A Heart-to-Heart with the Saintess
Makarof remained dazed for a long while. She was like a storm.
The hero who had saved the Saintess had threatened the remaining bishops that he would return tomorrow, then left without another word. The bishops showed no will to resist. It was because of the overwhelming power he had displayed. Who would want to risk ending up like Cardinal Mavlof or Bishop Ronin just for running their mouths? If one were to categorize a hero, he was closer to a natural disaster than a human being. No one wanted to earn the grudge of a natural disaster by opening their mouth unnecessarily. That said, it did not mean Ashtain had forgiven them either.
At any rate, he had taken Aria and left. Even after he was gone, no one in the room dared to move rashly. The hero’s intervention had been that shocking.
Makarof stared blankly at the Holy Sword in his hand. He had heard that this sword had not chosen a hero for decades. Why was it now in his possession? Because the hero had given it to him.
“Hold on to this for me.”
“Pardon?”
“I’ll come get it tomorrow. It’s a noisy, chatty sword.”
“………Pardon?”
“I’m leaving.”
A noisy, chatty sword? Makarof looked at the Holy Sword. It remained perfectly silent. What could possibly be noisy about it? It was difficult to understand. He had heard that the Holy Sword could communicate with its master across generations—perhaps that ability had manifested. If so, another question arose. If it had already acknowledged him as its master, why had Ashtain entrusted it to him?
Ashtain had simply wanted to keep the mentally noisy “Holy Sword” from disturbing Aria’s care, but Makarof had no way of knowing that.
Makarof looked up at the basement ceiling. A large hole had been punched through it—Ashtain’s doing. Repairing it would be quite the ordeal. Through that hole, the glittering stars and the black night sky were visible.
……I should head back.
Just as he was about to move, a voice called out.
“………Bishop Ronin.”
It was a hollow voice. Makarof turned toward the source. A nun with light-purple hair was clutching what appeared to be Bishop Ronin’s severed wrist.
Sister Jina?
Sister Jina had always followed Bishop Ronin closely. She must be devastated. Her body trembled faintly. Was she weeping in sorrow? Even that cruel man had someone who would mourn him in death. Makarof felt a strange bitterness.
“I’m so glad you’re alive.”
Contrary to expectations, Jina wore a bright smile. Makarof felt an inexplicable chill. Was this what the eyes of a madman looked like?
While Makarof stared in confusion, Jina took the wrist and left without another word. After that, Sister Jina’s whereabouts became unknown.
* * *
The next day, Ashtain visited the cult alone, just as he had said he would, and immediately asked for Makarof. Makarof bowed politely to the man waiting in the reception room.
“You came early.”
“Strike while the iron is hot, as they say.”
“I see.”
He’s a man of action. Fitting for a hero.
Makarof tried to return the Holy Sword he had been keeping.
“You can give that back later.”
Ashtain looked distinctly displeased.
“……Understood. By the way, I don’t see the Saintess.”
“I decided there was no need to bring her to a place like this.”
Makarof fully agreed. This place only held the trauma Aria had endured.
A cold gaze pierced Makarof.
“That legitimate procedure you mentioned—let’s see it done.”
“I cannot do it alone.”
“Yesterday you said you could.”
“What I can do is merely raise a legitimate voice.”
Ashtain jerked his chin as if to say, Go on, keep talking. Makarof explained what he had in mind. After listening, Ashtain stroked his chin, lost in thought.
“……Sounds decent.”
It was a positive response.
“Will you trust me and leave it in my hands?”
“Sure. Worst case, I lose nothing.”
The easy agreement made Makarof suspicious.
“What will you do if the plan I’ve devised fails?”
Ashtain answered with a nonchalant expression.
“Then I’ll just wipe them all out.”
His tone was light, but the weight behind the words was anything but. Makarof thought he could smell the thick scent of blood in them.
“You’re more extreme than I expected.”
“Does anyone show mercy to a beast that attacks first?”
It was a raw, unpolished metaphor.
“If you keep acting this way, your reputation as the hero will hit rock bottom.”
“Thanks for worrying, kid. But I care more about my person than my reputation.”
My person. He must mean Saintess Aria. Makarof looked at Ashtain. Ashtain looked back. The two men Aria cherished were polar opposites in nature.
“I won’t let things come to that.”
“Do your best.”
“Yes. I’ll try.”
Ashtain told him to call anytime if he needed help and gave him the address of the inn where he was staying. Contrary to expectations of causing trouble, Ashtain left quietly.
* * *
Makarof was a clever boy. From time to time, he had heard stories from his father about clergy who only looked out for themselves, and each time he could not hide the deep disgust that welled up from the bottom of his heart. How could every single member of the clergy be so steeped in worldly desires? Were they not supposed to spread God’s will and make it their profession to save others? Whenever he saw half-formed humans, irritation would rise. Perhaps that was why the boy had respected the Saintess. The Saintess, who devoted herself solely to faith regardless of the times, was the ideal “religious figure” the boy had longed for. Even if it was a fabricated, molded mask, the Saintess had been a symbol and an idol to Makarof.
The more he learned about what she had gone through, the more devastated he felt. Not only had cardinals and bishops committed sexual violence against the cult’s Saintess, they had even resorted to blackmail.
Was it this rotten?
He felt profound disillusionment. If the goddess truly existed, she should not have forgiven them. She should not have turned a blind eye. She should have brought down divine punishment. They should have paid the proper price. Yet the goddess had only observed without acting. The one who had delivered punishment was a single hero.
Makarof submitted a document detailing the cult’s twisted corruption directly to the Pope. Normally, internal whistleblowing required a certain rank, but being the son of a cardinal granted unexpected “flexibility.”
After this incident, that “flexibility” won’t be usable anymore.
Several days passed. Fortunately, the document seemed to have reached the Pope properly; a positive reply arrived. Though the Pope had been keeping a low profile and avoiding external activities lately, he was not so frail as to ignore such a serious matter. He officially announced his intention to meet the hero and the Saintess in person.
He probably wants to silence the two of them.
That made sense. Even during his active years, the Pope had valued political power more than doctrine. He was not the type to welcome such a scandal spreading.
A few days later, Pope Rondo Delphirium met the Saintess and the hero in secret. Only they would know what was said. The Pope personally announced to those involved that anyone who carelessly spoke of the incident would be severely punished. It was a method of suppression through authority—simple, yet effective.
After that, things proceeded swiftly. The bishops who had harassed the Saintess were stripped of their positions and sent to the notoriously harsh Frozen Prison in the north. Naturally, the bishops protested fiercely, as it was a place for criminals with heinous crimes, but the Pope said:
“Then would you rather offer up the decoration on your head? I find both options appealing, so I’ll give you the choice. Would you prefer to live in a comfortable cradle or become dew on the execution ground?”
No one dared to argue. Even if they were to die soon, the living world was still better—or so the bishops thought. Of course, that was their misconception. Hell on earth could exist anywhere.
It was exactly the outcome Makarof had wanted. A way to properly punish those who had harmed Aria without reopening her wounds. It included Mavlof—his own father—but he deliberately looked away. This was the right thing to do.
Makarof let out a heavy sigh, feeling a slight headache. The reality and responsibility were too heavy for a boy who was only fourteen. When he looked in the mirror, his dark circles had deepened. He had moved around, gathered information, and had many things to worry about, so his appearance was a mess.
I should go to the chapel and pray. That might help calm his troubled heart. After all, people turn to God when they are struggling.
Makarof finished a quick wash and left his room. The chapel was quiet on a weekday. It was a grand and sacred space—or at least, it used to feel that way. Makarof felt bitter that he could no longer feel that purity toward it.
The boy gave a wry smile as he looked at the majestic scenery, then his eyes stopped at a certain point. There was someone there. A beautiful person. She seemed to notice the boy’s gaze and offered a faint smile. Yes, even when the boy had first met her, she had carried a certain darkness.
“Makarof, it’s been a while.”
Her voice was clear, like the sound of a bell. It was the voice of someone who claimed to have never experienced anything cruel or painful.
Why are you here? This place has only ever hurt you.
Are you all right?
Countless questions rose, but none could easily be spoken. His words were stuck.
Makarof’s head lowered like ripened rice.
“…Saintess Aria.”
“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I have something important to discuss. Do you have some time?”
It was a direct question. Makarof nodded heavily.
“As much as you need.”
“Thank you.”
What is she thanking me for? What could she possibly be grateful for from the son of the man who tormented her? His throat tightened.
“W……Where would you like to talk?”
The Saintess gave a faint smile.
“How about my room?”
“………If that is what you wish.”
The two of them began to walk.
* * *
Aria’s room was desolate. It reminded Makarof of the current state of their relationship. Aria was the one who spoke first.
“I heard you helped Ain.”
“Ain?”
“Ah, it’s Ashtain’s nickname.”
Aria smiled sheepishly. That smile was truly bright. Makarof realized she did not use honorifics when speaking of Ashtain. They must be close enough for that. The boy’s mouth tasted bitter.
“Help? I only did what I was supposed to do.”
Aria looked at him with pity.
“Makarof, about the cardinal……”
Makarof corrected her.
“Saintess, he is the former cardinal.”
Anyone who hoped to keep their rank after committing such acts would be shameless. At Makarof’s cold reply, Aria quietly embraced him and gently stroked his back.
“You’ll tire yourself out if you keep sharpening your edges like that, Makarof.”
It sounded like the voice of experience. The Saintess was skilled at offering comfort.
“……I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Saintess.”
Makarof felt guilty. Thinking of the pain his father had caused her made him tremble with rage. And yet he himself had followed Aria around so happily—it was equally horrifying. How disgusting she must have found him. How unpleasant she must have found him. Just thinking about it made his chest ache.
“What do you have to be sorry for?”
It was neither sarcasm nor mockery. It was a genuine question.
“The wounds you received because of my father……”
“Those aren’t wounds you gave me.”
Her words were firm yet kind, gently seeping into his torn wounds. Makarof felt as though the tears he had been holding back would burst forth.
“……Do you not resent me?”
Aria’s eyes curved softly. It was a gentle smile.
“How could I? I endured because of you, Makarof.”
“……Because of me?”
Aria released the embrace and patted the spot beside the bed, signaling for him to sit. Makarof did as she asked and sat next to her.
“Do you remember the day we first met?”
Makarof nodded. How could he forget the day he received an autograph from the Saintess he had admired?
“I thought you had such clear eyes. At the same time, you were the person who let me remain myself.”
Aria spoke openly. Makarof could not say anything. He had no right to.
“I’ve always been grateful. Even to someone as dirty as me, you offered admiration and longing.”
“………You are not dirty, Saintess.”
“Hehe, Ain said the same thing.”
Aria’s face was that of the mischievous girl Makarof had once seen—the one who used to tease him by calling him “little believer.” That expression had disappeared at some point, but Makarof remembered it.
Aria’s slender fingers stroked the boy’s hair. It was an awkward touch, yet one that conveyed how much she cared.
“The point I’m trying to make is simple. You don’t need to feel guilty, Makarof.”
“……I……”
“If anything, I’m the one who should apologize. It feels like I showed you such a cruel reality at too young an age.”
“……Please don’t say that.”
Aria smiled softly.
“Thank you. And I’m sorry.”
He had no right to receive her thanks or her apology. Makarof’s eyes grew hot and his throat tightened. But he did not want to show such an unsightly appearance before the Saintess he respected. That was the boy’s last shred of pride.
“Saintess, there’s something I want to ask. May I?”
“Yes, ask me anything.”
Makarof voiced the question he had long wanted to ask.
“What kind of person is the hero? Was he very different from the rumors?”
Aria looked taken aback by the unexpected question. Then she smiled gently and answered.
“He’s just as wonderful as the rumors say.”
“Do you like him?”
Aria looked at Makarof. Her eyes were serious. She could not avoid answering. At least, that was how she felt.
“Yes. How should I put it…… It feels like he’s always there, wherever my heart reaches.”
“That’s romantic.”
“……I never thought I’d be the one saying something like this.”
“The two of you suit each other well.”
“I’m glad to hear that from you, Makarof.”
The two of them continued their trivial conversation. A conversation that felt like it could go on forever. It brought solace to the weary Makarof.