Until the Hero Arrives: 13 Days. 4
One of the Holy Knights who served the Saintess—the one named Titia—had shut herself away in her room.
For hours after morning prayers she had not emerged, merely curling her body tightly beneath the blankets.
In that cold, dark chamber where not a single ray of sunlight entered, no one could know what thoughts occupied her mind.
She began to replay the moment, only a few hours earlier, when the Saintess had collapsed.
Clothes stained dark with blood, life flickering as faintly as a candle about to snuff out—before that unconscious form, all she had been able to do was chant Heal over and over, utterly without meaning.
Even thinking about it coldly, someone born with only a mere handful of holy power like herself could do nothing.
What shocked her even more was that the holy power had judged the Saintess’s body as “normal.”
That reverse flow—something seen only in those born with illness, defects, or disabilities.
Despite pouring holy power into her to an excessive degree, she had felt the starlight flowing in strangely; upon realizing what it meant, she had been horrified.
When she told her older brother that nothing was wrong with the Saintess’s body, he had worn an expression of disbelief, yet knowing she had no reason to lie, he soon accepted it.
He must have been surprised as well.
There had been nothing she could do for the Saintess, and even after contacting the medical wing her mind had been filled only with the thought that it was already too late—yet how fortunate that the Saintess was still alive.
Because she was the girl who always showed people only that foolish smiling face despite a body that could die at any moment, the shock struck even harder.
When the medical team arrived she could not entrust changing the Saintess’s clothes to a man, so she had cut the garments herself in order to dress her.
The blood that had hardened was terribly damp, making any who saw it frown, and the foul stench of blood was so intense she had unconsciously clutched her nose.
The clothes, sliced down the middle and peeled to either side, could no longer serve as garments; she carefully grasped both ends and removed them.
Gazing upon the Saintess, unconscious and revealing her pure white naked form, she oddly felt a sense of guilt.
Long vertical scars were etched into both of the Saintess’s arms.
The nuns from the medical wing who had witnessed it alongside her all wore expressions of surprise and kept their mouths shut in silence.
Titia believed the Saintess clearly wished to keep this fact hidden, so she mastered her emotions and opened her mouth.
“The Saintess would not want this fact to become known.”
Everyone remained silent, and some slowly nodded their heads.
It seemed to be an unspoken agreement.
Watching that, she lightly placed her hand over the scars and channeled holy power.
As expected, the scars did not fade.
As if this appearance were the “original form.”
How long must one live with scars for them to be recognized as the original state?
She dared to predict it would be a length of time beyond imagination.
In the end, there was nothing she or the medical nuns could do.
After carefully dressing the Saintess in a pure white garment, laying her upon the bed, and leaving, she had simply fled to her own room as if running away.
Whether Titia had been shocked by the Saintess’s appearance or not, she had shut herself in her room and not shown herself for over an hour.
For a Holy Knight performing escort duties at a safe rear church, the sight of a blood-soaked young girl would have been more than enough to shock her—he tried to understand Titia that way.
Aside from delivering meals to the Saintess there was no schedule to keep today, so it was nothing to make an issue of, yet the truth was that he worried for his little sister.
Because of the hemoptysis that morning, the small church that served as the Saintess’s residence had come to a halt for the day.
With the church stopped, it was an order for everyone to handle their prayers in their own rooms as well—a guest-expelling decree of sorts.
He knocked twice on the door, short and sharp.
Knock—knock—
When no answer came, he decided delivering the meal to the Saintess took priority and turned to fetch the tray.
There was a slight hesitation, but she was a strong child; she would overcome this much on her own.
He turned his steps and headed for the kitchen wing.
Traditionally only three people directly attended the Saintess, but there were limits, so the kitchen and medical wings of other churches were organically connected to this place—the small church where the Saintess stayed.
The kitchen wing bustled with those seeking breakfast, yet since no one was unaware that he was the one bringing meals to the Saintess, the clergy eyed him carefully and made way.
There were surely those who found it unpleasant to yield the path to someone of lower rank than themselves, a coward lingering in the rear instead of heading to the front—thinking that, he took two trays and filled them with food.
Considering health first, a light vegetable-focused meal would be best, he thought, and heaped salad onto the Saintess’s tray.
Passing down the long corridor he arrived before the Saintess’s door and set the food down in front of it.
“I’ve brought your meal.”
At those words a presence soon approached the door, and through the opening crack the Saintess appeared.
Looking somewhat haggard, she offered him a faint smile as she approached and tried to take the tray with one hand—but her arms, thin as twigs, were far too insufficient to support the tray with one hand alone.
She swayed briefly, so he watched with worried eyes, yet as if to reassure him she soon took it with both hands and, maintaining her smile, disappeared into the room.
The Holy Knight then returned to his own room.
It was to eat.
From his little sister Titia locking her door and maintaining silence, to the hemoptysis the Saintess had shown that morning—there were far too many things to think about, swirling chaotically through his mind.
Amid the storm of worries he dismissed them all as useless fretting and told himself they were strong people who would overcome it—whether that was mental victory or self-justification to cast away the guilt of having known nothing of the Saintess’s symptoms until now, he could not tell—and he cut the bread piece by piece, stuffing it into his mouth.
The bread tasted bitter.
Dry and unpleasant.
After finishing his meal, thinking it was about time the Saintess would have finished hers as well, he stood before the corridor leading to her room.
Even if he was a rusted sword abandoned in the rear, he was still a sword of the church, so the faint blood scent filling the corridor from the Saintess’s room could not escape his sense of smell.
The heart he had forcibly calmed began to pound again, thumping hard, and his footsteps quickened to match the racing of his heart.
Hoping desperately that nothing had happened, he approached the door with rapid steps.
In front of the door a bowl filled with leftover meal sat neatly on the tray.
Seeing the salad left a little over half, he felt a subtle emotion stir.
There were no utensils on the tray, but because he had been in such a hurry he paid it no mind and placed his hand on the doorknob, opening his mouth.
“May I enter?”
A moment later he had no choice but to remove his hand from the knob he held.
Because the Saintess had opened the door for him.
Through the crack came a stinging stench, something resembling the smell of the sea—it was unmistakably the scent of blood.
He frowned briefly, but recognizing that showing his displeasure would be rude, he quickly corrected his expression.
The blood scent one could only smell on the battlefield filled the room and seeped out through the open door, peeking its head through.
Does she not notice this blood scent?
The interior of the room was clean; aside from the crumpled blankets and the fork placed neatly on the table, there was nothing else to be found.
Even examining the Saintess carefully, there was no place that seemed wounded.
He wanted to ask something, but looking at the Saintess smiling brightly before him he could only feel puzzlement and turn away, take the tray, and leave the room.
It was as if she found his presence subtly uncomfortable, but he soon denied it, thinking that couldn’t be.
After all, she was always smiling.
And at noon, when the sun surveyed the earth from the highest point in the sky, the shafts of light descending from the heavens were clearly visible even in the Holy Kingdom.
Until the Hero arrived at the Holy Kingdom—thirteen days.
But whether the Hero who had turned back the hands of the clock would truly follow the predetermined path was something no one could know.