The Managing Young Tree (2)

A malignant blessing.

I used a divine blessing, so why did it come back stamped malignant?

The word itself didn't sound like a compliment, and that glowing black light oozing out of the offering box did not look good. Not good at all.

"Lord Tree?! Did we make something wrong?!"

Thermia recoiled in horror and inspected the offering boxes.

The black glow was certainly eye-catching.

―No, that's not it. I tried something new, and I guess the method was off. I'll think over the right way to do it, so let's call it a day.

I sent Thermia and Priest Dalia on their way.

The offering boxes were left standing there, abandoned.

Was a malignant blessing actually a bad thing?

I examined the boxes still radiating their black light.

I honestly couldn't tell what was bad about it. Just like when I'd poured blessings into the fruit rations, all I'd done was fill the offering boxes with my will — there was no difference in the process.

So the malignant blessing itself seemed fine.

The effects confirmed it, too.

With the divine blessing, the limits had been set by the recipient's stature and essence. The malignant blessing, by contrast, took only the user as its reference point — but the effect itself was identical.

So why was one divine and the other malignant?

It left a bad taste in my mouth.

Wasn't this the sort of term reserved for evil gods?

If I had become an Endless Branch and Root, I probably would have used things like this all the time. My divinity would have curdled long ago, so the word "malignant" would have fit perfectly.

But why a malignant blessing?

I distinctly used a divine blessing.

After several rounds of trial and observation, I figured out the reason.

A blessing, by its nature, grants good effects to its target. It's an act of wishing someone well, of supporting them in becoming something greater.

So then, what had the blessing I'd just performed actually done?

The act of blessing was the same.

But I had twisted the mystery toward the purpose of making someone live badly. I'd warped the essence of a divine blessing — something meant to wish people well — and bent it to my own taste.

Look, my thinking had been perfectly reasonable: since I had divine blessings available, why not repurpose one to deter thieves? Apparently the method was just a little off.

It felt like being handed medicine to treat a patient, doctoring it on my own initiative, and turning it into poison. Whatever my intentions, I couldn't exactly call myself a good pharmacist anymore.

The will to take something good and deliberately twist it into something bad.

Was that the road that led to "malignant"?

If I took the effects of my Divine Domain Zone and reshaped them into something curse-like, wouldn't the whole thing degrade into a malignant domain?

I could faintly feel how divinity could be corrupted. So there were plenty of roads to corruption besides greed, huh.

And the solution was obvious.

Use the mystery for its proper purpose.

Preventing theft wasn't a bad thing. The problem was doing it under the name ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of a blessing.

If someone is blessed by a god, and it turns out the blessing is actually a curse — should we call that being a god, or an evil god?

Mysteries must be used for their intended purpose.

So I adjusted the will slightly.

The cursed freedom that had been granted under the guise of blessing I straightened into divine punishment. Well, I did leave the last one alone — people should still be free to feel remorse and return what they took from the offering box.

I poured my will into the offering boxes.

This isn't a blessing. This is an expression of firm resolve to bring wrongdoers to justice.

Light blazed forth. It was an endlessly pure, blinding white.

Now this is the proper use of divinity.

"Is it finished?"

Thermia studied the offering boxes.

―Not all of them. Just those. Since this is a brand-new experiment, I'll need to run a field test and observe before we roll the boxes out.

Divine Rule designated discipline over a domain.

Aiming it at the offering boxes meant the mystery was now active around them.

So what is this, exactly?

If someone breaks the discipline I've designated within this range, they receive divine punishment?

Whoooaaa?

This is literally, word for word, the introduction of law and order.

Recently, Thermia and the religious organization had been piecing together the rules of my miracles — studying cases where miracles got revoked — and compiling them into scripture.

But the third effect of the Divine Domain Zone was merely my personal moral sense and unconscious tendencies bleeding through. I had never actually designated real discipline, so all of that was closer to guesswork.

Compared to that, this was true discipline.

I could designate the rules myself. I could even set the severity of the penalties.

Whoa, whoaaa······.

It gave me the feeling that mishandling this could be catastrophic.

It was more powerful and more immediate than any legal code — and the sole decision-maker was me.

Should I really be allowed to do this?

Of course I shouldn't.

I had zero confidence in crafting a set of rules that was perfectly consistent and airtight. Even PhD-level legal scholars can't manage that.

After all, an ethical code that never produces troubling edge cases simply does not exist.

And even if I purified this into moral discipline rather than formal ethics, there was still a sizable gap between this era's realities and my own sensibilities.

If I designated rules based on my modern moral standards, I could easily create a disaster.

Suppose I imposed a rule on a closed-off human village commanding the locals to be kind to outsiders — a plague carried in by those outsiders could wipe the village out entirely.

Plenty of so-called immoral conventions are, in truth, practical compromises born of an era's limitations.

I didn't have the confidence to account for all of that.

Believing you can do the impossible isn't courage. It's arrogance.

Divine Rule should be used only in the most minimal, careful ways.

Like preventing theft from the offering boxes, maybe?

Stealing from me is stealing my property, so as the owner, I'm entitled to at least that much enforcement.

"This is an offering box the Sacred Young Tree has placed under His discipline. He has ordered a field trial, you see."

Thermia fixed her gaze on the Thief Trio.

"We'll have you play the role of thieves. Go on and try stealing from it. He said nothing irreversible will happen, so you'll be fine."

The Thief Trio broke out in a cold sweat, sheets of it dripping down.

They looked like they badly wanted to ask why they had to play that part.

Well. Because you're former thieves, obviously.

When the Thief Trio ran the test, the discipline didn't trigger at all.

Apparently their pilfering registered as nothing more than the innocent relocation of goods by upstanding personnel. Which, to be fair, was technically accurate.

Looked like there was no choice but to test it in another village.

Millersford was a small town.

Take away its beloved watermill on the river — the one that let anyone grind flour and bake bread with ease — and it was just a thoroughly unremarkable place.

That said, the atmosphere had shifted considerably of late.

After all, it was the town everyone had to pass through to reach the Forest of Serenity.

Merchants and travelers heading to the Elf Village kept multiplying, and Millersford swelled right along with them.

There was even a rumor going around that several famous trading houses from the Royal Capital planned to open branch outposts there to crack the elf fruit trade.

So it was perhaps only natural that Millersford was chosen as one of the principal towns for a shrine.

"What's that supposed to be?"

The townsfolk milled around in front of a building still under construction.

"An offering box."

An elf set the offering box down.

He was one of the construction-worker elves who'd lost their livelihood to the arrival ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of living wooden buildings and the earth spirits.

Until the construction crews could adapt to the village's transformation and the new spirit-architecture, they'd been dispatched to build shrines — that way their old skills wouldn't go to waste. Building shrines was no idle make-work.

"Anyone here who's lost their miracles? The shrine isn't finished yet, but this is your chance to lay down your worldly filth in the offering box."

"So I just pay up and it all comes back?"

"No. It depends on your willingness to change. If your heart falls short, it won't come back — so don't say foolish things."

When a church says your "heart falls short," it usually means your donations fall short.

The townsfolk took it exactly that way, too.

But then some people got their miracles back after paying, and some didn't, and slowly everyone started losing their minds.

"I put in this much — why isn't it working for me?!"

"It's not about the money. You have to put in your heart, I keep telling you."

"Isn't that the exact same thing!"

The newly minted parvenus who'd gotten rich off the town's growth tore at their hair.

They'd quit farming, and now they could feel their muscle melting away, their bodies dying a little more each day.

Nobody wanted to go back to the fields, so their only hope lay in the miracles granted by the Divine Tree. But even after offering up serious money, the miracles didn't return.

Not for everyone, that is. The parvenu next door got his back, and mine wouldn't come? It was enough to drive a man insane.

Money began piling into the offering boxes, hearts and desperation competing to outdo one another.

Even those who despaired — it's just not happening for me — and tried to stop couldn't bring themselves to quit.

Just around the time everyone was hollowly wondering how much more they'd have to offer, someone who had genuinely murmured to himself — I shouldn't have done it, I regret it — suddenly got his miracle back on the spot.

For the people who'd offered alongside him, this was truly maddening. Why does it work for him and not me?

"What in the world is the actual criterion here?!"

"Sincerity. Heart. A repentant soul. And you display that attitude in front of an offering box granted by the Sacred Young Tree Himself? Your conduct is rotten from the start."

"Come on, the Divine Tree must have set some standard! Just tell us the exact conditions for getting miracles back! Like, how much does it take?"

"How much, he says. I'm not a priest, so don't come whining to me."

The elf who'd dropped the bombshell went off to enjoy a warm, convivial gathering with the town's parvenus who had gotten their miracles back.

"Heh heh. The Sacred Young Tree is punishing him, that's all. That greedy little wretch — I knew this day would come."

"You think so?"

"Man got a bit of money and started eyeing End's wife and daughters, so of course it wouldn't work for him. Tsk tsk. If you've earned that much, you ought to spend some of it on the town."

"Say, elf friend — what's that bottle there?"

The pouring of fruit wine came to an abrupt halt.

"This?"

The elf gave a sly, knowing grin.

"A 500-year-vintage fruit wine."

"Pffthah! A 500-year vintage? There's no such thing on this earth."

"That just means it's all the more delicious, doesn't it. Can I have a sip? You're not going to show it off and then not share, are you?"

"You don't believe me, do you. Well, it's the day the offering box arrived, so each of you may have one cup. Take it."

The elf poured and passed the cups around.

The parvenus downed them in one gulp. Their eyes popped wide open.

"Hooough."

"What in blazes is this made of?!"

"Heh heh. It's made from the sacred fruit the Sacred Young Tree bestows, steeped in water that spirits have bathed in."

"Ohhh! Just one more cup, come on!"

As the drinking party kicked into full swing, one man near the offering box carried himself differently from everyone around him.

An outside thief — one with no reason to fear that stealing here would earn him a beating and a run out of town. He'd heard about the shrine construction and had been lying low at the inn, waiting.

The offering box filled up, and the watchers' attention drifted.

The thief moved instantly. He sprinted over and snatched the box in one go. It was heavy, but that was exactly as expected. He spun on his heel and bolted — and aghast stares converged on him.

"Huh?! A thief!"

"Elf! Draw your bow!"

No, no. There's really no need for the bow.

Light coiled around the offering box.

In an instant, a shockwave erupted. The thief was flung backward, tumbling across the ground. He tried to rise, but with a soundless scream he collapsed again.

Just then, from behind the shrine, Thermia and the Thief Trio came flying out at top speed.

They surrounded the thief and gave him a few cautious pokes with tree branches.

"Is he dead? Do you think he's dead?"

The thief trembled and flinched.

"Oh, come off it. Nobody dies from this."

Yuhu. Theft prevention looks like a rousing success.

I could install shrines without a worry now.

The western reaches of my miracle-spread domain were quite vast.

By the original classification, they were called a baronial territory.

Royal grants and mergers of lands had produced its current size, but even the western portion alone had once been an independent territory — and the baronial title itself had carried over intact.

We were building shrines across the entire baronial territory. No easy undertaking.

Still, with the Lord's Castle lending a hand, every shrine somehow got finished before I knew it. Offering boxes were placed, and trained elf priests were dispatched to each one.

Once we built a communications network using the carrier pigeons raised for village administration, I could oversee the whole baronial territory from the Forest of Serenity as clear as day.

It really felt like running an actual religion.

Then, all at once, a message surfaced.

The stature of my soul ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had risen.

Whoooaaa?