Chapter 32
Chapter 32
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 32
Chapter Title: Riding the Spring Breeze
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I’d sent Roca to fetch Her Highness the Princess, but now I regretted it. I should’ve just gone myself.
How heavy could my butt be that I made Roca do it? How precious were my feet that I didn’t go in person? Regret hit me hard.
“Did the two of you maybe get into a fight?”
The mood between the returning pair was ice-cold.
I hadn’t expected them to chat cheerfully on the way back, but I’d hoped they’d warm up to each other a bit. Maybe that was asking too much. I’d wanted more than I realized.
“A fight? As if. I like Roca so much. Right, Roca?”
“…Yeah. We didn’t fight or anything.”
Looking at them, I was certain.
Never leave them alone together. Ever. Better for me to go with one at a time than let them both stay behind—someone was bound to get hurt.
‘If she asks to learn smoke signals with the Lineage Sapling, I won’t approve it.’
Just look at that awkward vibe. Anyone could see they’d clashed.
Roca sidled up to me and snuggled in. I thought she might have something to say, but no—it was just that she’d missed my pets. When I stroked her, her face finally relaxed.
The princess scowled at Roca’s melted expression.
I couldn’t fathom it. Such a cute, tiny kid. Why was Princess Ardein so bristly?
She was sweet, polite, smart despite skipping studies,
diligent, never refused errands, ate well, slept soundly, full of charm and affection.
So why did the princess look at Roca with such distaste?
“Saint. Does that wolf… no, does Roca always act that… submissive around you?”
The princess stared at Roca nuzzling my chest, her face a mix of shock, horror, and disbelief beyond bewilderment. She seemed unsure what to say.
“She likes me a bit, yeah?”
“A bit? She looks like she’d die without you…”
Oh, this adorable thing.
I couldn’t resist furiously petting Roca, who gazed at me with honey-dripping eyes. Roca giggled, and only then did the princess sigh.
“I figured, but you really were in danger.”
“Me?”
“Well, it’s fine now. I’ll stay by your side, Saint.”
Anyway, after petting Roca,
after neatly combing her ear fur back into place,
the princess and I began preparing for our journey. She had plenty of field experience, and I’d traveled with the hero party, so things came together quickly.
“No need for water?”
“Just one canteen each? We can make a temporary spring if needed.”
“The weather’s warming, but still. Shouldn’t we pack thick clothes?”
“The bluebird’s feather can handle that.”
Thinking about it, the miracles I’d received from the Lord mostly aided adventures.
They had other uses, sure, but without my travels, they’d gather dust. The sanctuary candle, the reviving spring, the bluebird’s feather—all granted amid journeys.
But they were miracles at their core.
Bestowed by the Lord, wielded by me as proxy.
This lowly priest has served the Lord for nearly twenty years. I didn’t just accept what came—I’d improvised techniques from His power in my own way.
“We can use the Unassuming Jar, so pack as much as possible. Candles especially.”
“Unassuming Jar?”
“Not from the Lord—my own creation. That’s why it’s unassuming. Trivial compared to His miracles.”
I call them authorities.
The Unassuming Jar: a portable warehouse, bigger on the inside.
Items inside weigh nothing, don’t spoil, stay preserved. Put in hot soup, pull it out days later—still hot.
Make it pocket-sized, and it fits anywhere. Since it’s my improvisation, that’s easy.
Capacity shrinks, but still dwarfs a backpack.
“If we run out of food, I hate to say it, but the mud-baking oven works.”
Another of my authorities. Bake sand for cookies, shape mud and bake for bread. Texture and taste match flour-baked exactly.
“Baking mud to eat…?”
“Saint, if it comes to that, I’ll reveal my identity and procure funds.”
But I rarely used it except to save the truly starving.
Even if mud becomes bread, it’s still mud-made. No way I’d offer it to the poor if they had other food.
“So prepare thoroughly. Best if it never happens.”
I prayed constantly, but most prayers were thanks.
Not demands. Rely on the Lord’s power only as a last resort. We live reality ourselves; we bear responsibility for our actions. Prep had to be meticulous.
Only after exhaustive checks could I pray in crisis. Skimp on prep, hit crisis, then call on the Lord?
Better prepare so it never happens. For everyone.
“Pack plenty of coin too.”
One person loses the money, we’re sleeping rough.
I had another authority—One Night’s Shelter—but it needed open land. Fine for mountains or plains, but cities demanded coin.
“It was freezing tears-to-ice cold when I arrived here, but now it’s thawing. Walking won’t be bad.”
“Aren’t we taking a carriage?”
Walk to the capital? Possible, but in the Empire—not demon realm? Then the princess revealed her plan.
“There’s a place to rent one. It’s quick from here to there. Trust me and follow.”
So I trusted her.
Time to ride the spring breeze chasing winter’s gales,
head north to the capital. Drop off the princess there, then I’d go farther north.
To lands no humans, not even demons, tread.
The frozen wastes where all is ice, the North Pole.
*****
Venturing out means suffering. The fastest way to grasp why home is best? Step outside, go far.
Centipedes fled a crumbling thatch hut as we approached. The hero party’s faces upon spending a night there wouldn’t have been better.
“Honestly, I never missed that shelter. Until now.”
Yurinel Lafonsia shook her head.
“But suddenly, I do.”
“We… sleep here?”
“Pitch tents outside. Better than this, right? Chase bugs, catch some shut-eye.”
Kyle’s authority, One Night’s Shelter, was modeled after hunter Helmut’s cabin in their hometown, Pumpkin Vine Village.
Helmut was kind, letting kids use his cabin in his absence.
The hot spring out back too—technically, he’d built around it, but it made his place playground and haven for rural kids.
‘Kept dredging up that dumpy village. Hated the reminder.’
One Night’s Shelter replicated the cabin and spring exactly.
Helmut’s place was spacious, multiple rooms—fit ten easily, not four. Hot spring for baths.
Boil bird eggs in it for meals. Stocked pantry for scavenging fun.
‘Who’d think I’d miss it. Life’s full of surprises.’
Great for a full rest before departing, but he’d figured camping could replace it anytime. Mistake.
“Ugh… itchy. No place to wash?”
“Pond back there. Use that.”
“The tadpole-infested one? No way. Better stay filthy.”
Despite grumbling, the archmage used a water pillar spell on herself. Then repeated it for the others’ requests.
One on watch, two prepping food and camp, Parnell on water duty. Washed folks rotated in. Kyle’s authority was replaceable by human effort, but undeniably harder.
“Saintess, can you make a spring or something?”
“It’s not that simple…”
Araidel spoke apologetically.
“The Goddess rules the earth, not lakes or sources. Not the earth itself either. She enriches soil, but springs…”
Not unwilling, just unable. What to say?
Blame lay with the hero party, hiring her on title alone—no interview, start tomorrow. Themselves.
“No helping it.”
“Could you make a shelter?”
“W-Was that a priest’s job originally?”
Araidel looked flustered at Leunheim.
The bishop shook his head.
“Isn’t that for specialized supporters, or the whole party pitching in?”
“Bishop’s right.”
Lucia nodded reluctantly. Textbook answer. Nothing more to debate.
They were priests, not builders or well-diggers. Land proper heals in combat, treat wounds right, bonus demon hunts with holy arts—that was plenty.
No party asked priests to build houses or springs. Hero party hadn’t either.
‘We didn’t ask. But he did it.’
Yurinel finally appreciated Kyle’s feats. What she’d breezed past weren’t simple. Just normalized by constant use.
‘He made them. We assumed it natural.’
Humans adapt to ease; no one questioned Kyle. Drizzle-soaked clothes became “priests do that” belief.
Recalling now, not priest duties originally. Favors turned obligatory in their minds, knowingly or not.
“Should’ve kept a supporter at least.”
“That again?”
“No, just regret. Not sobbing, but yeah.”
Losing those miracles and authorities made adventures far rougher. Alternatives existed, but Plan B’s Plan B for reasons.
Plan A’s better. No-need-for-alternatives ideal.
“Enough. No need to fight. No one saw this coming.”
Yurinel was right. Kyle’s absence hit hard because times changed.
Buying from a demon merchant as usual, they realized poison post-meal. Alert, eyes watched from everywhere.
Village kids were enemy spies, goat-herding hill folk enemy collaborators.
No civilians—demon or otherwise. Harma El’s grip reached this demon realm fringe.
Demons felt increasingly unified.
The reviving spring purged the poison lightly, but now nowhere safe—constant vigilance.
Hence hiding in remote spots. Off-trail exploration, once minor, now routine.
Lucia sighed at the dying campfire.
“Caution, more caution. Enemy territory.”
Archmage Parnell nodded, setting barriers and alarms.
“Worst case, Harma El comes personally.”
If she had brains, no. Yurinel smirked.
“So what? We’re not helpless.”
No guarantee she’d crush the hero party visiting home,
her authority imperfect. Demons fractious by nature.
More forces on heroes meant her strain. Fewer resources to crush lone wolves, lead.
If she strutted confidently and lost to the hero? No demon follows sincerely. They worship strength.
“Unnecessary worry. Can’t win, but we can flee.”
Emperor personally intervening burdensome; needs overwhelming win for break-even. Regional demon kings submitted, not surrendered—primed to rebel, revert to old days.
They recalled ideal era divvying demon realm.
Hated a Harma El over them.
Still demons—no aiding heroes against her.
Best neutral, opportunistically. Conditions met, allies; same for enemies.
Enemies likelier, though. One potential friend-king, Horisa, suicided at Hittite Gorge.
“Yeah, probably.”
Still, no relaxing.
Mouthing nonchalance, Yurinel worried inwardly.
‘Need more caution.’
“Hero, if you have a moment…”
Head spinning, the saintess approached softly.
“Could we talk privately?”
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