Chapter 75

On November 25, 2019, in the Arcane Era, a single proclamation was delivered across the entire world from Everhill, the holy land and headquarters of the church devoted to the Creator Sepia.

It was the selection of the Saintess and Saint, who could be called Rondel’s religious presidents.

The event carried even greater weight than the war between the Brigham Empire and the Prius Republic.

On the day the final Saintess and Saint were chosen, the conflict between those two great nations would have to halt.

Along with the proclamation, the list of candidates—comparable to passing the intern screening in a corporate interview—was released to the public.

No matter how hard one tried, failure to make the candidate list rendered everything meaningless. Fortunately, Ibril’s name was included.

Moreover, she stood in fourth place among the formidable group of fifteen Saintess candidates.

The candidates had first received recommendations from high-ranking clergy of bishop level or above, then been scored through an internally prepared evaluation system. Only those who passed were selected.

Because candidates were revealed in descending order of score, Ibril’s placement meant she had been chosen fourth among all Saintess candidates.

It seemed the hardships endured until now had not been in vain.

I truly felt it was a stroke of fortune.

I had dragged Ibril onto seven different broadcasts and poured enormous sums into media exposure to keep her constantly in the public eye.

Thanks to that, her recognition skyrocketed in a short period. Even without notable accomplishments, the high level of public interest allowed her to receive a fair evaluation.

This is only the beginning.

I had gone to all this trouble to create a Saintess with my own hands. If anyone asked whether having a Saintess as a backer was truly that valuable, I could answer without hesitation: of course it was.

Beyond mere fame, it meant becoming the patron of the Saintess—the single unifying religious figure for the entire world.

The business ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and political advantages would be immense.

Of course, I would need to use her name in moderation to avoid being discarded later.

“C-can I really do this well?”

“I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠will provide more than enough backup to ensure you succeed. So please focus solely on the competition with an easy mind.”

“Ugh, understood.”

The Saintess competition was not merely a contest between candidates.

It could also be described as a political battle between the sponsors backing each one.

Naturally, if a sponsor’s power was weak, their candidate would inevitably be pushed into the background.

In that respect, I knew many harbored doubts about whether a newly titled noble like myself was suitable as a Saintess’s sponsor.

A marquis was no insignificant rank, yet when one considered that some candidates were directly sponsored by imperial dukes and royalty, my status could not be considered particularly high.

Even so, if the sponsors themselves were ranked, I could confidently claim that Ibril stood within the top three.

The reason was simple: not only was the well-connected archbishop moving aggressively to make Ibril the Saintess, but the Lheinhatz royal family had also taken great interest and was providing full national support.

Politically, there was no cause for concern.

“Shall we begin moving as well?”

“Yes!”

We were currently attending a commemorative gathering where all the Saintess and Saint candidates, along with their respective sponsors, had assembled in one place.

True to its reputation as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the wealthiest organization on the planet, the event felt grand and majestic, yet it maintained the restraint appropriate for a religious occasion.

Each candidate’s party was limited to four participants. Ibril, Eric Jones—listed as her attendant and possessing political talent—myself as her sponsor, and Arsia as my attendant made up our group.

“Ah, so that’s the one?”

“Considering the importance of these seats, isn’t he a bit too young?”

“His ability is nothing to scoff at. Young as he is, no one here can afford to disregard him.”

As our party crossed the hall, sharp glances and murmurs rained down from every direction.

We drew the most attention inside the venue itself, largely because the candidates, sponsors, and attendants were all young—some could even be called youthful.

On top of that, the group’s striking appearances were a major factor.

“Whatever else one might say, their looks are certainly flashy.”

“They deliberately assembled young, beautiful people? Clever move. They definitely stand out.”

Ibril was impressive, but Arsia, elegantly dressed in a proper party gown, was in a league of her own.

I liked to think my own appearance held its own, yet every time I looked at Arsia I felt an embarrassingly boyish flutter.

If even I—who saw her every single day—reacted this way, how could others possibly remain indifferent?

The number of male eyes tracking Arsia’s movements was staggering.

Some even belonged to the Saint candidates.

The place we reached while drawing all those gazes was—

“We greet the Saintess, the Saint, and His Holiness the Holy King.”

It was the spot where the three individuals who led Everhill and stood at the apex of the world’s religious hierarchy were seated.

Everhill was a nation in its own right, and its global influence was certainly no smaller than that of the Brigham Empire.

One might wonder whether three people could properly govern such power together, but surprisingly there was no infighting among them. They lived like close friends, each devoting themselves fully to their assigned domain.

The only reason such an absurd system could function was that the entity known as a god directly intervened in religious affairs.

Normally, feudal religions evoked images of twisted doctrines and corrupt organizations, yet such things were impossible in this world’s religious sphere.

Clerics who committed wrongdoing gradually lost their holy power and were arrested by inquisitors, then made to pay for their crimes.

That was why Rondel’s faith could remain the world’s sole religion while preserving an image of integrity.

Among the three leaders, the person Ibril most needs to impress is naturally the current Saintess, Sharon Sylvester.

She was the predecessor Ibril would eventually replace.

Although the current Saintess was sixty-seven years old, the Goddess’s blessing allowed her to retain the appearance of her prime.

Because of that she looked no older than someone my own age, yet she was a genuine grandmother who had married forty years earlier and recently become a great-grandmother.

“Nice to meet you. Marquis Lawrence, correct?”

“Yes, Your Excellency Sylvester.”

“You’re quite young. If I were only a little younger, I might have tried to seduce you.”

One of the Sepia Church’s virtues was that it did not demand excessive asceticism from its believers or clergy.

Consequently, quite a few famous figures had been romantically linked with past Saintesses or Saints, and such debates always arose.

The church did not force a strictly solemn and mystical atmosphere after all.

“It’s difficult to answer properly with my fiancée standing right beside me.”

“Oh dear, how tactless of me. Hahaha.”

Whether on Earth or here, appearance remained a powerful weapon regardless of gender.

Even on our first meeting I was receiving such favorable attention.

Since I had not approached to court the Saintess, however, I introduced Ibril instead.

“This is Miss Ibril, whom I am sponsoring this time. Please look after her well.”

Naturally, making a good impression on the Saintess before me would bring various advantages during the competition.

In that sense I had not needed to make any grand overtures…

“This is…”

I had not expected them to be unaware of Ibril’s value, which even the archbishop had recognized.

Simply showing her should be enough to elicit favorable gazes.

And my prediction proved entirely correct.

“How remarkable.”

“Marquis Lawrence has chosen a truly outstanding individual.”

The Saintess and Saint—clergy of higher rank than the archbishop—immediately recognized Ibril’s worth.

Bewilderment flickered across the faces of the other participants who had been stealing glances at us from the side.

I answered with calm sincerity, careful not to act ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠rashly or lose decorum.

“Had I not discovered her, I would not have entered this competition at all. I did not come merely to seek political gain.”

Claiming I sought no political benefit would be a lie.

Yet unlike most candidates who had risen through political maneuvering, Ibril was the ultimate card in her own right.

Therefore, my sincere presentation of a person truly worthy of becoming Saintess—without the fawning displayed by others—likely came across as genuine.

That reaction produced a positive response from the Saintess.

After confirming the shift from “Interest” to “Favor,” I exchanged brief pleasantries with the Saintess, Saint, and Holy King.

Before long, however, I politely concluded the conversation.

“Oh, you’re leaving already?”

“Wouldn’t it be fair to yield the floor to the others?”

“What a perceptive young man.”

The reason was that the Saintess’s state had changed from “Interest” to “Slight Interest.”

Therefore I chose to withdraw cleanly.

No matter how favorably our relationship had developed, she did not seem to enjoy having too much of her time claimed on a first meeting.

By reading the room and exiting at the proper moment, her state returned from “Slight Interest” to “Interest.”

In doing so I managed to secure a modest gain.

Afterward I scanned the hall for Olivia Riberdale, with whom I had formed an alliance, and discovered an unexpected figure. The corner of my mouth curled upward.

“Who do we have here?”

I strode forward and greeted the sturdy middle-aged man as though we were acquainted.

“Hmm? You are…?”

“A pleasure to meet you, Duke Francis. I am Adrian Lawrence, Marquis of the Lheinhatz Kingdom.”

He was none other than the Duke of Francis from the Brigham Empire—the man who had once sent assassins to kill Ibril.

Gregory! What the hell are you saying!

I told you I can no longer serve His Grace the Duke.

Who do you think you are to decide that!

Thank you for everything until now.

The Duke of Francis of the Brigham Empire had found the Lheinhatz Marquis Lawrence and the Saintess candidate Ibril he sponsored unbearably irritating, so he had ordered Gregory and Auguste—commanders of his shadow unit—to assassinate them.

He had believed without doubt that those two would accomplish the mission as flawlessly as they always had.

That was how deep the Duke’s trust in them ran.

The foundation of that trust, of course, was their ability.

The combination of an assassination-specialized Aura Master and a top-class mental-type spirit summoner was so formidable that even a Grandmaster like himself would not easily prevail.

Yet…

Those two had failed the mission.

Merely failing would have been shocking enough, but the pair had suddenly declared their retirement, as if terrified by something.

This was utterly unacceptable.

Do I look like a joke to you? You may have entered freely, but leaving will require my permission.

He had tried to forcibly detain them with overwhelming force.

Yet despite the Grandmaster Duke and his elite subordinates attacking together, they had still let the pair escape.

Seventy-one Vanguards were killed and one Sky Fortress has crashed.

……

The Sky Fortress sustained relatively light damage and can be restored with minor repairs. However, it fell on an industrial district, so the property damage…

They had escaped after inflicting catastrophic losses.

It was a moment that reconfirmed just how terrifying those two truly were in battle.

More than the material damage, however, the Duke could not forget the words Gregory had spat before leaving the territory.

Out of consideration for our past relationship, I will give you one piece of advice. Never make an enemy of Marquis Lawrence. He is a monster.

Thanks to that, the Duke became certain that the reason Gregory and Auguste had abandoned his service was the Marquis of Lawrence.

He also could not believe what he had seen with his own eyes: the usually insane Auguste trembling in fear while Gregory delivered his warning.

How? By what means did he subdue those two?

The Duke was utterly bewildered.

And now.

“Who do we have here?”

The very source of that bewilderment had appeared before the Duke of Francis.

“A pleasure to meet you, Duke Francis. I am Adrian Lawrence, Marquis of the Lheinhatz Kingdom.”