The Janitor Is Not a Candidate

The Sacred Plaza at dawn was a disaster. The legendary Holy Sword ceremony. The name of the Goddess. The future of the kingdom. The resurrection of the Demon King. After a whole day of such grandiose words being tossed around, what remained in the plaza was mostly trash.

Dried flower petals. Melted candle wax. Gloves dropped by nobles. Mud trampled by knights. Incense powder scattered by ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠priests. And the sweat, perfume, and blood of various humans smeared all over the hilt of the Holy Sword.

Feeling those traces, I thought quietly to myself. Even sacred rituals require a cleanup crew.

Just then, the sound of worn-out shoes approached. Scritch. Scritch. She was dragging her feet rather than walking.

A woman appeared from one side of the plaza. She wasn't particularly tall. Her hair was messily tied, her clothes were worn, and a broom was slung over her shoulder. The dark circles under her eyes were deep. Her expression was even darker.

This was not the face of someone who had come to pull the Holy Sword. It was the face of someone punching in for a shift.

"What's the point of a legendary ceremony?" the woman muttered. "I'm the one who has to clean up the trash."

Standing in the middle of the plaza, she took a brief look around. Then, she cursed under her breath. "Wow. They really trashed the place."

I agreed. Though I couldn't say it out loud.

The woman began to sweep. Flower petals with flower petals. Candle wax with candle wax. Mud with mud. The plaza, which princes, knights, and priests had trampled all day long, slowly reclaimed its original form under her broom.

Along the way, she picked up a silver button. It was something dropped by a noble. She inspected it for a brief moment, then naturally slipped it into her pocket.

...

Goddess Elia spoke softly. "Isn't that stealing?"

Let's call it waste reclamation.

"You are becoming more like humans by the day."

I don't take that as a compliment.

The woman walked toward me. The Holy Sword Lumen. The symbol of the kingdom. The blade that slays the Demon King. A sacred rental that had passed through the hands of dozens of heroes. And now, an object coated in a thin layer of candidates' hand grease.

The woman frowned as she looked at the hilt. "Ugh, the hilt is filthy."

I paused. No one had spoken of it that way yesterday. The prince saw the Holy Sword as royal authority. The knight saw it as justice. The priest saw it as faith. The mage saw it as research material. The mercenary saw it as a collateral loan. But this woman... she just called it dirty. She wasn't wrong.

She pulled a worn rag from her waist. It was undoubtedly a cleaning rag. The High Priest would have fainted on the spot. She began to scrub the hilt with it. "If it's so expensive, they should at least take care of it."

Her hand touched the Holy Sword. In that instant, I read her.

I froze. The Goddess froze too. Nia kept muttering as she scrubbed the hilt.

"If the prince pulls this, does he become king?" Scrub, scrub. "The knight becomes a hero." Scrub, scrub. "The priest gets a statue." Scrub, scrub. "Then shouldn't the person who cleaned it get some kind of allowance too?"

I read deeper into her hands. The memory of being beaten for stealing bread. The memory of fleeing down back alleys. The memory of staring at three coins in her palm, calculating for ages. The memory of hearing a child ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠cry, throwing back the wallet she had just stolen, and then grumbling all night about how she was the one who lost out.

It wasn't sacred. It wasn't noble. It wasn't hero-like in the slightest. Yet, it was strange. There were very few lies. She didn't prettily package her desires. If she needed money, she thought about needing money. If she wanted to live, she thought about wanting to live. If she was scared, she thought about being scared. And even if it cost her, she ultimately couldn't bring herself to trample on the weak.

The Goddess whispered softly. "Even in the lowest places, there is light."

It's not the first time.

It really wasn't. There had been hunters. There had been soldiers. There had even been a kid who did nothing but peel potatoes in a monastery kitchen. Humans simply hated those records and erased them, but I remembered.

So, her being a janitor wasn't the issue. The issue was that even while thinking about selling the Holy Sword, this janitor was the least deceitful of all the candidates who had appeared so far.

Nia stopped scrubbing and muttered, "If it's a legendary sword... it must be really expensive, right?"

The Goddess fell silent. I fell silent too.

Nia glanced around. She seemed to think she was completely alone. Then, she gripped the hilt with both hands. Lightly. Truly lightly. It wasn't even a stance meant for pulling. It was just a touch to gauge the object's weight. "Does this thing even come out?"

I thought to myself: No. She isn't even a candidate. There is no ceremony. No prayer. No oath. No grand declaration to save the world. She was literally just thinking about selling it. Naturally, the Holy Sword must not budge.

...And yet. I felt something else from her hands. The very first thing she wanted to do after pulling the Holy Sword. It wasn't a throne, a purge, a statue, a thesis, or a bounty. It was worn-out shoes. Warm bread.

Escaping her creditors for just a few days. And, in a very small corner of her mind, the thought that if a child in a similar plight to hers was being beaten, maybe this time she wouldn't just walk past.

It wasn't grand. It wasn't great. She had no intention of saving the world. But even while holding the Holy Sword, she had absolutely no desire to make the world her own.

I granted her just a tiny bit of permission. A mere fraction. Point Permission.

The Holy Sword moved. Exactly one millimeter. Screeech. It was a tiny sound. But to me, it was like thunder.

Nia froze. "...Huh?"

Goddess Elia seemed to gasp. "Sacred Pedestal."

I saw it too.

"Did you move?"

A little.

"Why?"

I couldn't answer.

Just then, footsteps echoed from outside the plaza. It was the priests, returning for the morning purification ritual. Panicking, Nia yanked her hands away from the Holy Sword. The blade settled back into stillness. But it was too late. A priest had witnessed it. The censer slipped from his hand. Clang!

Nia froze. The priest froze too. I didn't move—not that I could anyway.

The priest spoke in a trembling voice. "You... what did you just do?"

Nia, still holding her rag, replied, "Cleaning."

It was an accurate answer. The problem was that this "cleaning" had moved the Holy Sword more than any of the candidates of the 37th Hero Selection Ceremony.

The priest's face turned pale. "Do not lay your hands on the Holy Sword!"

Nia blinked. "I already did, though."

"Do not touch it again!"

"But I'm not done wiping it."

"Do not wipe it!"

"But it's dirty."

The priest's mouth hung open. He had likely never spent a single moment of his life torn between sacrilege and sanitary maintenance.

Just then, another set of footsteps approached. Quick, rhythmic strides. A young woman entered the plaza. She wore a short coat over her white priestess robes, her hair bound neatly.

Miel. Assistant to the High Priest. She was the one who had managed the ritual records all day yesterday. She looked at the fallen censer, the frozen priest, and Nia holding the rag in turn.

"What is going on here?"

The priest pointed a trembling finger at Nia. "T-That woman just moved the Holy Sword."

Miel's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"The Holy Sword... reacted."

Miel slowly looked at me. She looked at the Holy Sword. Then she looked back at Nia.

"Are you a candidate?"

Nia shook her head. "Nope."

"Which house sponsored you?"

"Don't have a house."

"Are you a registered pilgrim of the temple?"

"Don't do pilgrimages."

"Are you affiliated with the knights?"

"I'm in charge of cleaning."

Miel's composure cracked ever so slightly. "Then why did you lay your hands on the Holy Sword?"

Nia held up her rag. "Because it was dirty."

Miel fell silent. The Goddess fell silent. I fell silent too. Humans sometimes say things so incredibly accurate that they leave everyone utterly bewildered.

Miel quickly recovered her senses. "Touch it again."

Nia's eyes narrowed. "Do I get overtime pay for this?"

The priest gasped in horror. "How dare you say such—"

Nia shot back immediately. "You said I'm not a candidate. That makes this extra work."

I was slightly impressed. This human immediately went into negotiations.

Miel knit her brows slightly. But she didn't yell. A wise decision. Yelling in this situation would only complicate the official records.

"The temple will review the matter of formal ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠compensation."

"Review means you're not paying."

"...Just touch it for now."

Nia looked at the Holy Sword with deep suspicion. "I won't get arrested for touching this, right?"

"We will judge that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠after seeing the results."

"That's literally the scariest thing you could say."

Nevertheless, Nia stood before the Holy Sword. This time, every priest in the plaza was watching. The priest who had picked up his censer. Miel. The junior priests preparing for the morning purification. And me. The hilt of the Holy Sword still bore the streaks from Nia's unfinished wiping.

Nia muttered, "This is seriously weird."

She reached out. I waited.

Her hand touched the Holy Sword. Once again, her mind flowed into me. Fear. Annoyance. Hunger. Worry about her wages. Anxiety from being surrounded by priests.

Calculating escape routes. And a tiny, fleeting imagination of what would happen if she actually pulled the Holy Sword.

In that imagination, Nia didn't wear splendid armor. She didn't stand in a royal palace. There was no statue of her. She simply looked at the glowing sword in her hand and thought: If I'm holding this, at least I won't have to live getting beaten up anymore.

I lingered on that thought for a long time. Princes wanted to use the Holy Sword to suppress others. Knights wanted to use it to execute justice. Priests wanted to use it to elevate their names. But this janitor... she thought that if she held the Holy Sword, she wouldn't have to get beaten up anymore.

Small. Pitiful. A desire far too lowly to be the wish of a great hero. And yet, strangely enough, that desire did not extend toward trampling on others.

I granted her just a tiny bit more permission. Point Permission. This time, three millimeters.

Screeech. The Holy Sword rose. Just a fraction, but more than enough for everyone to see.

The plaza froze. Miel's lips parted slightly. The priest holding the censer almost dropped it a second time.

Nia yanked her hands away from the Holy Sword. "I didn't pull it!"

No one could answer.

"Seriously! I just touched it!"

Still, no one answered.

Growing anxious, Nia added, "I'll even take back what I said about the overtime pay!"

I thought to myself: Too late.

Miel spoke in an incredibly low voice. "She is not on the candidate list."

The priest replied, "But the Holy Sword reacted."

"She has no noble house."

"It reacted."

"She isn't registered with the temple."

"It reacted."

"She is a janitor."

"Even so... it reacted."

Miel stared at the Holy Sword embedded in me. For the first time, a flicker of fear crossed her eyes. All day yesterday, the temple had sugarcoated the failures. The prince's failure. The knight's failure. The priest's failure. The failures of mages, mercenaries, and nobles alike. But this was impossible to sugarcoat. The Holy Sword had reacted to someone outside the candidate list. And of all people, a plaza janitor.

Nia carefully raised her hand. "Excuse me."

Miel looked at her.

Nia said, "So, about my daily wage for today...?"

I was absolutely certain. This century was completely doomed.