The Wickedness Defiling Purity (4)
The old man's corpse lay grotesquely sprawled, vanished in an instant. The priests who had been seated there, and even the holy knights who had regained their senses by now, all witnessed it clearly. To them, the man who had been like a god had turned into a madman, laughing maniacally before taking his own life—a sight whose shock was beyond words. No one could open their mouth.
Lenoir was no different. Though for entirely different reasons.
You lot...
Even setting aside the foolishness of choosing suicide, those final words—practically his dying testament—refused to leave Lenoir's mind. The old man had seemed to already know about the demigods. There were occasional mortals like that, but this one was fundamentally different.
It feels like words from someone I've met.
No, he actually thought it must be so. The way he accepted the awe of authority evoked a strange nostalgia.
Who could it be?
Was there still an active demigod out there?
...I cannot say.
The last time Lenoir had met his siblings was over three full centuries ago, by rough count. Even then, they had avoided interfering in each other's lives, so no deep conversations had taken place—just fleeting glimpses. Every one of them was a suspect, yet none could truly be. Judging by nuance alone, it must have been someone active enough to profoundly influence the old man's life, but pinpointing who was no easy task.
Not one of his siblings, abandoned in those days, had escaped despair. But time flowed on relentlessly. Even the hatred and resentment that once seemed to scorch the heavens had dried up completely, leaving only bitter dregs after so many ages. Even Hailerr, who ultimately descended into madness, had been engulfed in emptiness by the time he vanished.
And now, of all times.
That was the thought that came first. In truth, had Lenoir not encountered Sara, he would likely still be wandering as a vagrant—living unseen by the world, occasionally bestowing gold coins like charity upon those who spotted him, then forgetting who they were as he moved on.
Speculating from worldly rumors was impossible, of course. Lenoir had turned his eyes from mortal affairs for far too long.
Still, this was no matter to leave unresolved.
No matter who it is.
In the end, it was precisely when he resolved to meet Sara and seat her upon the throne that variables became undesirable. His siblings were entities beyond control. Over half slumbered now in a deathlike sleep proper to this era, but how the rest might view Sara remained unknown.
I must investigate.
Where to begin?
...Right.
Shall I trace back from when the cults began to proliferate?
It would be simple enough using the Pterin guild's information network. These groups had taken the form of churches. Everyone knew how to handle faith in the realm of greed. Lenoir had paid little heed, but even this kingdom's capital proved the point.
You used that method so naturally.
Not everyone received the same teachings, but from what Lenoir had observed, mortals readily learned ways to sate their greed. It was hardly a biased view to see someone as having sown the seed that blossomed into this.
In any case, an investigation would yield results. He could even use this church as material in the process.
Lenoir turned his head. The priests and holy knights still stood there, mouths agape.
What to do with them?
He pondered, then decided.
Kiiiiing—!
The halo spun. The stroke fixed cause and effect.
"Heretics gathered in false belief, I tell thee: repent."
Fate Fixation. Lenoir's unique spell, laden with conditions and risks, yet guaranteed in its returns.
"For a hundred days and nights, confess thy sins with throat raw. For the next hundred days and nights, atone through service for thine own crimes. In the following hundred, inflict upon thyself the punishment for the sins of thy heresy. Only when thou deemest the filth of thy souls cleansed shall the goddess grant new flesh over thy foul hides."
The magic manifested.
"Now go forth and proclaim the goddess's will."
Lenoir could force them to confess their sins themselves. By whatever means, he could make them perform penance and service. Then impose punishment upon them. All without variables. He could drive them to devour their own hearts with such resolve. Thus, he erased the process, leaving only the result of their self-enaction.
It might look like hypnosis or brainwashing to onlookers, but it was utter rationality.
"Ah... aaaah...!"
"Uuuugh...!"
The heretics wept and writhed in agony. Lenoir passed them by indifferently.
In three hundred days, the Church of the Goddess would receive an influx of fine priests. Cleanup could be left to the Pterins.
Before that, Lenoir set off to handle the remaining business.
He looked up toward the innermost sanctum. There, he sensed the source of their faith.
Orin awaited within.
* * *
The seat of a god was one of the church's most vital elements. It had to be the center, bearing no burden itself but standing amid the pillars shouldered by the faithful, sharing their weight—and composed solely of sacred relics praising its existence. This was the foundational principle; only when a god was enshrined there did its authority spread across the world.
Lenoir couldn't help sneering at how the blatantly heretical Orin Church had adhered to this core rule. Not out of any lingering purity.
You kept what you could while making the form utterly heretical.
It reeked of deliberate malice.
[Marsilio?]
In the church's deepest temple, a small cluster of red light flickered within six marble pillars rising like iron bars.
This was their god, Orin. More precisely, a spirit that had received human faith.
Unlike its subordinates, the flickering red flame was pure—like a candle. Incredibly innocent, and thus ignorant.
"He met another end. Come to punish him, I found him unable to accept defeat and thus he took his own life."
[Dead? Marsilio?]
"Indeed."
[Ah...]
The spirit sighed lowly. Sorrow emanated from it. It truly mourned the pope called Marsilio.
"A mere mental entity of nothing. He was profoundly wicked. Reflecting on his heretical deeds, had he lived, I would have consigned him to eternal torment."
[But he said we could do much good. Build paradise, he said.]
"Cunning whispers. Paradise is not built but formed. If the peace of embroidered beings through their purity be called paradise, how could greedy mortals conjure it?"
[Marsilio lied?]
"Aye. Thou wert deceived, bred in captivity behind these bars."
At those words, sorrow again. Shock, too—and a trust in a stranger's words that revealed much.
Lenoir could see the ignorant young soul's entire trajectory.
"Thou hast learned nothing. Since descending to this land, thou hast seen only heresy and deemed it justice."
[...Scary. Who are you?]
"One who praises the purity in those who behold me."
Lenoir approached Orin. As he did, the marble pillars crumbled to sand, as if eroded by time. Orin was no longer confined.
"Thus, little soul beholding me: I know thou sittest at heresy’s heart, yet that sin is not thine."
Lenoir extended his hand. It had been ages.
In distant ages past, witnessing such faiths, he had spat furious hatred at their cruelty, erasing every trace of the churches, stripping the spirits' divinity, and releasing them to their original forms.
Now, he would take another path. Lenoir had purpose, and such spirits proved most useful.
"Come with me."
Spirits were childlike. Even absorbing human faith to approximate desired forms changed not their core. Considering their origin as spirits, it was inevitable.
"In truth, ye little lights exist to illuminate the throne. Messengers bearing the creators' radiance, aiding its spread across the world."
In ancient times, they were the angels serving the highest at the world's center. With the central gods gone, they lost purpose and returned to nature. Their essence as purest light-bearers remained unchanged.
They merely returned whence they came. Gathering the spirits to augment the throne's myriad lamps, to praise the creators' return.
Orin's flame trembled. Yet the little spirit sensed no malice from this stranger who freed it from its stifling prison. Instinct drew them to the divine-near. Their attribute of gathering faith stemmed from that very trait—what need for explanation?
[...Is it happy there?]
That single question, and Lenoir answered.
"There lies the greatest joy thy being can enact."
Orin slowly rose onto Lenoir's palm.
It was the quiet end of a faith forged from human greed.
* * *
It was dusk. With even Rnier departed, Sara lounged sloppily on the mansion's sofa, munching snacks while staring at the ceiling. Counting stains, tracing their shapes, she twisted her neck too far, jolted, and bit her tongue.
"Ughk...!"
Crash!
Tumbling off the sofa, Sara stuck out her tongue with tears pricking her eyes.
Left alone to stave off boredom, she'd ended up like this. It felt unfairly sad. Sitting still just didn't suit her nature.
Perhaps because she'd been with Lenoir constantly lately. His absence loomed hugely.
She slid limply to the floor, sprawling there sullenly.
"When's milord coming back..."
She muttered to herself pointlessly—
Click!
"Milord!"
Still prone, Sara lifted her upper body and peered toward the entrance. Lenoir was entering, his gaze disapproving, and she couldn't help but grin.
"Little Sara. How comest thou to sprawl so undignified upon the floor? Thou resemblest a sea lion from the northern oceans."
"I rolled off! I'm getting up!"
Sara sprang up and bounced over to him, her face bright as if the sulk had never been.
"How'd the outing go? Score big today!?"
"Thy greeting is savage. I have handled what must be done."
"Hehe... Seeing your face makes me happy, milord. Was super bored alone!"
"Hadst thou but read, it would have been well."
"Can't read!"
"...I wish thy education would progress."
Lenoir, whose sighs multiplied daily, exhaled deeply. Then he abruptly opened his palm.
Sara instinctively placed her hand atop it.
"Not that—remove thy hand."
"Ah, not!? "
"Art thou not a dog?"
"Course not! This Sara Lorojin is gonna be a goddess someday!"
"Aye, so remove thy hand first."
Only then did Sara realize her fingertips had been tracing his palm lines, and she pulled away. Regret tinged her, but only briefly.
Whoosh!
Flame bloomed in Lenoir's palm.
"Eek!?"
"The spirit that shall attend thee henceforth."
[Goddess?]
"Aye, the goddess thou shalt serve."
Sara's eyes went wide. The flame, warm but not scorching, wobbled cutely onto her palm—utterly wondrous. A real live spirit, long just rumor to her, was thrilling.
She gazed at Lenoir with sparkling eyes.
"Where'd ya get this!?"
"Found it on the way."
"Milord picks stuff up too...? Thought you'd say it's undignified!"
"If needful, to gather is proper. In any case, it shall make thee yet more radiant, child. Treat it dear."
Sara looked back at her palm. The flame flickered, rolling exploratively before oozing outward.
[...Comfy here.]
As a spirit, it naturally felt ease in a goddess's soul. Sara knew no such thing, of course. Just that a cute, talking little one had joined the family.
So thinking, one question arose.
"...But milord."
"Ask."
"This is a borrowed mansion—can we keep pets?"
"......"
Lenoir momentarily lost words. He always pondered expressions Sara could grasp. This time too, after deliberation:
"A pet spirit should be fine. Likely."
"Oho... True, spirits don't poop! No smell either!"
Quick to adapt, Sara nodded and tickled the spirit with her fingertip. So casual. The spirit's giggly flicker was adorable; a satisfied smile bloomed.
A peaceful moment.
The next day, Sara learned the spirit's name was Orin—and that the church serving Orin had collapsed.