The False Saintess (5)

Inside the tent where not even the sound of an ant's movement could be heard, an old man sat quietly in meditation with his eyes closed.

The emblem of the Goddess Church embroidered on his pristine white priestly robes marked him as the Pope.

Even the priests who usually attended him had been dismissed as he repeated his breathing exercises to calm his mind.

Just as the sound of wind rustling through the curtain gaps faded away, footsteps echoed from thin air as someone approached.

The shuffling footsteps immediately told the Pope who it was. Only one person could enter this place without any restraint from the priests.

"My, my. I never thought Your Grace would be so discourteous."

"Surely you didn't just realize that now."

The Pope opened his eyes to see a man scoffing with a derisive snort.

Ashen hair and silver eyes. The sharp gaze and eerie aura were enough to give even the Pope pause for a moment.

Put another way—he had an utterly unpleasant face.

"It's been a while since we've met privately, Your Holiness."

Abel.

One of only four dukes in the Arieh Empire, and someone whose relationship with the Pope could only be described as karmically twisted. Once, they had fought side by side as comrades on the battlefield.

Tap.

With a flick of his finger, two cushions materialized in midair.

Just as during the Subjugation Expedition, his magic remained formidable. In the Arieh Empire—also called the Magic Empire—no one wielded Space Magic as skillfully as Abel.

The Pope vaguely recalled that as a child, Abel had struggled even with basic Shield Magic. Had so much time really passed?

"Have a seat."

Abel sat unceremoniously on a cushion and gestured at the Pope with one hand. The Pope chuckled dryly and slowly rose from the floor.

Though he used honorifics, his lack of manners hadn't changed much from back then.

At least he wasn't calling him "old geezer" anymore—that was progress.

Of course, his disdain for the Pope remained unchanged.

"Yes... It has been a long time since we met like this. Why have you avoided seeing me for over a decade?"

"Ha. You were the one who said we shouldn't meet privately."

The Pope grumbled, and Abel narrowed his eyes as he looked at him. Unfazed by the sharp gaze, the Pope shamelessly retorted.

"To think a man would hold onto such petty words."

"You were the petty one first."

Abel let out a disbelieving laugh and stretched his hand into the air.

Without a single chant, a subspace opened at his will. Rummaging through it, Abel retrieved two cups and tossed one toward the Pope.

The Pope barely managed to catch it using Holy Power. Watching this, Abel smirked and spoke.

"You've aged terribly. Can't even catch a cup properly now."

"Of course. I'm well past a hundred by now."

By rough estimate, he had lived nearly a century. It was only natural he'd grow frail.

He'd never intended to live this long, but the promise he'd made in his youth still bound him.

"Age is hardly the right word. Years of wisdom would be more fitting."

Abel corrected the Pope, who had fallen into reminiscence, as he pulled out a bottle from the subspace. The unusual shape of the vessel made the Pope's eyes widen instantly.

He immediately recognized it—an Eastern homebrew, and not just any, but the notoriously rare ginseng wine.

Having been a devoted drinker before becoming a priest, he knew its identity at once. As the Pope's gaze fixated on the bottle, Abel chuckled.

"You still love your liquor, I see."

"Only because I can't have it anymore."

"The priests would faint if they knew their Pope was such a drunkard."

"Hmph. I can't even drink now for my health, so they'd have a point."

The Pope regretfully ran his fingers over the cup before setting it down. Watching this, Abel tossed the bottle into the air.

A white magic circle appeared mid-flight and caught it. Then, it tilted the bottle over the Pope's cup on the floor.

The clear liquor sloshed out in thick, glugging streams. The Pope unconsciously swallowed hard at the sight.

"Health? Since when have you ever cared about such things?"

"Ever since the war ended."

"Then that makes it barely ten years now."

Abel's reply was laced with sarcasm.

"...Has it already been that long?"

Ten years.

Muttering to himself, the Pope recalled the past—when he had first met Abel.

The war that erupted when the Prilecha Kingdom turned both the Numen Holy Kingdom and the Arieh Empire into enemies. He had been deployed as a middle-aged priest into a conflict that had already raged for over a century.

That's where we met.

After roaming the battlefield as a priest for more than twenty years, he encountered a young imperial soldier.

A boy who had lost himself to slaughter, surviving only through mindless carnage.

His frail body looked like it could collapse from a single touch, yet among the Empire's child soldiers, that boy had been the sole survivor to the very end.

And now that very brat had not only become one of the Empire's four dukes but had even reached the realm of a full-fledged Archmage.

The passage of time truly felt fickle.

"I was quite hot-blooded back then too."

Muttering to himself, the Pope savored the aroma of the liquor. Watching him, Abel let out an exasperated sigh and chided him.

"Hot-blooded, my foot. Even back then, you were already a doddering old man."

"Hah. Isn't that a bit harsh to say to a withered old geezer?"

"Consider it the price for this expensive liquor."

Even after all these years, that insolent temperament of his hadn't changed.

At first, that shameless attitude had grated on his nerves, but now, oddly enough, he found it endearing.

They say old men grow fond of everything they see—seemed he really had aged after all. The Pope mused inwardly before quietly tilting his cup.

Abel didn't interrupt the nostalgic expression on the Pope's face. He simply refilled his own empty glass.

The transparent liquor trickled through the narrow bottleneck, filling the cup.

Downing it all in one go, he felt something hot seep into his chest.

Watching this, the Pope clicked his tongue in disapproval.

"You really don't know how to enjoy liquor. Who the hell gulps it down like that?"

"What's it to you? It's my drink, I'll drink it how I please."

"Tch. This is exactly why I hate private gatherings with you."

"Then no more for you."

"Now that I think about it, drinking it like that doesn't seem so bad after all."

Abel let out a dry laugh at how swiftly the Pope's attitude shifted with just one remark. Just like in the past, the old man remained as childish as ever.

As the Pope tilted his cup again, Abel flicked his fingers. The Pope froze momentarily as an immense surge of mana swept through his body like a tidal wave.

Huuuung—

A resonant hum echoed in his ears as an enormous barrier began encircling the tent. Even someone with no expertise in magic could sense the sheer power behind this spell.

Having witnessed his magic ad nauseam on the battlefield, the Pope immediately recognized the nature of the barrier.

'A Silence Barrier.'

True to its name, it prevented any sound from escaping its confines.

This very ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠magic was why Abel had been called the God of Death of Silence during the war.

The fact that he had deployed it now meant whatever they were about to discuss couldn't be heard by anyone.

So, this wasn't just a casual drink after all. The Pope set his empty cup down ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and fixed his gaze on Abel.

"Your Holiness. Have you lost your Holy Mark?"

The Holy Mark.

A scar bestowed as proof of direct blessing from the Goddess, a testament to one's devotion so great that it earned her favor.

For the Pope or a Saintess, it was the most crucial evidence of their unwavering faith in the Goddess Church.

Losing it meant the Goddess herself had withdrawn her blessing. In other words, not only the Pope's position but even his life could ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be in peril.

"Hahaha. I truly am no match for the Duke."

The Pope didn't deny it. Instead, he quietly rolled up his sleeve, revealing only the faint trace where the Holy Mark had once been.

At the sight, Abel exhaled a sigh without realizing it.

"You didn't heed my warning after all."

"Did you really think I would?"

"Hard to say."

He had clearly warned him before, yet the Pope had lost his Holy Mark just as in the original story. Had he not listened to his advice at all?

No—knowing his nature, he likely never would have accepted it in the first place. How could a man as upright as him stand by and watch an innocent girl be sacrificed?

Now that things had come to this, the plan to rely on the Pope's aid had to be abandoned.

"Was it really worth losing your Holy Mark for the Emperor's pawn?"

"...Ah. I remember now—what you once told me."

"Don't carve out your own flesh for the sake of a traitor."

The Pope smiled bitterly as he recalled the "traitor" Abel had spoken of—Yurp, the Saintess Candidate he himself had chosen, a girl more virtuous than anyone.

He had known from the start that she was the Emperor's eyes. Just as he also knew, better than anyone, the kindness in that child's heart.

All this decrepit old man could do was appoint her as a Saintess Candidate.

It pained him that factional strife within the Holy Kingdom had prevented him from doing more.

Losing the Goddess's favor and his Holy Mark was only natural after that. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Choosing the Emperor's pawn as a Saintess Candidate was, after all, an act of defiance that invited divine wrath.

"Still, I've never once regretted it."

"...Still as foolish as ever."

"Indeed. That's precisely why I've managed to survive this long."

The Pope gave a wry smile and downed his drink again. Abel watched him silently before refilling his cup once more.

Not another word was exchanged as the night deepened in silence.