Sorting Things Out and Handling Them (2)
Just one sentence demanding an explanation. It was so typical of Father's personality.
"But what brings this on? The old man's been quiet all this time."
He'd never once contacted me directly. The last "communication" was when he wrote a letter to send via Elraim, and I heard the response through her.
Of course, there'd been zero word from him even after I got dragged in and right up until the day before the trial.
He must have heard the news long ago. So what the hell had he been doing all that time?
Maybe he'd been agonizing over how to deal with me based on the trial's outcome. It made sense—how long had it been since he pulled off the surveillance, and here I was stirring up trouble again.
This time, I could really get kicked out of the family for good.
Anyway, I had a rough idea why Father had sent the letter.
"It's gotta be about the saint thing."
Just like the imperial family didn't view the gods as some benevolent deities, the Ardens weren't much different. They knew the gods' true nature better than anyone.
Yet for the Arden heir—provisional or not—to become a saint? It was a situation they could no longer just observe from afar, so they'd reached out.
"More than that, this paper... it's a magic tool?"
I could sense mana emanating from the letter. It felt different from ordinary parchment.
I examined it closely and figured out the spell. In simple terms, it was a communication letter. Anything written on it would transmit to the counterpart's sheet.
The recipient was probably Father.
"Couldn't give me a heads-up or something."
Any normal person would have noticed midway through writing that it was a magic tool. The enchantment was so faint it was hard to detect.
What a lack of consideration.
"What should I even write...?"
[Explain.]
I pondered the single line instructing me to explain.
If I did explain, where would I even start? What parts should I omit or include? Those kinds of worries.
But that deliberation didn't last long.
"What the fuck now?"
If he was gonna send a letter, he should've done it ages ago.
A hollow laugh escaped me at the sight of him reaching out only after everything wrapped up. If he'd contacted me midway, I might've mulled it over more.
But now? Way too late.
With that, I picked up the pen to write on the paper.
"Let's start with..."
[No.]
I kicked things off with a simple response.
Mornings in the Arden household were hectic.
The servants bustled about cleaning the mansion and preparing breakfast, while the family knights and soldiers sweated through their morning drills.
Likewise, the Arden patriarch, Decal Arden, had no time to rest. He dove into the day's work in his study before breakfast.
Scratch, scratch—the room filled with the familiar sound of pen on paper.
"......"
But Decal couldn't focus on his tasks, his eyes repeatedly flicking to the letter beside him.
The habit wouldn't stop. Every five minutes a glance, sometimes after scribbling just one character.
After repeating it several times, the clock struck seven. Time to head for breakfast.
The moment Decal rose from his seat, the letter glimmered faintly, words beginning to appear.
He froze at the sight of the letters forming one by one, then sank back into his chair.
Soon, the sentence completed on the page.
[No.]
"......"
A curt reply. Decal stared at the letter with an expressionless face.
The family had already been in an uproar over recent events. He'd pulled back the surveillance as desired and left him alone, yet mere months later, another mess.
The family council overwhelmingly favored dragging him back immediately. If Elraim hadn't suggested waiting for her report before acting, he'd probably have been hauled in already.
And now, to become a saint? The news, spreading in a single day, threw not just the Ardens but the entire empire into chaos.
Even as "provisional," with the gods' direct affirmation, it was as good as confirmed.
Letters poured into the family—mostly greetings to curry favor in advance.
Even His Imperial Majesty had reached out directly. This incident was bound to shake the continent.
As family head, Decal needed to grasp the situation. How long he'd been a saint, every detail of the process—he had to know it all.
Yet "no"?
Decal picked up his pen and wrote.
[Do you realize the gravity of this situation and say that?]
The words vanished, transmitted to his son.
The response came surprisingly quick.
[I know.]
"......"
Decal propped his chin, lost in thought for a moment. Then he picked up the pen again.
[Half a year ago, I told you to keep a low profile. This incident seems resolved, but it caused a massive stir. Depending on the family council's decision, we may bring you back.]
Decal dotted the final period and watched the letter intently.
One minute, two... The clock ticked on.
At the three-minute mark, words appeared.
[Do as you please.]
A sentence laced with mockery somewhere.
Immediately after, the letter glowed, and the connection severed.
"......"
The trace of his son's final words lingered on the page. Decal merely stared at it, face impassive.
[Do as you please.]
I wrote that one line and tore up the letter. The broken magic circuit turned it into ordinary paper.
No regrets.
Father was someone Kyle Arden despised, and they weren't on good terms anyway.
No issues either. Even now, the family couldn't touch me.
Sure, I hated anything god-related. Holy power reeked of divinity and gave me the creeps; the whole saint bullshit was a pain in the ass.
But that didn't mean I ignored the power behind the title. Provisional or not, a saint was a saint. Even the emperor couldn't bully me.
This was a world where gods existed, after all. Naturally, there were plenty of believers. In the empire, with its religious freedom, 40% worshipped the gods.
Dragging a saint like me by force? If word got out? It'd blow up massively.
In the worst case, the Arden family could end up at war with the entire world alone.
Hell, the gods might react first.
Saints and saintesses beloved by the gods held that kind of position.
So if they wanted to mess with me, they'd have to be prepared to lose everything.
"Hm. Getting expelled from the family might not be so bad."
The thought crossed my mind that ditching the Arden name could work.
With things as they were, returning after graduation wouldn't bring good vibes anyway.
Cutting ties sounded pretty appealing.
"Eh, I'll think about that later."
Graduation was far off; no need to decide early.
I could take it slow and easy, figure it out when the end neared.
I tossed the paper in the trash, left the dorm, and headed to the student cafeteria for breakfast.
The empire had distinct four seasons. Thus, the academy had transitioned from summer into autumn.
Red fallen leaves painted the ground in the autumn breeze, the pleasantly cool air wrapping around the body.
It was the kind of weather that made you want to nap sprawled out somewhere, drowsiness creeping in amid the scenery.
Yet students' passion for grades and skill improvement never waned.
The training ground buzzed with fervor.
Even in autumn, when body and mind might slacken, students trained diligently. Professors poured their all into teaching to reward that effort.
A moment later.
"Let's see the provisional saint's skills, shall we?"
Mailon, the professor whose spar ended, crooked a finger at me.
"...Do you have to say that?"
"Whoops, His Saintliness is pissed."
"......"
Mailon grinned ear to ear, clearly amused. Well, this level of reaction was tolerable.
Some professors even watched my mood. Tianis treated all students equally regardless of status, but a saint was another story.
Imagine a king or emperor in your class. Even with lofty students like Princess Ariel everywhere, someone that high up created natural pressure—like having the president sitting there in modern terms.
So Mailon's response was decent, all things considered.
Of course, he didn't slack on grading as a professor.
I sighed inwardly and moved to the training ground's center.
He chuckled like it was a game.
"Just one question. When the hell did you become a saint?"
"...Not telling. And it's provisional. Not official."
"Not asking for that reason. Teaching varies based on how much holy power you've handled."
He continued, as if he'd explain if I didn't know.
"Paladins differ a lot from regular knights in energy use. Due to the fundamental gap between mana and holy power."
"You know more than I expected."
"Haha, back when I wandered the continent honing my swordsmanship, I crossed paths with paladins. Even visited Justia."
He could've elaborated on those experiences but held back. That wasn't the point.
And I answered his question.
"Unlike what you hoped, I can't use holy power."
"Oh? Can't use it, huh. At saint level, you'd have so much overflowing you couldn't handle it all. Intriguing."
No, actually I could. The World Tree started sending bits of holy power after dubbing me a saint, even more after the trial.
But I didn't want to use it. Mana was plenty; why bother with that crap?
I wouldn't touch it even if they shoved it at me.
"Anyway, I use mana, so no special lessons needed."
"Shame. Would've been great teaching material for the other students."
Typical professor—always thinking of his students.
"Even so, that growth without divine aid must've had some help."
Mailon emanated mana as he spoke. The atmosphere shifted from student-adjusted casualness.
"I'm just a student, though..."
"Sure, you're a student. But your skills aren't."
"Still student level."
"Haha! Even a stray dog would laugh. No one here buys that. And... we'll figure that out in time!"
With that, Mailon kicked off the ground and charged.
Barreling straight at me, face lit with joy. Swordsman before professor—fiercely aggressive.
"Haa..."
I reluctantly drew my sword. As I moved to defend, Mailon sent a telepathic message.
> Hey, know this? The students who framed you got caught. Ringleaders and all.
"Huh?"
The off-topic message amid the action blanked my mind momentarily.
As a result—
Thwack!
His training sword smacked my head dead-on, blood gushing out like a fountain.
The mood chilled instantly.
Mailon scratched his head.
"Shoulda told you after class?"
"......"
Or earlier, damn professor.