Only Thou Art Fit to Judge Qualifications (1)
Last night, war had erupted in the Hilton Back Alley. It was a gang skirmish like any other, but its scale was incomparable to past brawls. In the end, a massive explosion rang out, and the gangs were wiped clean in one fell swoop. That was all that reached civilian ears.
Truth was ever the privilege of the few. Especially when it was a truth that must never be known.
"...And so, you handled my cleanup like this. What do you intend to do now?"
Malcolm Viscount's voice trembled with rage in the audience chamber of the manor. Across from him, an elderly man in white robes sipped his tea and smiled faintly.
"What is there to do?"
"What?"
"In the end, nothing has changed. The back alley is cleared, and its management rights fall to you, Viscount."
A vein bulged on the viscount's forehead. The sum he'd poured into covering up the incident was immense. It wasn't some ordinary blast—it was a golden radiance, a propitious storm no mere explosion could mimic. And the truth behind it differed vastly from the civilian rumors.
"The back alley scum turned into idiots overnight! Drooling, grinning invalids, every last one!"
No one could fathom what sorcery had caused it. For hundreds to devolve simultaneously defied all reason. Thus, suspicion inevitably fell on the old man before him.
"It was you! Your church did this!"
The elder was Westin, head of the Orin Church's local branch. Only now did he furrow his brow.
"Had it been us, our priests wouldn't have turned into idiots."
"That's...!"
"A third party. You know that."
Indeed. Malcolm Viscount understood well enough, which only deepened his terror. From the start, purging the back alley wasn't for some grand cause. They simply craved to monopolize the hidden interests and information the gangs clutched in the shadows. With the holy knights' cooperation, it should have been simple. No one could have foreseen such an accident on the day of execution—that was why he raged now.
With no other to blame, he spat it out. Knowing full well it was irrational, he couldn't press further.
"...Do you have a plan? A way to uncover who this third party is?"
"There's no need to uncover him."
"What...?"
"Who gets named as the culprit—that's what matters, isn't it?"
Westin's smile deepened. The viscount shivered at the evident glee in his eyes.
"...It doesn't matter who, does it."
The man cared nothing for the true beast behind it. Even if the attack targeted the church over the back alley or the viscount, he'd exploit it without hesitation. The kingdom recognized seven churches; Orin ranked fourth in influence. A known fact whispered among insiders: Orin pushed hardest for expansion.
In this provocation, he clearly planned to pin it on a convenient foe, forging a pretext.
'A madman.'
Under the guise of revering god, he hesitated not at such ruthlessness. They proclaimed themselves justice, deeming all else evil, utterly shameless in their bias.
Gooseflesh prickled his skin. Westin spoke.
"The information is regrettable, but as long as they have minds left, some records remain. Gather those, and you'll achieve much of what you desire."
His creaky voice implied scavenging scraps and fleeing. At that moment, an unfamiliar voice rang from an unexpected corner.
"I cannot allow that."
The viscount and branch leader froze. Their gazes fixed on a black-haired youth lounging with crossed legs, reading a book—he'd been there unnoticed until now.
The viscount's lips twitched. "Wh-who the hell are you...!"
"Such clamor."
Abruptly, the viscount's mouth sealed shut. Shock widened his eyes, dismay settling in their cracks. No words came. Nay, the very act of forming speech eluded him. That uncanny silence chilled his heart.
The man looked up. Ignoring the viscount utterly, his piercing golden eyes fixed on Westin. The elder was equally stunned, mouth agape yet voiceless.
"The tongue that whispers treachery shall be stilled. Thus, I deny thee language."
Westin tried to invoke divinity. Silver particles shimmered above him. But—
"Thou mistakest grasping for faith. Apostate."
Bang! With a low murmur, the divinity erupted and scattered. The man's face showed fatigue, laced with deep disgust, faint ennui, and disappointment.
"How changest thou not. Needing that which thou must revere, yet scorning it—a vice that persists even now, when those worthy of awe have vanished."
"...!"
"Thou, who dost paint faith with greed. How much more wilt thou disappoint me?"
His archaic, theatrical tone bespoke ages past. No mortal was he. Instinct screamed it.
"I sought no further meddling in mine earthly realm. For I believed thy base greed, unchecked, would lead thee mortals to ruin. On that day of thy end, I vowed to laugh heartily. I have lived awaiting only that."
The man—Lenoir—rose. Towering stature, sturdy frame—all bespoke vitality, yet the pressure from his gaze dominated.
"But that day tarries, so I stand here. Since ye shun beholding me, I come before thee."
Incomprehensible words, but no time for questions.
"Thou who sold thy soul to authority. Heed the first precept of the barrier I set upon this land: tend the lowly. There, I beheld one who forgot not purity."
Malcolm Viscount's mind crumbled under the influx. Like chisel and hammer carving gray matter, inscribing commands. Irresistible violence.
Deep from his heart welled the conviction: he must aid the paupers left destitute by last night's calamity. Tears flowed. And with that, Lenoir's existence slipped his memory.
"And thou, sinner who hast deceived faith."
Thud. As the viscount toppled sideways, branch leader Westin clawed at his throat, eyes rolled back in terror, gasping.
"Deep is thy sin in believing falsehoods and naming it faith. In thee, I find no worth for salvation."
Lenoir reached out, seizing Westin's head.
"Become an idiot. As the lowliest herald, hie thee to the headquarters. Cry out that judgment cometh. I shall go there soon enough."
Behind Lenoir's shoulders bloomed a dazzling golden halo. In that pair of eyes and the encompassing light, Westin beheld inescapable retribution for his sins. His mind blanked. Thought fled utterly.
Lenoir departed leisurely once done. That day, the manor issued orders to distribute rations and jobs to the back alley's displaced poor. Whispers also spread briefly of a mad old man fleeing naked, proclaiming doom.
* * *
Sara awoke in a clean bed. Sunlight poured through the bedside window, the warmest she'd ever felt. Hazy, cozy. She mistook the unfamiliar ceiling for a dream. Her mind stirred slowly.
"Awake at last, Sara."
"Selbes...?"
Selbes sat beside her. Where was this? Why was she here? The questions pierced memories, reaching last night. Sara's eyes wavered.
She wanted to dismiss it as a dream, but couldn't. Selbes, ever radiant as a flower in season, now looked haggard—betraying too much.
The back alley had been massacred. Those who'd shared her every moment, slain. Brian's head rolling grotesquely lingered vivid. The stench of gunpowder and blood cloyed her nostrils anew.
Her lips parted haltingly. "...What?"
Her throat choked. "The other sisters...?"
Selbes smiled bitterly, stroking Sara's hair.
"The ones we hid early are safe. Recovering."
Meaning the rest—those who couldn't escape—were gone forever. Realization twisted Sara's mouth. Deep furrows creased her brow.
Beloveds vanished without warning. Even in harsh streets, too heavy a burden for a fifteen-year-old girl.
"Hic...!"
She muffled her sobs. Selbes embraced and soothed her. Muffled cries lingered in the room. Possessing nothing, she poured dirges from her body alone.
* * *
That afternoon, Sara realized belatedly: not a scratch marred her. She'd run, collided, tumbled. Vomiting from frantic flight had rawed her throat. Yet no traces remained.
Instead, vigor surged stronger than ever. Even as grief lingered, she pondered the oddity when Selbes spoke.
"The lord brought you here. Said only to keep you safe awhile."
"Ah, the lord!"
Indeed, before blacking out, she'd met Lenoir.
-Weep not.
His words resurfaced piecemeal.
-I shall not abide thy sorrow.
Lenoir had saved her. He'd healed her too, surely. Sara toyed with the pendant at her neck. Thinking back, when Wilson tried seizing her, its light had intervened.
A man of extraordinary talents. Amid the haze, Selbes hesitated.
"Sara, that man is..."
But words halted. Knock knock.
Selbes startled briefly, then smiled hollowly, as if realizing something.
"Right on time."
She rose and opened the door. Lenoir stood there, suit impeccable, cane in hand, gloom undiminished.
"Lord?"
"Talk with her. Perfect timing. I must check the shop."
Selbes eyed Lenoir curiously a moment, bowed belatedly, and left. Sara knew not what to say. Thanks for the rescue first, yet words stuck. Too soon to banish grief. Her mind tangled, she merely gazed up blankly.
"Thou hast wept again, little Sara."
His thumb brushed her eye's corner. An awkward, bittersweet gesture.
"I erased them, yet traces return anon. Pitying thy tears, I cannot bear to witness—yet thou vexest me thus."
Infinitely tender touch. Warmth conveyed affection, worry—pricking her tear ducts anew.
Tears beaded, trickling like pearls. Her nose stung.
"Sniff...!"
"Take my handkerchief first. A grown lady mustn't show such unseemly mucus."
Lenoir pressed a white cloth to her face.