The Church (2)

She had saved him.

That alone, she had thought, would be enough. They had given their lives for each other. She believed she had paid back every last thing she had received.

That illusion crumbled the moment she saw Argal's life force, hanging so close to death it was barely there at all.

"You—" Besia's voice cracked apart. "You're going to die. If that's all the life you've got left…"

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"…Then that, too, must be fate. It doesn't matter to me."

Fate? To hell with fate.

She had been dragged off by a black mage and tortured for what felt like an eternity. The benefactor who had pulled her out of that agony had then lost his life because of her. And if even the life she had clawed back for him was nothing more than a brief stay of execution — that was not fate. That was a curse.

The more Besia's face came apart with grief, the more at a loss Argal became. She was wringing her hands over a man who could not die, convinced he was about to drop dead at any second. He had never found it so maddening, not being able to simply tell her he was an Immortal.

The one who stepped in to comfort her was Bishop Revega, who had looked after Besia since she was a child. He remained perfectly composed, and he offered a way forward.

"Besia. You said you brought a man back from the dead?"

"Yes — hic — but what does that even matter? I saved him and he's just going to die anyway."

The bishop refused that outright.

"It was not meaningless. There is a way."

"…Really?" She sniffled, looking up.

"There exists an artifact capable of extending a person's lifespan. The trouble is that it requires an authority higher than my own."

The Church held a vast store of relics, and among them was indeed an object that could lengthen a life. Even a bishop, however, would struggle to be permitted its use.

"…A Saintess could do it. Or, at the very least, a Saint Candidate. You will not be able to prove that you resurrected a man, but your caliber is plainly close to that of a Saintess. That much will be obvious."

"Then—!"

"But Besia. You already know."

He was worried for her, and so he checked the hasty decision before it could take root.

"The path of a Saintess is neither an easy one nor a kind one. It would be better if I did everything in my power to obtain the artifact for you myself."

"Nnngh…"

"The more urgent the matter, the more reason to take the long way around. And besides — there is a great deal I have not yet heard."

The bishop's gaze turned to Argal. His eyes held a deep, complicated remorse. Of all the feelings too tangled to name, what finally rose to the surface was gratitude. This young man had carved away his own lifespan to save Besia. How could anyone expect a devotion like that from a stranger?

"…I did not realize the depth of the grace I had received."

"It wasn't anything that grand."

"When I saw the dagger you carried, I knew it for what it was — a vile thing that harvests magi through self-sacrifice. How many times did you drive it into yourself?"

Argal decided to be honest.

"Three times."

"…So Besia brought you back, but the lifespan you spent will not return. I will stake my name on this and bring you an artifact to extend your life. Please — wait just a little while."

The bishop left the room as though he meant to fetch it that very instant.

Argal looked over the wreckage of the situation, let out a quiet sigh, and thought, I really can't die, though.

And there's nowhere I can even say that.

She had calmed down, more or less, though she was still sniffling. Argal set a hand on top of Besia's head.

"You really do cry a lot, you know that?"

"And whose fault do you think that is?!"

He huffed a small laugh at the way she bristled.

"Don't worry so much. At the very least, I'm in better shape than you are."

"The hell are you talking about, huh? You're about to die. What's supposed to be 'better' about that?"

People really did live on hope. Even Besia, who had been grieving as though he were already a dead man, seemed to settle the moment she heard there was a way to stretch his lifespan.

She patted the edge of the bed.

"C'mere. Sit."

He sat as she asked, and then he felt her arms come around him from behind. The touch had no strength in it at all — but it was warm, so he stayed still.

"I can still remember your heart not beating."

She meant the moment he had died. The one instant he himself had no memory of. The moment of death.

"I was so scared. It was horrible. I can't forget it."

"Is that so."

"I should've at least said thank you. I should've said I was sorry."

Besia let her head rest against his shoulder. She weighed almost nothing.

"I regretted it so much. I don't want to regret it again."

"…"

"This time, I won't let you die."

Hearing a vow like that, he had no idea what he was supposed to say. He set aside the thought that he could not die. The only thing he could do was comfort her — and steer it toward something kinder.

"The bishop said he would handle it with an artifact. It'll work out. Isn't that enough?"

"You never even consider the worst-case scenario, do you? Come to think of it, even back at the Black Magic Tower you were weirdly full of nothing but certainty."

In a situation that had looked like pure despair, he had been sure they would get out. She wasn't wrong. He knew, after all, that he would not die. For the sake of a girl who did nothing but worry, he let a small hint slip.

"Same as back then. I will survive in the end."

"What are you, some kind of prophet?"

Not a prophet — a regressor. Close enough, in practice.

"If that's how you want to see it."

"No, the way you talk I could almost fall for it. I really could."

She made a show of wrapping her hands around his throat, the closest thing she could manage to being angry with him. In that state, though, "choking" him just meant hanging off his neck. Even so, his body tipped backward and went down.

Can I please just have my dagger back.

Without any magi, I'm ridiculously weak.

He turned his head and found Besia staring through him, her expression downright murderous.

"Looking like this, huh? And you call this 'better'?"

"That's not what I—"

"You're basically a walking corpse at this point. Don't even try to deny it."

Well, I was a corpse until a minute ago.

Ah. Maybe not the thing to say.

In any case, even Besia had decided he was in serious condition, and she told him in no uncertain terms to go lie down somewhere and get treated. The place he had to return to, in the end, was the infirmary. The priest's bloodcurdling warning came free of charge.

"If you crawl out of here again, I will wrap you head to toe in bandages and nail you to that bed."

"Yes, sir."

What had become of the dignity of this body, once revered as Argal the Immortal King?

Not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that it meant much. Right now he was nothing more than a baron's son. He had brought down a Tower Master, but it wasn't as though a résumé like that counted for anything here.

"Whatever."

At this rate, he would have to spend another day in this place. Originally he had meant to head straight back — but honestly, without the dagger, even escaping from here would be a tall order. He would take the artifact, then ask them to send him home.

And the bishop returned far sooner than expected.

"You must never lose this. Under any circumstances."

In one hand he held something that looked like a necklace. Every link of it had the air of a piece worked stitch by stitch under a master's hand, and Argal recognized the relic at a glance. In a previous life, the Archmage of the Hero's party had worn it.

The Origin of the Star.

He could not make sense of it. Using a thing like that for mere life extension was an unforgivable waste.

"…Haven't you brought something far too much?"

"You know this object's value?"

He knew it far too well. It was a formidable artifact that further amplified the power of an Archmage who had already reached the rank of Transcendent. He could not say that, so he put it another way.

"Even if I didn't — it looks precious at a glance."

"It is a treasure beyond mere preciousness. Please keep it safe."

Argal lifted the Origin of the Star that the bishop held out to him.

A means of drawing on external mana. An artifact that stood on the same level as the Holy Sword and the Demon Sword. If anyone here failed to grasp the true worth of this thing, it was the bishop. Had Argal been in his place, he would not have handed it over to anyone — benefactor or not.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

However it had come to him, he accepted it with thanks. With this relic in his possession, entirely new options had just opened up.

The moment he fastened the necklace, something like vitality seemed to seep back into him.

"It is an artifact that breathes vigor into the body through mana. It will not halt aging or grant eternal life, but it is a great help in restoring a life that has been artificially diminished."

"I see."

The bishop raised a hand. When Argal took it, a faint thread of Holy Power moved through him, examining what lay inside.

"Hah… Truly, thank the heavens. The life force that had dwindled is filling again."

"Thank you."

"There is nothing to thank me for. I have only returned what you spent to save Besia."

The life force coming back… that's probably just the aftereffects of resurrection wearing off.

Even so, he could hardly spit out an artifact this absurd after already accepting it, so he kept his mouth shut. Right, right. The man himself looked so pleased — no reason to rain on his parade.

The bishop told him to rest in the room and took his leave. Even so, he seemed reluctant to pull Argal back out and bring him to Besia, with that priest still standing guard over the infirmary outside. And even if Argal himself could not die, Besia was a critical patient who very much could. Absolute rest was non-negotiable. The fact that she had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gotten up earlier and held a whole conversation with him had been strange enough on its own.

So he took the opening and set out to test the Origin of the Star's true use. There was a reason an Archmage had worn this thing. Not only did it hold mana — it was capable of enormous amplification.

"I've never actually used mana, but…"

In its fundamentals, it was not so different from magi. And for someone who had witnessed the Extreme of Magic with his own eyes, being unable to cast magic at all would have been the strange part.

"That said, I can't store mana in my body."

The moment mana settled into his flesh, it would collide with his magi, and he would lose the ability to use black magic. Black magic was already more than powerful enough. There was no sense in learning orthodox magic just to render what he already had useless.

He snapped his fingers.

It was a clumsy imitation — and it worked better than he expected.

The most basic of basics.

It was enough.

"To think that even the Church had rotted this far."

One shock after another. Bishop Revega was exhausted beyond measure, and even in that exhaustion he could not sleep.

He had not obtained the artifact by paying any special price. Besia had not promised to become a Saintess. He had not surrendered any privilege he held. He remembered the words of the cardinal he had met that day.

The Origin of the Star — far too much to have been given for the sake of a single patient. An artifact even a bishop could not have hoped to command.

The bishop had been digging into this affair on his own. A Black Magic Tower seated near the Capital. Besia's appalling testimony. And though he could not yet be certain, the backer he suspected behind it all was the Royal Family itself.

"That cannot stand."

He clenched his teeth. For the Church to be unable to help was one thing. To try to bury the matter entirely…

"The Royal Family may do as they please. We cannot."

And yet — the Origin of the Star. The cardinal had likely pressed it into his hands as a gesture of consideration for Besia, who had suffered so terribly in this affair. But it was the boy who had needed it, the boy whose life force had been drained to the dregs, who had been waiting only to die. There had been no refusing it.

He had wanted to march the Holy Knights to the palace that very hour, charge the royal blood with apostasy, turn the Church inside out and drag every filthy bargain they had piled up with the Crown into the light. Instead he had been forced to kneel — to practical limits, to immediate need.

Convictions that should never have bent had broken. He had shown those children a surrender they should never have had to see.

"But this is only for now."

The bishop drew out a sheet of letter paper. His connections. His influence. If he brought all of it to bear, those who would rage against this injustice would gather. It did not have to be today.

And so, with a burning hand, he began to write.

Not knowing what conspiracy lay in wait behind it all.