, wind mages, etc.—folks he hadn’t perfectly hidden, lurking unknown. With his fame, truth-seekers would reach them, and soon battlefield buzz: “The Saint’s a Mutant! Domehwangcha!”
So, preempt: let the secret spread softer, gentler.
From [The Saint’s the Red Mutant!]
To [The Saint’s the Red Mutant, and the Red Mutant’s the Saint! A true devout Saint].
Every act served humanity, right? Tobrune mage tower raid sparked swift Mutant awareness for preemptive action; the mage killed was an Insomnia Crab-infected Mutant spy.
Empire border undead wave: he topped kill scores.
Storm Hill: wind mages themselves said “let it slide.”
Spread rumors laced with his heroic tales. Perfect timing to wrangle commanders too—max terror peak for solid coming-out gains.
Complicated mess, but handled well.
“Gregorian.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“Duke Zigis Palem. Marquis Odoe Parbalti. Count Gunnar Fonpadu. These three meet ‘tragic accidents’ today. Ensure the brethren aren’t rattled.”
“...Latura.”
Mutants, humans—clean sweep.
At his words to kill men he’d just plotted with face-to-face, Gregorian bowed motionless.
Gunnar Fonpadu. Cause: incompetence.
Pure idiot, heir to domain and noble title solely as only son. More power meant more allied hindrance; no quick removal otherwise—execution.
Odoe Parbalti. Cause: schemer.
Typical political noble. Militarily clueless, but faction-building genius obsessed with real influence. Even mid-serious meet, subtly bound commanders and Saint as “secret-sharers”; by end, dragged cronies in. Faction-split profiteer. Left alone, he’d sow cracks—execution.
And... Zigis Palem. Cause: patriot.
‘...Not purely evil—a damn fine bastard.’
A few words revealed him leagues above the morons here.
Shrewd too. Wrangling idiots showed top political acumen, thinking, judgment.
That clicked: why engineer a shit “encirclement annihilation” with his caliber?
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- Professor: Didn’t Zigis Palem give a decent quest in Teldrat? What was it?
- Jokasss: Uh, hold on. What was it? Starter Teldrat players might know.
- Deer Drug Please: I-I know! Like any Teldrat noble quest—mostly caravan escorts. Escort this to royal demesne, hand off that to royal traders... Pay’s meh, but hooks into royal chain quests—popular.
- Professor: ...Royal. Teldrat’s internals are so cartelized, royals or not compete with rivals...
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Timely chat intel.
Fleeting glimpse leaving Aedran: Teldrat’s king amid nobles, Volter Aedran sending off the airship as rep despite royal visit; king’s shamed averted gaze.
“Founding merit” Palem house.
Shit plans, non-shit planner.
Teldrat’s famed noble culture.
‘...Zigis Palem must die, no question.’
Likely a patriot to the marrow. In Teldrat, goldless royals get no respect. Obvious even to short-stay me; how mocked they were needed no seeing.
Teldrat royals held most land—top war-profiting grain traders via royal caravans, no doubt.
Airships theirs, daughter Empire’s new empress—throats parched with envy. Soon Volter’d call “Hey, king!”
Longer war enriched royals. Alliance momentum meant end in sight for this golden goose battlefield. Thus, prolong by hook or crook...
Piecing intel led there.
Zigis’s hasty western contraction opposition sealed it.
‘Not reinforcements—a profiteer in disguise. Feed Lordric to the golden-egg goose to save his nation, his royals.’
...Overdoing it was the issue. Tobrune rampage barely reignited Mutant fear—already fading. Palkatus’s lunacy forced balance tweaks, unavoidable. But pity: such a sharp, principled commander NPC on our side would’ve helped big.
Clap!
“Past is past; handle the rest.”
Briefly pondered over-familiarity with “simple solutions”—no alternative, so onward.
“Secured voice; with Lordric king assenting, full military control. Fix soldier infighting...”
“...Your Holiness.”
“Recall lone-wolf heroes distrusting HQ; cull spawning Mutants meantime, and...”
“Your Holiness. Professor Saint!”
“And, uh... Hm? What is it, brother?”
Counting tasks on fingers, Gregorian approached stiff-faced, blocking my balcony dash with iron resolve.
Not drawing mace over “Mutant Saint intolerable!” I hoped.
“Postpone schedule. We’ll handle those ‘accidents.’”
“...Pardon?”
“An urgent matter only Your Holiness can do—no more delays.”
Bulging brows, firm block; holy knights slinking in encirclement.
I know that look. Like when Gregorian tailed me 24/7 for one creed read.
“Nearby lies the Church’s main headquarters. This time, without fail! Receive your sainthood there.”
“...Now?”
“Yes. Now. Especially after revealing evil’s traces—you must haste.”
Unyielding eyes: no escape this time.
Probed gaps—knights raised holy power, tightening flawless net.
...Damn. Fine, headquarters trip overdue.
“...Very well.”
Agreement eased his tension as he neared.
“Thanks for cooperating, Your Holiness.”
“...Said yes? Going. Wait—not ropes!”
“We’ll escort immediately.”
Mid-relax, pricey rope bound me swift.
Black mages cursed finger-twitch; this holy knight binding was ironclad—Gregorian’s mastery immovable by normal strength.
“Brother! Hey! I’ll go! Swear!”
“Brothers Balraug, Holwood—execute Holiness’s orders on lurking Church shadows among priests. Rest: to headquarters now.”
“Latura.”
“W-Wait! Tell my comrades firs—”
“Church carriages already dispatched to them.”
“No—”
Unyielding brethren.
Blink: gift-wrapped Saint boarded Church-bound carriage.
...Sunlight streamed oddly, tracking me through the window.
****