The Saintess and the Hero, Part 3
"How... how can this be?" The Evil God worshipper's voice trembled violently. He stared down at his severed limbs, which were spilling blood as black and sticky as tar. It seemed the concept of moderation simply did not exist to this mad swordsman.
They were a terrible matchup for them. These were people who swung their swords without mercy the moment they deemed someone an enemy. People who left no cracks in their hearts to exploit.
"You really carved up all these monsters by yourself." Beneath Bishop Andre's feet lay an Evil God worshipper, squirming with countless throwing daggers embedded in his flesh. The bishop crushed the man's head underfoot with a sickening crunch, as if it were a mere stepping stone, and looked at Aryen with perfect composure.
Before Aryen lay a heap of severed tentacles and the dismembered body parts of the worshippers submerged in a pool of blood.
"They use that repulsive power without a shred of hesitation. Took me longer than I thought because of it," Aryen spat, kicking away a stray tentacle left behind by the worshippers. Since they needed to capture them to root out their backers, he couldn't just kill them outright. Holding back was often more exhausting than fighting at full strength.
The power of the Calamity was no joke. No matter how many times he severed the tentacles, they regenerated. If he used Aura, he risked killing them; if he didn't, he would have to keep them pinned down indefinitely. So, Aryen chose to keep them occupied. He didn't just block the attacks and tentacles of the five or six enemies lunging at him at once—he sliced and diced them. Over and over, until they could no longer regenerate.
"You... monster..." the worshipper muttered, glaring up at Aryen. Aryen looked down at them with cold disgust, looking as though he wanted nothing more than to spit on them.
"If you can sprout more tentacles, go ahead. I'll play with you as long as you like." Far from dealing any meaningful damage, the tentacles hadn't even grazed Aryen. He didn't show the slightest hint of fatigue. The Calamity worshipper's face contorted before his head lolled back, and he collapsed.
Aryen shook his head as he looked up. "I've never seen bastards this far gone. I wonder if worshipping the Evil God made them like this, or if they worshipped the Evil God because they were born this way."
"That is something even we do not know. And if you are curious, we shall have to ask them directly now." Bishop Andre ground the worshipper's head into the floor one last time before stepping toward the leader. He still had plenty of throwing daggers hidden beneath his cloak—more than enough to ask questions all night long.
"Would you care to assist me with the interrogation?"
"You talk as if you aren't worried about what's happening outside at all."
"Well, with the Hero out there, wouldn't it be stranger to worry?" Bishop Andre reached into his cloak, rummaging around to select the right concealed weapon. "As long as the Hero is here, everything will be fine, no matter what happens."
"...You seem to trust him quite a lot."
"Rather than trust, let us call it faith. A kind akin to religious devotion." The bishop drew a slender, razor-sharp dagger from his breast. Testing the edge with his thumb, he nodded in satisfaction and flipped it into a reverse grip.
"It is my tribute to a man who exceeded my expectations and achieved an outcome far closer to the ideal than anything I could have offered." Bishop Andre stepped on the worshipper's severed arm and bent his knees. His beaming smile looked genuinely joyful. He then brought the dagger right up to the worshipper's nose.
"Now, shall we begin with a light tasting? This is work, after all."
"Do you think... we would ever open our mouths just because of this?" At the worshipper's defiant words, Bishop Andre let out a low chuckle.
"Every single person who has fallen into my hands said the exact same thing. That they wouldn't speak. Do you know how many of them actually kept their mouths shut until the very end?" As Bishop Andre stroked the flat of the blade, a golden divine energy flared along it. The bishop's divine energy glowed with a light reminiscent of a fire blazing inside a dark cavern.
"Let us see how long you can endure. As a self-proclaimed worshipper of the Evil God, surely you can hold out a bit longer than the rest?" The worshipper's face contorted at the bishop's smile. Seizing the momentum, Bishop Andre sat right down on top of the worshipper's torso.
"Since there is nothing left to break or sever, let us start by gently peeling back your skin. It would be best to leave the face for last. If I pull out all your teeth now, you won't be able to answer my questions."
The worshipper glared at Bishop Andre as if to sneer, but he froze the instant the blade, coated in divine energy, touched his flesh. With a sharp sizzle, white smoke began to rise from the stumps of his severed limbs. A gleam of pure ecstasy flickered in Bishop Andre's eyes, and the worshipper shook his head in sheer terror.
"W-Wait... Argh!" Bishop Andre slid the blade shallowly into the worshipper's flesh, as if filleting a fish. The blade met resistance from the tough, tentacle-like flesh, but the agonizingly slow slicing sensation seemed to inflict even greater torment. Treating the screams as background music, Bishop Andre turned his head to look at Aryen.
"Since our business here is mostly wrapped up, why don't you go check on the situation outside? The sun is about to rise, yet we've heard no alarming news. It seems Isis has truly succeeded."
"Aaaaargh!" Hearing the worshipper shriek once more, Aryen turned on his heel and walked out of the brewery. The sky was fading into a dim, dusky indigo.
On the wide road stretching out from the brewery, the townspeople who had been caught up in the Doomsday Cult just moments ago were gathered, talking with grave expressions. Over their shoulders, several figures who appeared to be cultists were squirming, their hands and feet bound tight.
"Georg." Aryen approached Georg, who was keeping watch over the bound cultists. The knight commander's scowl, when he was genuinely angry, was more terrifying than any demonic beast. Georg looked up at Aryen and raised an eyebrow.
"Aryen. Did you catch the rest of them?"
"Yeah. Bishop Andre is having a 'chat' with them inside the brewery right now." It won't be a pleasant conversation, then. Georg frowned.
"And Isis?" Only then did Georg seem to remember, clapping a hand to his forehead.
"Isis succeeded. She completely healed the child. I don't know if her divine magic grew, but she even regenerated the kid's severed hand." Georg spoke in a subdued voice. Even though the plan had gone exactly as Isis had said, he seemed more preoccupied with something else than celebrating.
"So she succeeded."
"Yeah. And her healing abilities grew because of it." Georg looked toward the townspeople. "...What about those people?"
"One of the villagers who received Isis's help is doing his best to persuade them. Most of the skeptical ones have started to doubt the Doomsday Cult, though there are still some who are in denial."
"I see." Aryen nodded. "Isis is safe, right?"
"Yeah. She's exhausted from using too much mana, but she's completely unharmed. Elroy took her back to the church." Unharmed. Aryen let out a small sigh of relief. When those villagers had stormed out of the brewery, blind with rage, he had feared things would go horribly wrong outside.
"...Yeah. Elroy protected her again." Georg murmured. Aryen stared blankly at the villagers for a moment before taking a step forward. He had kept putting it off, but he couldn't delay it any longer. He needed to talk. A talk with the Hero. Steeling his resolve, Aryen set off to face the truth—or the change—that he had spent so long trying to avoid.
Here is one fact I never knew when reading the original novel: Isis was a crybaby.
"I'm sorry..." She had been sniffling the entire time I carried her, but once we reached the church and I sat her down in her bedroom, she started crying all over again. What was wrong with her all of a sudden? Did she eat something bad? Feeling awkward, I sat cross-legged on the floor opposite her bed.
"It was my fault, but back then, I was just so scared... I didn't even think about the people here..." Sniffle. Isis wept, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. As she rubbed her eyes with her hands, the tears spilled over her fingers. She was crying so sorrowfully that I felt entirely out of place.
"[Should you not offer her some comfort? Leaving her be like this seems rather poor form.]"
Sorry. I'm terrible at comforting people, and besides, there's a reason I can't be the one to do it. I let out a sigh and shifted into a more comfortable position. Isis flinched at my sigh. Seeing her like this, it really hit home just how young she still was.
Isis bowed her head, sniffling as she tried to compose herself, before looking up. Her eyes were blue, but the rims were bright red. Strands of hair clung to her damp face. She was a total mess.
"Isis." When I called her name, she nodded. "Yes?"
"First of all, good job. Thanks to you, we saved this place from a crisis. We've likely succeeded in catching the tail of the Evil God worshippers, too. And you'll have more opportunities to care for the injured."
Isis blinked. A few stray tears flew from her eyelashes.
"I am only paying back a fraction of what I failed to consider back then. I must continue to care for them. I will seek out the sick, and those writhing in agony." Her words sounded much more mature now. Feeling relieved, I offered her a small smile. "Yeah. I'm glad to hear that."
"...It's all because you insisted on sending me here," Isis said, her voice shrinking to a tiny whisper. "I didn't even think of that. Back then, I just... I hated you so much. I said those things in a fit of anger and ran away. Yet, you didn't even blame me." I've made so many mistakes. Isis let out a hollow laugh and hung her head again.
"Back then, I was the one who failed to inspire trust in my party members. Despite holding the title of Hero."
"No. I... we were the ones who made the gravest mistake. If only I had trusted you back then, just as you trusted me the day before yesterday." I shook my head. Reflecting on past mistakes was good, but dwelling on "what-ifs" was pointless. The goal was to ensure it never happened again; playing with hypotheticals was nothing more than trapping oneself in the past.
"My mana has recovered a bit. I'll heal you right away," Isis said, squeezing her hands into small fists. She climbed down from the bed and stepped closer to me. Her hand reached out to touch my head, where my wound was. Unconsciously, I raised my own hand, and when Isis saw the hollow hole pierced through it, her expression fell once more.
"It must have... hurt so much." Very gently, Isis brought her hand to my injured one. "Instead of me... *hic*."
I couldn't let her reveal that truth. Just as the people's faith was shifting from the cultists' rhetoric to Isis's devotion, if she confessed her past mistake now, the entire board would be flipped. There was no telling what would happen to those who had only just begun to reject the Doomsday Cult.
"It's fine." Yeah. If taking their anger and resentment, and getting hit by a few measly thrown stones was all it took to save them, then it was worth it. I'd taken a punch from a Giant before; what was a pebble compared to that?
"I'm sorry." The weight behind her apology was heavy. That apology probably wasn't meant for me alone. Ah, are the floodgates opening again? Isis gently held my hand, tears silently streaming down her face once more. Soon, a warm, golden energy enveloped me, starting from my head. The throbbing ache slowly began to fade.
"...You're healed," Isis said a moment later, pulling her hands back. The wounds were completely gone, as if they had never existed. It would have been nice to have a healer like this in our party. I smiled bitterly.
"Now, you can use this power to help even more people."
"Yes. I will." Isis nodded. Her face was a mess, but she was still beautiful. I guess not just anyone can be a heroine.
"[Is it your hobby to find beauty in just about anyone you look at?]"
...No, it's not. The Holy Sword was jumping to conclusions. I barely stopped myself from shaking my head in denial and instead gripped her hilt tightly.
"...I'm going to go wash my face," Isis said, rising from her seat. She definitely needed to. Wipe away the tears, blow her nose, and tidy up her hair. She trudged over to the door and pulled it open.
"It seems your conversation is finished." Standing at the threshold, Isis froze, her eyes widening like a startled rabbit. It was Aryen, looking somewhat exhausted. Did he come looking for Isis? I guess they wrapped up the cultists nicely.
Contrary to my expectations, Aryen only spared a brief glance at Isis as she slipped past him before turning his gaze back into the room. He stared directly at me. "We need to talk." I blinked, looking back at Aryen as he spoke.