Mea Culpa
“…”
Dominica stood frozen in place, at a loss for words.
The dust inside the chapel had yet to settle. Shattered fragments of chairs lay scattered across the floor, and a long table that had toppled over now leaned against the wall with one leg broken. The interior was nothing short of chaos.
And at the center of it all—
Elian was dragging out one of the investigators by the arm. As the man’s body caught on the threshold, Elian paused briefly, lifted him slightly, and pulled him the rest of the way through.
“Hah…”
Outside the chapel, the investigators were already lined up in neat rows, spaced evenly apart.
This is absurd…
Dominica quickly scanned their forms.
They’re all alive.
She could hear their faint, shallow breaths. They lay unconscious and motionless, yet bore no fatal wounds—no exposed bone, no pools of blood, nothing that threatened their lives.
A precisely controlled subjugation.
“…”
The realization sent a chill through her.
This can’t be real…
The Holy Kingdom’s investigative unit. They were a problematic group, true enough—abusing their authority, wielding violence in the name of faith, and often crossing the line. Dominica herself had never liked them.
But their skill was genuine. They were among the most battle-hardened operatives within the Holy Kingdom, veterans of heretic purges, rebellion suppressions, and frontier pacifications. Men who had survived battlefields reeking of blood. Otherwise, they would never have been entrusted with such a mission.
And yet these men—every single one of them—had been dealt with by a single person.
“…”
Dominica’s gaze returned to Elian. He had just set down the last investigator and was brushing the dust from his hands. Not even a single bruise marked the back of his hand—only a faint smudge of dirt on his clothes.
That was all.
Not even a trace of blood.
No wounds…?
At that moment, a memory surfaced—the first time they had met. The instant she had drawn her sword.
An inquisitor’s blade was no mere ornament. It was a weapon steeped in the blood of countless heretics. She would have cut him down without hesitation.
But Elian had not dodged. He had not even shown fear. He moved like a seasoned warrior accustomed to melee, simply catching the blade between two fingers.
Only now did the sense of dissonance she had felt then begin to take shape.
Dominica’s heart began to race.
Who… what is this man?
A knight? No. His movements bore none of the habits of someone trained in swordsmanship. A swordsman’s body always carried certain tells—lowered center of gravity, shoulders tensed for the next strike, feet angled toward the opponent, gaze shifting a beat ahead of the blade’s tip.
Yet none of that existed in Elian. It was as if he had simply reached out on a whim while walking, and his opponents had collapsed. There was no purpose in his motions, no trace of technique. He had neither slashed nor thrust.
Swordsmanship always revealed its process. With him, there was none.
Then perhaps an unnamed mercenary…? No. At that level of skill, the very notion of being “unnamed” was absurd. More than anything, he lacked the killing intent unique to those accustomed to battle. Even those who had learned to conceal it could never fully erase the calculation in their eyes, the instinctive tension when measuring distance, the way they read an opponent’s breathing.
Elian had none of it.
The more one had experienced combat, the more unnatural it seemed—subduing people without a shred of emotion. Or else…
A madman who kills without feeling.
What about a mage, then?
Dominica’s eyes narrowed. The possibility existed—invisible impacts, instantaneous movement, speed beyond human sight. He could have reinforced his body with mana or twisted space itself.
But… no. She felt no mana. As an inquisitor, any ripple of magic should have brushed against her skin like a breeze. If a mage had moved, the air itself would have trembled, leaving behind traces of mana.
Yet there was nothing.
It was too clean.
A cold sensation ran down Dominica’s spine. She could not understand it—the nature of the man standing before her.
He was neither knight, nor mercenary, nor mage.
And yet he had overwhelmingly “subdued” the investigators. It was enough to make her want to demand whether such a thing was even possible.
It made no sense. Logic failed to connect.
Still, a single word rose unbidden in her mind, forcing its way forward against her will.
Saint.
Dominica’s eyes wavered.
No.
It was a symbol fabricated by the Church whenever it needed one—a story to sway public sentiment. At least, that was what she had been taught.
An inquisitor existed not to believe, but to doubt.
Yet the scene before her was slowly gnawing away at that conviction.
Elian lifted his head and met her gaze. His expression remained gently serene, nothing like the face of someone who had just fought. He looked more like a priest welcoming a guest.
That very dissonance unsettled Dominica most of all.
Her lips parted slowly, but—
“…You are—”
The words would not come. She could not call him a sinner under these circumstances, yet she could not bring herself to acknowledge him as a saint either.
***
No one knew exactly how much time had passed. The square in front of the chapel was silent, broken only by the faint groan of a man.
“…Ugh…”
One of the investigators sprawled on the stone pavement twitched his fingers. Soon the others began to stir as well.
“…Where…?”
“…What happened…?”
Their memories were fragmented, but one fact was clear.
They had been defeated.
They raised their heads in unison, and their gazes locked onto a single point—the man standing there as if he had been waiting from the beginning.
Elian.
One investigator swallowed hard and spoke in a trembling voice.
“…That bastard…”
“…Why is he completely fine…?”
Fear arrived late. Their bodies remembered—they had faced this man. The terror from the darkness had been carved into them.
Several investigators instinctively backed away, hands fumbling for weapons that were no longer there, then trembling as realization dawned.
At that moment, Radien rose to his feet. He remained on one knee for a while, head bowed, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. His breathing came in ragged gasps.
Then an incredulous expression crossed his face.
“…Hah.”
He slowly lifted his head, pride still burning in his eyes.
“You… bastard…”
His voice was hoarse, but he deliberately raised it.
“Do you really think you can get away with doing this to the Holy Kingdom’s envoys?!”
It was a final, desperate attempt to reclaim his lost authority.
In that instant—
“That’s enough, Radien.”
A cold voice cut him off.
It was Dominica. She stepped forward slowly.
“You’ve gone too far.”
She frowned at him.
“I already reported that the Brunel Village matter was resolved.”
Radien looked at her. His expression hardened for a moment—then his shoulders shook.
“…Resolved?”
A laugh burst out.
“No, no. You’ve got it wrong.”
His eyes gleamed like a wolf that had found new prey.
“The one who got resolved… was you.”
Dominica’s voice turned sharp with displeasure.
“…What do you mean?”
Instead of answering, Radien slowly reached into his coat. A folded document appeared—thick parchment. He deliberately took his time showing the seal before unfolding it.
“Inquisitor Dominica Alba.”
He read the contents slowly, savoring each word like a man delivering a death sentence.
“Should an inquisitor refuse the Holy Kingdom’s orders and arbitrarily abandon their jurisdiction, all authority and rank shall be stripped, and excommunication shall be carried out immediately.”
Dominica’s face twisted.
“…Don’t spout nonsense.”
“Nonsense?”
Radien smirked.
“This is an official Holy Kingdom document.”
He held the document out toward her, tapping the bottom with his finger.
“Here. See who approved it.”
Dominica’s eyes moved to the lower portion of the page.
What she saw was…
A crest. A sealed emblem. Official Holy Kingdom stationery.
And a signature.
Her breath caught.
“…Seberian?”
The familiar handwriting. The script she had seen and studied countless times. The memory of the man who had first placed a sword in her hands as a child, patting her shoulder with a smile, flashed through her mind.
—You’ll become a fine inquisitor someday.
Fragments of the past rose unbidden.
Her hands began to tremble.
“…No.”
“Is that so…?”
It’s a forgery.
She denied reality.
Someone orchestrated this.
It had to be someone else’s plot. It must be.
That man would never…
Her heart pounded wildly. Cracks began to form in the reality she had believed in.
“…Hah…”
Her breath came in short, broken gasps.
“…That can’t… be…”
Her voice crumbled.
Her eyes lost focus.
Radien watched her with quiet satisfaction, as if this was the moment he had been waiting for.
“That’s what happens to loyal little dogs.”
His voice dripped with mockery.
“It always ends like this.”
Thud.
Radien’s hand landed on her shoulder. With casual ease, he snatched the metal insignia pinned to her chest.
Clink.
The fabric tore, and the inquisitor’s emblem came free. The silver emblem that symbolized the authority and judgment of the Holy Light Church—the symbol that had made countless people tremble and bow their heads.
Radien rolled it across his palm.
“This no longer belongs to you.”
Dominica’s breathing grew ragged. Her gaze was fixed on empty air, but her pupils trembled faintly. Where conviction had been, only emptiness remained.
Seeming to lose interest, Radien turned away and looked at Elian. Their eyes met briefly. The corner of his mouth twisted upward.
“Don’t think this is over!”
It was a declaration of war.
“The Holy Kingdom will be watching you closely!”
And a threat.
He turned on his heel.
“Get up, you lot.”
The fallen investigators groaned and rose to their feet. Their faces were still dazed, but they moved reflexively at Radien’s command.
Dominica could not move. She remained rooted to the spot, unable to lift even a single foot.
Because her world had just been overturned.
The beliefs she had clung to her entire life. The name that defined her. The path she had believed in without doubt.
All of it had been denied by a single document and a single signature.
Elian watched the entire scene in silence. He said nothing. He merely observed her for a brief moment.
Then, slowly…
Very slowly…
He walked over to stand beside her.
Dominica’s eyes remained empty, her unfocused gaze fixed on nothing. Only when she sensed his presence beside her did she stir slightly.
Her eyes turned toward him. Her lips trembled faintly.
“…Why?”
Her voice was hoarse, different from before.
“…Why did you let them go?”
It was a question born of incomprehension.
“Everyone deserves at least one chance.”
A simple answer.
Dominica’s eyes wavered.
“…One chance… huh.”
She repeated the words slowly, as if hearing them for the first time.
Elian regarded her for a moment, then tilted his head slightly.
“…Shall we take a walk while we talk?”