The Blind Saintess Offers a Prayer #44
Tears wiped away, Yuria moved forward with a blank expression. Her eyes, devoid of focus and filled only with emptiness, were so vacant they scarcely seemed alive. Sunk deeper than those of the dead, her eyes—drained of all vitality and steeped in ruin—brimmed with regret, anguish, sorrow, resentment, despair, lamentation. Every wretched emotion filled the void.
Dubel's gaze, fixed on her as he carved into Brikal's flesh and faced the hail of arrows, was etched vividly into her mind. The faint smile he had shown her then. That smile, stripped of all regret and remorse, had clearly been directed at her. What had it meant? Had he known she harbored the same pain and regret? Was that why he offered it on his way out—to say that though he regretted that day's choice, he would never regret today's? Yuria pondered the smile he left behind but could not pin down its meaning.
It was only natural. The layers of Dubel's remorse and regret were a riddle too intricate to unravel, even with every word in the world.
"...Sir Dubel, why..."
She knew his death was a great and noble sacrifice—one that had overcome the human instinct for survival. And because she knew, her guilt gnawed at her all the more viciously. It was all her fault. Because she had chosen survival over truth that day, Dubel had been forced to sacrifice himself. Because she had become a weak, cowardly human. A life essential to the kingdom had been lost in vain.
Thud. Thud.
Not yet midwinter, yet the stone floor of the royal palace was ice-cold. Barefoot, she trudged across it. How long had she walked, feeling the raw pain and chill seep into her soles, when Yuria's steps finally halted?
"...May I enter?"
She spoke to the elite knights guarding King Brikal's bedchamber, and they opened the door as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Yuria stepped inside. But she wrinkled her brow and pinched her nose.
"...What is this smell?"
It was foul. Indescribably so, yet somehow familiar in its repulsiveness. Covering her nose, Yuria approached Brikal on his sickbed. The stench grew thicker with every step, making it hard to press on, but she lowered her hand even as it burned her nostrils.
The stench emanating from Brikal. She realized she had no right to reject it.
The high priest's healing had stanched the bleeding, but the wounds—sealed as if scorched by fire—were grotesquely hideous to behold. Was the smell coming from them?
No... something's off...
They were already healed, and the odor was too rancid for mere wounds. Like sewage bubbling up from the depths. She glanced back at the knight standing behind her, but his face was strangely serene—no furrow in his brow. The nauseating stench filled the room, yet he showed no sign of it. It must be something only she could smell.
And that foulness, growing oddly familiar, stirred something in her memory. A dissonant odor, as if something inhuman mingled with human scent—wafting only to her, now reduced to a mere mortal. She couldn't grasp what it demanded, but one thing was certain: no living being could produce such a reek. It was like rotting flesh, yet Brikal lay there peacefully asleep, far from death's grasp. Why, then, the smell of the grave? She could still sense life force in him. The high priest Kairon had said there was no threat to his life. Had he been wrong?
...No, it can't be.
She tried to dismiss the sudden thought, but her body swayed violently, and the knight rushed to steady her.
"Ar-Are you all right, Saintess?"
"Ah, sor-sorry... just dizziness."
"It must be quite the shock for you too. Allow me to escort you back to the tower."
She felt no shock at Brikal's misfortune. She loathed and despised him; his downfall was cause for joy. How many times had she longed to kill him herself? To her, reduced from holy saintess to frail human, his life was something she craved madly. His calamity deserved praise.
Yet for some reason, it felt like a foreboding turning point.
"...Where is the holy sword?"
"Only His Majesty the King and Grand Sage Wallock would know that."
"...I see."
That day in the royal court, Emilia had been stripped of both her power and the holy sword. The indestructible blade and her strength—Brikal had hidden them somewhere in the palace and erased all traces.
Letting out a low sigh, Yuria turned away. Such thoughts were impossible now; she gathered her scattered worries and anxieties. Rash fears would only spread needless sparks like wildfire.
But the ominous stench from Brikal felt like planting seeds of dread and stamping the soil firm over them.
...It won't be. It can't be.
Prayer to the Lord God would one day leave clues in her dreams through prophecy. The saintess's concerns for the greater good were always answered according to her earnestness. Yet now, she could only wallow dumbly in worry's chains—like a frail human, thirsting unquenched.
"This way, Saintess."
"Yes..."
Yuria followed the knight out of the bedchamber toward the tower. Today, the title "Saintess" grated more than ever, but revealing her turmoil would render all her survival-born sins for naught. Silently, she trailed behind him.
Entering the tower's base, Yuria began ascending the stairs. Panting, she reached the topmost floor—the closest to the Lord God—and knelt by the window. Clasping her hands devoutly, eyes closed, she offered prayer. As she always had since receiving her first oracle as saintess. Without fail, every single day.
Yuria began to pray.
"Please... Lord God... light my path... any path... I shall walk it gladly..."
Late afternoon sun poured brilliantly through the window. Yuria prayed there until sunset, until darkness fell, until dawn broke—pouring in her desperate pleas and wretched wishes. To the Lord God she prayed, and prayed again. Futile now, from one become a groveling human, but she did not stop. Blind saintess—no, hollow shell of a false one—she persisted. For a saintess stripped of divinity, this meaningless prayer was all that remained. No word would come to a sinner's blasphemous plea, yet Yuria prayed endlessly.
"Please... please... what should I do... sob... please tell me..."
Prayers that would not reach. Words that would not be heard. With tears, she poured them forth ceaselessly.
In Rosel's study.
"Wh-what? Revolution...?"
Hoping it wouldn't be a waste of time, Grand Duchess Rusillan had come to Rosel's study—only to lift her drooping eyelids for the first time in ages. With age came disinterest in the world; ennui settled over her lids like dust. Having lived long and seen every affair imaginable, nothing stirred her anymore.
But Rosel's proposal was not just intriguing—it was shocking.
"...Success, and it becomes a revolution. Failure, a rebellion."
History bore it out. Successful rebellions were etched as revolutions for posterity; failed ones, mere rebellions. Knowing this, Rusillan nodded vigorously from her seat on the sofa.
"Y-yes, exactly. I worried it might waste my time, but this shakes this old woman's heart."
Rosel closed his mouth with a grave expression, awaiting her response. The encirclement of the west and east progressed smoothly, but extending to north and south was impossible. Deploying forces there risked alerting Brikal. Thus, Rusillan's aid was essential. Moreover, harboring enmity toward Brikal, she would surely accept to settle an ancient grudge.
With the north secured, the south came next. He planned to approach Count Nebron of the south, but without the north resolved, he couldn't proceed. For the north, the reliable and mighty ally was Rusillan.
Yet the proposal, thought sweet, drew a frown and crossed arms from her—a defensive stance. Knowing what it implied, Rosel's face hardened.
"Hmm... To oust Brikal. I don't doubt your political or military prowess, but isn't it reckless? His army boasts the kingdom's strongest weapons and mightiest warriors."
Rosel nodded. Precisely why he needed Rusillan—to overwhelm their forces and shatter their will to fight, minimizing innocent sacrifices.
"I know. That's why I'm proposing this to you, Grand Duchess."
"...Why propose this to me? An old woman eyeing retirement."
"No ulterior motive. To save a kingdom falsely crumbling."
"Falsely... crumbling?"
Rusillan raised one eyebrow, gesturing for him to continue. Rosel drew a blue sapphire from his breast pocket.
"Do you truly believe Hero Emilia plotted treason, Grand Duchess?"
"...What is there to believe or not? The Saintess prophesied it."
Rosel placed the sapphire into the magic tool on the table.
"If that prophecy was false... would you believe it then?"
"...Wh-what? False? Do you grasp what you're saying...?"
"I do. Blasphemy."
Her wrinkled cheeks trembled as Rusillan's mouth gaped wide. A saintess's prophecy was sacred and holy. Doubting it equated to doubting the Holy Church itself; she could scarcely contain her shock.
"I-I'll pretend I didn't hear that. Never speak it again. Aren't you too reckless?"
But Rosel remained serene—a serenity tinged with sorrow. He knew how Yuria's choice had come to pass. He knew her false prophecy had triggered Emilia's fall, yet he harbored no resentment. He only wondered if, like Dubel, she had realized something and begun to change—or if, realizing, she rejected it. Last night, Dubel's eyes on Brikal had shown the spark of change.
"As you know, Grand Duchess, divine power is not eternal."
"Th-that's obvious."
"And a saintess bereft of it can lie."
"B-but why would she...? She could return to the church for a life of comfort and plenty. What saintess would do something so insane...!"
Rosel activated the Record Object. Instantly, a radiant-smiling Emilia materialized above the table—the real Emilia, sacrificing for her party, dreaming grand dreams.
"Th-this is...?"
Rosel gazed at the records with quiet eyes and murmured. He didn't know Yuria's heart since that day's choice—events after were unknown to him. He only hoped she repented that choice.
"Saintess Yuria had no choice but to 'choose'."
"...No choice? A false prophecy?"
"And Brikal 'forced' that choice with her life."
"Wh-what?"
"A saintess without divine power is just another desperate human craving life."
"Wh-what did you say...?"
Rusillan could hardly believe Rosel's words. The saintess's power had waned, exploited by Brikal? An unbelievable tale that flushed her face as if with hypertension.
It made no sense. Using a saintess for selfish gain was tantamount to scorning the church. What mad king would commit such sacrilege against the church? What fool would court such suicide? What idiot would drag the kingdom into that mire?
"Th-this is absurd...! Do you mean to give this old woman a heart attack...!?"
Yet Rosel remained impassive. Watching the happily smiling Emilia in the Record Object, he offered a faint smile.
"...Steel yourself."
"The era of upheaval has begun."