Even Without Grand Salvation (2)
Balt was a gambler in the capital's slums. Like most folks born in the dirt-poor underbelly, he had no other path in life thanks to his upbringing. The silver lining? He had nimbler fingers than most. Sharp instincts, solid reasoning skills. Made him damn good at card games—good enough to scrape by comfortably on his winnings.
He had one son. A kid from a one-night slip-up back in his wild, hot-blooded days. No regrets there. Even hedgehogs think their babies are cute, right? Watching that little guy toddle around with his gummy grins, handing him snacks—it filled Balt's heart like nothing else.
"One day, lookin' at him, it hit me. I wanna live straight and raise this boy's kid right someday."
"Didja live straight with your card games?"
"What d'ya take me for? Nah, I went huntin' for a regular job. Capital's full of labor gigs, ain't it? Bounced around doin' odd jobs here and there. Savin' up to open my own shop."
But the world doesn't bend to your plans. Balt smacked his lips.
"Turned out my boy had mana addiction syndrome."
"Oh, I know what that is!"
"Yeah, it's infamous, so the goddess'd know too. He was 'bout six... suddenly couldn't walk right. Shopped around every doc I could find, finally got the diagnosis. Tried everything to fix him. But man, the meds? Absurdly expensive."
The smile tugging at his lips was bitter. The tang on his tongue matched reality's sour bite.
"Burned through my savings fast. No real progress—just barely stallin' it from gettin' worse. But you need those meds to even do that. So what choice? Had to scrape up more cash."
Regular work couldn't cover it. Old habits die hard—back to the tables for the big pots.
"I know it's chickenshit. Irresponsible as hell."
One bad loss, and his son's life ends. But what else could he do?
"So I started prayin' like mad. After hittin' up the goddess, my luck'd turn. Make money, kid sleeps easy. Hate hearin' a twelve-year-old groan in his sleep—messes up my own rest somethin' fierce."
Balt felt shame burning. A fervent believer in the goddess cult, yet here he was confessing his selfish prayers right to Sara herself, the object of his faith.
And he didn't stop there. Maybe 'cause he'd already spilled the embarrassing stuff, but slyly, he let his real wish slip out.
"...So I secretly prayed you'd make him leap right outta bed, hale as ever. Sorry 'bout that. Feels like I was usin' ya."
Figured a church or god could fix anything. But facin' Sara, it felt like bullyin' a girl into it, so he kept it hidden. Finally confessin' face-to-face left him relieved... and choked up. Couldn't meet her eyes, just grinned awkwardly and ducked his head.
But whatever shame Balt felt didn't seem to matter.
"Hmm, got it."
"Huh?"
"This goddess just needs to save your son, right?"
A cheeky grin bloomed on Sara's face.
"You're one of our top customers in the cult! And Nari says folks who pray to help others are pure! You're pure, Uncle Balt. Just not a virgin!"
Balt blinked in confusion. Sara declared,
"Let's go!"
"Where to?"
"Gotta see your son first!"
She thrust up a thumbs-up. Balt nodded before he knew it.
Sara headed to the slums with Balt. No danger here. Unlike Hilton's back alleys, this place had decent security. Beyond the capital's perks, Lenoir called the slums straight-up "faith farms" for the cults. Minimum order maintained.
Of course, that didn't mean clean streets. Familiar stench of filth stung her nose as they passed into the shantytown. Balt's place was on the outskirts—even shabbier than most.
"Pardon the intrusion!"
"No need for that. It's humble for a goddess, but come on in."
The house felt lived-in. Sara was a bit surprised.
"Your place is so clean."
Outside, he reeked of booze every time, but inside? Spotless. No stink like the streets.
Balt scratched the back of his head. "Kid's sick—can't keep a dirty house. Germs and all."
"...Uncle, you're actin' all different."
"Damn, tough crowd."
He chuckled and led her to the inner room. Tension and hope flickered across his face by then.
The door opened to a small, warmly heated room. On the bed lay a brown-haired boy sleeping peacefully.
"That's my son, Joseph. Gave him meds the day before yesterday—lookin' pretty good today."
The boy was ghostly pale—more sallow than fair. And despite Balt's claim it was "good," he didn't look it. Blue veins snaked from his nape to his jaw, visible under the skin.
"...He's really sufferin', huh?"
Sara felt pity. A blue shimmer pulsed along those veins.
Selbes had told her about mana addiction syndrome. Born with overly potent mana. Master it, become a mage. Fail, and it devours your life force till you die. Survivors? Rare. Cost to train one into a mage? Astronomical—even nobles flinched at the price tag.
"So, any way to fix him?"
Desperation hung in his voice. Sara asked Orin,
"Got any ideas?"
She'd been a temple god till recently—might know this stuff.
Um... don't know...!
"Eh."
I was... trapped in the temple...
The pope ran the church, not Orin. She was just the power vault—knowledge came second.
Balt's face fell a touch.
"Haha, figured as much..."
Not quite disappointment—more the numb inertia of dashed hopes repeated too often.
Sara's gut twisted. The Balt she knew was the jolly guy who cracked up the congregation during services.
Determination hardened inside her.
"No 'figured'! Hold on! Even goddesses gotta go in order!"
"Hm?"
"I'll find a way! Can't ignore a pure devotee like you—gotta keep up the goddess act with some pride! It's my self-respect on the line!"
Her divinity could barely light up a room. Writing was getting better, but medical knowledge? Slim to none.
Still, Sara had an ace up her sleeve.
"Come to the chapel tomorrow!"
"G-Goddess, no need to push..."
"Not pushin'! I know someone who can probably heal him!"
Balt blinked, nodding slowly—but his eyes screamed skepticism. Grasping at straws, laced with guilt for dragging her in.
Sara wanted relief and joy lighting up that face. She steeled her resolve on the walk back to the temple.
And once there, she played her ace.
"Nari!!! Help me!!!"
"Thy voice rings strong today as well, little Sara."
"Total emergency! The goddess's survival's at stake!"
"...Hast thou caused some calamity?"
"Not a calamity exactly! Well, maybe? Could turn into one!"
"What hast thou been up to."
"Don't gimme that look! It hurts!"
"Make it so I need not look thus."
Lenoir's dubious expression lingered. Sara's cheeks puffed out.
"Ugh, so mean!"
"...Speak thy business."
Lenoir sighed.
Sara's sudden arrival screamed "emergency." To Lenoir's seasoned ear, it sounded like she'd botched something and needed bailout. He braced himself. This scatterbrain only got this worked up for headaches that'd make your head spin.
Steeling his mind, he asked, "What trouble hast thou brought upon thyself?"
After some hemming and hawing, eyes darting as she rubbed her hands, Sara answered.
"...Nari, if it's not too rude, couldja lend me some money?"
A fresh ploy. Lenoir shot back on reflex.
"It would be most rude indeed. Until I hear why."
"Whyyy...! Our trust!"
"'Twas thou who said to clarify money matters firmly, little Sara."
"But we're family! Super special family!"
"All the more reason to be thorough, as thou thyself declared."
How did she always kick off so cheaply? A true talent.