The Saint (Formerly)
"Everyone."
At the rise of my voice, every soul inside the Immigration Office turned to look at me, eyes gleaming with expectation.
"After a full forty-eight hours, we have finally reached our target."
I pointed a finger at the Evidence Locker box. Stuffed to bursting with paperwork of every description, it looked one nudge away from exploding.
"You have all worked hard these past two days."
"Waaah!!"
Cheers erupted from every corner of the room. Twenty-four hours remained until the imperial writ arrived, and we had dragged together everything it was in our power to gather — evidence, sworn statements, even the testimony of witnesses. The fruit of all that effort now filled the great box to its brim. If we carried this into court, it would go a long way toward defending myself.
My personal attendant, standing at my side, spoke up. "Honestly, I never imagined we'd collect this much material for a trial."
A small swell of pride rose in my chest at his words. "For attendants to help this enthusiastically — I must have been working you all well."
There was no reason to deny it. The moment the goal of proving the Central Officer innocent had been set, the Immigration Office had displayed a terrifying, almost frightening degree of execution. The attendants had even split themselves into two rotating shifts, throwing themselves day and night into racing to the scene of the incident, obsessed with securing evidence. That they had all come forward of their own accord to help me — I could only be grateful. I had asked, just once, plainly:
— Would you care to assist this officer?
— YES!
A faint smile crossed my lips. "I suppose I should think about giving you all a raise later on."
"WAAAAAH!!!!"
At those words, the attendants' cheering grew even louder. Shameless little schemers, the lot of them. But just for today, I decided to let it slide.
Meanwhile, cutting through the chaotic celebration, the Olfactory Officer quietly approached. "Central Officer."
"Ah, Olfactory Officer. You've worked hard as well."
He did not look particularly joyful — a stark contrast to the mood around us. "First, my congratulations. At this level, I'd say you've prepared the bare minimum."
"That's right. At the very least, we've covered our tracks."
"But do we stand a chance of winning?"
With a hardened face, he cut straight to the heart of the matter. Amid the surrounding cheers, the three of us held our silence.
"Everything we've gathered is purely defensive material. Truly essential for proving innocence, yes — but..." The werewolf's gaze drifted toward the window. "...I have a feeling they'll be pulling something of their own."
"What is their current disposition?"
Beyond the window, hundreds of tents came into view. "Unnaturally quiet," he growled low in his throat. "As if they're preparing something."
It was a reasonable worry. As long as the bond between the Pope and the Queen Consort held firm, they would stop at nothing to break me. From the Holy Church's standpoint, I had long since ceased being a thorn in their side — I had become an outright headache.
"...Come to think of it, they could summon their own witnesses at the trial."
Assume the worst possible move. What trump card could they play in court? What if the Queen Consort summons the Pope, the Grand Master of the Holy Knights, or the Saint herself as witnesses or persons of reference? The mere thought sent a chill down my spine. No matter how many mountains of evidence and witnesses we produced, what would happen if someone spoke directly for the Pope — the author of the letter of protest?
— I took this as an insult.
That one short sentence alone would plunge the entire situation into dire straits. And even without him, the Church had two more heavyweights it could put forward.
If it really came to that, there's a high chance we'd simply get crushed in court. Their words carried a different weight. Gather a hundred ordinary citizens to testify, and it would take only one of the Church's three giants opening his mouth to decide whose side every heart in the room would fall to. Principle is absolute — but before authority and collusion, principle bends without a fuss. Even if I brandished thousands of documents proving my innocence, a single word from the Pope could reduce them all to nothing. And to make matters worse, we had no idea who would be presiding over this trial.
"We need the most airtight witness possible," I said quietly. "Someone so unimpeachable that they couldn't even push back with claims of rebuttal or lies."
There was no other way. Our shield was frail, and their spear was sharp. We might parry the petty attacks, but the moment a heavyweight took the stage, we would be swept away without mercy. We needed a hidden ace — something capable of flipping the whole board at once.
At that point, my personal attendant asked, "But do we have anyone like that on our side?"
Straight to the vitals. "The only people there that day were us and the pilgrimage. Besides that, just a handful of ordinary entrants and the border guard."
I had no rebuttal to that. The border guard might have made fine witnesses, but they had already come within a hair's breadth of crossing swords with the Holy Knights. Perhaps if they had stood by as pure bystanders it would be different, but having already been entangled in the affair, their objectivity could not be guaranteed.
"The ideal would be a witness coming forward from the Church's own side, but..."
Would the Holy Church truly go mad enough to help us? Absurd. In the end, the Olfactory Officer, my attendant, and I found no answer within the long silence. All that emerged was anxious sighing.
"Haah... Understood, for now. You've both worked hard. Get some rest."
They say that behind every hope lies despair. Despite all our preparation, the sense that we were still woefully short gnawed at me from the inside. The attendants' cheerful cheering, which had sounded so pleasant before, slowly curdled into a buzzing irritation I couldn't ignore.
Finally, unable to bear the suffocation any longer, I turned to leave.
"Central Officer, where are you going?"
"To check on the Touch Officer for a moment. If I stay here, my head's going to burst — I'll step out for a bit of air."
"Ah, then I'll come with you."
"No. Stay here. You should rest too, attendant."
"But—"
"Your eyes have been bloodshot for hours now. Rest."
We had done what we could. What was needed now was a brief respite. You never know — fortune might just drop out of the sky from somewhere. Entertaining that pointless fantasy, I walked out of the hall alone.
In the distance, at the open-air inspection yard, I could see the Touch Officer conducting a cargo-wagon inspection all by herself. Typical of her — she preferred the quiet places to wherever the crowds thronged.
"Hmm... this one passes, this one's a bit iffy..."
I strode up to her without hesitation. "Touch Officer. Shift change."
"Huh? Central Officer? What are you doing out here?"
"Came out to clear my head. This officer will cover your post for about three hours, so go inside and rest."
I want to be alone, and I'll do your work for you — so kindly make yourself scarce. Fortunately, the Touch Officer was quick on the uptake.
"Thank you! I'll be back in three hours, then!"
Wriggling her tentacles, she scurried off into the building. I took over the post and called out to the long line of cargo wagons: "Next wagon!"
If only for the duration of this work, let the worries leave me be.
"-- --!"
A raucous noise drifted in from far away. "Ah... ugh..."
Consciousness returned slowly. Her head throbbed, her whole body ached. Everything swayed dizzily, as if she were suffering through a vicious hangover. "-- -rse!"
Erzena blinked her eyes several times. What was I doing?
A few seconds later, everything that had happened came flooding back in an instant. The intruder with the violet eyes.
"Ah—! Mmmph!"
But her voice would not come, gagged and muffled. Only then did Erzena realize she was locked away somewhere in pitch darkness. No — no! That shapeshifter...!
Startled, she tried to rise from where she sat — and even that jolted to a hard stop against something. CLANK! A heavy iron-chain sound rang out, and pain flared at her ankles. Her eyes went wide as she understood: she was bound to something. The one small mercy was that both arms were free. Erzena frantically reached down to undo the chains at her ankles.
No — she tried to reach down.
She couldn't touch them.
'...Huh?'
Bending forward, she reached for her ankles once more. She couldn't touch them. No matter how many times she tried, her arms, lost in the darkness, never reached her feet.
'Wh-why?'
Her arms were by no means short. They were slender and long — with the slightest bend at the waist, her fingertips had always reached her ankles. Then it struck her: the shapeshifter had made her drink some kind of potion. What did she feed me!?
She had no idea what it was, but it had clearly done something to her body. Perhaps it had dulled her perception, perhaps it was driving her mad — whatever it was, Erzena knew with certainty that it was nothing good.
"-- -ai-!"
And that strange sound, echoing endlessly from somewhere. "Mmmph!! Mmm-mmph!!"
Consumed by terror and despair, Erzena screamed and thrashed wildly in the darkness. Get me out of here! Somebody get me out!!
But there was no salvation. "-o --e!" Only that strange sound, repeating over and over.
It's too late.
The shapeshifter's words circled in her head. Just as she had said, Erzena was now paying a price that could no longer be undone, devoured by the fear of being dragged off to some unknown place, by the despair of a wrong that could never be righted.
'Ah... Lord God...'
Tears streamed down her cheeks. 'Central Officer... I'm sorry...'
She regretted, and regretted again — but there was no taking it back. Slowly, her head bowed. The harsh punishment dealt to her was only just beginning. Yes... this is my punishment for my sin...
And in the very moment she thought that, and tried to surrender everything—
"Next wagon!"
— the Central Officer's voice rang out.
"Next wagon!"
Creeeak. The fourteenth wagon drew up before me — the last of the day.
"A pleasure. This officer is Nathan Kell, inspector of the Crossline Kingdom."
At my brief greeting, a young boy seated on the driver's box, straw hat pulled low, waved his hand vigorously. "Hello, mister!"
"...A boy?"
I tilted my head at the unfamiliar sight. A boy barely out of his childhood, arriving at the border all alone? I held my silence a moment, then spoke. "Please state your name and place of origin, along with your reason for entry and the contents of your cargo. You have five minutes."
"Ah, yes! I'm Sota, from Sweet Potato Hill in the southern Kingdom of Mahalan!"
Sweet Potato Hill. A place just over the border fields, practically next door. That explained things — being so close, the threat of bandits or monsters was dramatically lower.
The boy went on. "And I'm transporting livestock into your country, mister!"
"Livestock... and you came alone?"
"Ehehe, that's right! My father says a man ought to make a trip to the border by himself at least once!"
"You have quite the distinctive father."
What kind of father sends his young son off to the border alone, of all things? With an awkward laugh, I turned my gaze to the back of the wagon. "Very well. Then we shall begin the cargo inspection."
The boy flinched for an instant at my words, then suddenly lowered his voice. "Careful, mister inspector. The fellas in there are real mean ones!"
"...Did you pack a bear in there or something?"
"Not exactly... you'll see."
With that, the boy swung open the wagon's rear gate.
SQUEEEAL! SQUEEEAL! Oink-oink-oink!
An ear-splitting wall of noise burst out all at once. Pink-skinned, four-legged beasts — short-tailed, strange-snouted creatures, one of our daily breads.
Pigs.
"Good heavens."
A foul stench rolled over me as the animals shoved their faces wildly against the slats, squealing for food. I grimaced and began to count. "One, two... seventeen."
Seventeen in all. "No — there's one more."
Behind the others, a small piglet sat quietly, utterly motionless. But something was off about it. That one alone had a chain around its legs.
"...And what, pray tell, is with that tied-up pig?"
Why on earth was it muzzled, too? The boy answered haltingly. "Ah, that one... it's got a wicked temper. It ate its own mother a while back, and ever since, it bites anyone it sees."
"Good grief."
He said it so casually, for such a horrifying tale. But I understood. A piglet that loses its mother is usually half-mad with grief.
"Hmm. Still, protocol requires verification. I'll step up for a moment."
No matter how innocent the country boy riding the wagon, there are no exceptions — the interior of the wagon had to be checked thoroughly.
"Wh-wait, hold on—!"
Before the boy could stop me, I hopped up onto the wagon in one motion. "All right, pigs, move aside, little ones. If you don't, I'll have you made into sausage."
Oink-oink-oink! SQUEEEAL!
The moment I stepped inside, the beasts scattered in every direction, squealing bloody murder — convinced, apparently, that they were being taken to the slaughter. The only one that held perfectly still was that same piglet from before. Our eyes met.
"..."
— ...
But the piglet merely looked up at me without any reaction. Huh. Not so ferocious after all. Just as I thought that and turned my attention back to the inspection—
Drip.
A single line of tears suddenly rolled down the creature's face.
"Wh-what the— what?"
I was utterly at a loss. Why was a pig crying? "I-I'm not climbing up here to eat you, you know."
Oink-oink-oink.
It said something, short and clipped. But I couldn't understand a word of it. My Latent Talent Manifestation doesn't comprehend animal speech — only beings with true intellect. Besides, the muzzle garbled whatever sound it made anyway.
As I stood watching the piglet grumble away, the boy shouted from behind me. "Inspector, if you stay too long, that one's going to throw another fit! Please come out!"
"Ah, right!"
At those words, the piglet suddenly began to thrash in earnest. Oink-oink! SQUEEEEEAL!! The chain scraped raw its ankles, and froth leaked from the gaps of the muzzle clamped between its jaws. A scene of utter, heartrending misery. Tears streamed freely too — what could possibly grieve it so? Even the coldest of inspectors would feel their chest tighten at the sight.
"Poor thing. You'll be bacon soon enough, but still — let me at least make you a little more comfortable."
A flicker of pity moved me, and I reached my hand out toward the piglet to undo its muzzle. And the instant my hand made contact—
CRACKLE.
Golden sparks scattered.
"Huh?"
Startled, I snatched my hand back, and the little pig — evidently just as startled — stopped its convulsions and looked up at me.
"..."
— ...
Silence. "Uh..."
What in the world was happening? I tried again. Slowly, I laid my hand on the creature's body. The moment my fingertips made contact—
CRACKLE.
Another burst of golden light. Once more.
Crackle-crackle.
Finally, pressing down just slightly to test its body, a warmth like sunlight shivered through my palm, wreathed in golden haze. Golden haze. There was only one golden haze I knew of.
It couldn't be.
Unless I had gone mad. Unless I had truly lost my mind. Slowly, I gathered my focus and opened my mouth.
"...O-oink? (= S-Saint... Lady?)"
Pig-speech spilled from my own mouth. And the piglet wept, mournfully.