The Saintess Descends
"Now—like you're cutting down a heretic."
The words felt as if they made some gene stamped into my soul shudder, but the class itself was perfectly ordinary. Or ordinary by Uncle Marcus's standards, anyway.
He ran me until my mouth went past cotton-dry and I started worrying my teeth might actually rot. When he told me to live as a boy, I figured it meant wrapping my chest and throwing on some pants. Not even close. He was dead set on raising a real man. I felt like some idiot who'd volunteered for the army of my own free will—not an army truck, either. I'd been dragged off by a two-horse war wagon.
The truly unfair part was that I was the one who had to endure those nightmare hours. Every time I somehow held on, Uncle would get that look—Oh? So you can take this too?—and crank the intensity higher. I genuinely thought I was going to die.
I seem to remember a personal trainer from my past life saying something like: any stimulus that fails to kill the client only makes them stronger. Uncle Marcus's teaching methods had to be some advanced educational philosophy that transcended time and space. Or that trainer had been a complete quack. One of the two.
Still. With talent like mine, if I'd been born a man I'd have been general material, right? There was the minor issue of me not particularly wanting that, but still.
I rolled and rolled, and before I knew it the sun was sinking low. Was that the end? Of course not. Uncle Marcus's curriculum had no end, like some master chef's secret sauce. The horror wasn't that he made it up for fun—it was that I actually had to do all of it. Dear master, how do you put this many ingredients in and still sell it for five hundred won a bowl? Is that even possible? If you can't sell it, you die.
Once the physical training was done came the mind and knowledge.
"Goddess Termis bestowed order upon this land—"
While I lay face-down on the floor gasping, Uncle's educational voice drifted over me. It was so solemn it almost felt sacred, and listening to it made sleep come easy. Just when I started wondering if he was singing me a lullaby, a sharp bark cracked through the air.
"Pull yourself together, Ciel! We are not finished! You have not even memorized half of it—how dare you doze off?"
Get up and carve those pious words into a body already steeped in training that bordered on abuse! Get up! You and I are going to do this for the rest of our lives! Learning and training continue until the day you die!
That guy in the sunglasses who didn't pick the blue pill suddenly felt a lot more impressive. Was this the bare-minimum implant you needed just to survive this rough world?
Probably not. Sister Marie's hands had been pretty sharp too, but never quite like this. And since I was supposed to live as a boy, the whole nun career path already had a thick black line through it. So… a knight, then, or an Inquisitor. His successor? My birth secret had never been cleared up, but we were roughly family-adjacent.
But why me? That part I still didn't understand. Was my talent just so overwhelming he had no choice? Hmm… that actually made me feel a little good.
While I snickered to myself, history, deportment, doctrine—every scrap of knowledge got stuffed into my ears. It was the kind of force-fed education that would make even Korea throw up its hands, and the fact that most of it went in one ear and out the other only proved the point.
The amazing thing was that Uncle handled his own work while giving me this full-contact education. Was he even human? If someone told me to live like him, I don't think I could.
Even inside that nightmare curriculum, though, there were enjoyable parts.
"Right. Where did we leave off last time?"
"You were explaining the best way to handle being overcharged at an inn, and then we stopped."
"You remember that remarkably well. If you memorized scripture the same way, you'd have finished the whole thing already."
What am I supposed to do if the other stuff just isn't interesting? Saying that out loud would have earned me physical agony, so I kept my mouth shut. Come on, old man—start talking already.
Those stories were my light and salt. Real survival tips for living in this world. Not the hero tales kids love, but how a person is supposed to make it alone out there. Stories that truly became blood and flesh. If I had to compare it, it was like slipping investment strategy and contract law into the regular school curriculum.
And then, one day, Uncle decided the time had come.
"We should start preparing you as a Hero candidate as well."
"…A Hero?"
What kind of nonsense was that. Suddenly he was spinning fairy tales. Had he been reading novels?
"…You little brat. That's the face of someone who forgot everything I told him."
"N-no. I remember. I remember."
My brain cells kicked into sudden overdrive. Everything I'd half-heard and let slide came creeping back into my head. The Goddess periodically sent down a Saintess, and the Holy Order assigned a Hero to attend her on a continental pilgrimage. It wasn't just some marathon—the pilgrimage was genuinely necessary for the continent's stability.
But "Hero" was just the fancy job title. From where I stood, it looked like being the Saintess's personal errand boy. You couldn't exactly call it that out loud, so they dressed it up as Hero.
The funny part was that people wanted to be the Saintess's errand boy so badly they volunteered in droves. Only one person was chosen—selected by the descended Saintess herself—so the competition made even the biggest corporations look like a joke. Just getting your name on the candidate list was supposedly a tremendous honor. Like how overseas training or volunteer work pads a résumé. My eyes suddenly pricked with tears. Must have been the dust.
"What is it? Ah… just imagining it must fill you with glory. Even I never made the candidate list."
"Ha… haha."
No, that wasn't it. Wasn't that just an adventurer stuck carrying the luggage?
A chill ran down my spine. Hero candidates were all men. Uncle had told me to live as a boy. So he wanted me to hide my gender and put my name forward as a candidate? Was that even allowed?
Then again… Uncle was an Inquisitor. So maybe it was fine…? Should I run right now? God, this was confusing.
One thing I did resolve, though. Candidate was one thing. I was absolutely not getting chosen as the Hero. Not because I hated being the Saintess's errand boy—if I became the Hero and got found out, I was completely screwed. Repaying the favor of pulling me out of that shabby convent would be enough if I just made the candidate list.
You're not even going to get picked—aren't you drinking kimchi soup before the rice is cooked?
I had nothing to say to that. Anyway. I would do my best… not to become the Hero.
…Time really does fly.
Marcus's face was as blunt as ever, only now the wrinkles had multiplied. He sank into memory of the years gone by. Many things rose to the surface, and at the center of every one of them was a single child. The child was old enough now that calling her a child felt embarrassing—so why did she still feel like one?
Even now. The moment the brat noticed his gaze, she winked at him.
"…Haa."
He was certain he had drilled into her exactly what kind of occasion this was. So what was that frivolous little gesture supposed to mean? Had something gone wrong with his teaching? He distinctly remembered telling her that a Hero candidate must conduct herself with propriety.
He couldn't figure it out. Looking back, she had started acting a little strange after he first mentioned becoming a Hero candidate. Don't tell me she was doing this because she didn't want to be the Hero.
No. Impossible.
How glorious an honor it was. He could never have imagined that a child raised by an Inquisitor would look at the Hero and think "Saintess's errand boy."
That aside, his mind was a tangle. Raising Ciela as a boy and making her a Hero candidate had not been his own arbitrary decision. It was a secret order handed down from the most exalted personage beneath the Goddess. Considering that every Hero in history had been male, the whole affair sat oddly. Perhaps the command had come from someone so far above him he had no right to measure it. If that person had designated her, then a woman becoming Hero against all precedent was not entirely unthinkable.
But would everyone else see it that way? The pilgrimage was necessary for the continent, and precisely because of that, interests and political alliances clung to it. That was why candidates flocked from every corner. The high ones may have ordered Ciela's sex concealed specifically to prevent the chaos of breaking precedent.
If Marcus had read it right, Ciela would be chosen as Hero. She had to be.
…My head hurts.
Set the conduct aside for now. Set aside the prior offense of earning a name for flirting with nuns, too. Among the qualities a Hero candidate needed was the handling of Holy Power. Ciela's physical abilities earned solid marks. Her conduct… he preferred not to comment. But when it came to Holy Power, the reviews were poor. Her control itself was rather impressive—the sheer quantity, however, was pitiful.
So Marcus could not help but be anxious. Was that brat truly the one prepared to be Hero? What if there had been some mistake? What happened if she wasn't selected? Would they hang her for the crime of insolence? Becoming Hero would bring protection, but failing selection would make her a subversive element who had disturbed the order. He might even have to raise his own hand. Or hang beside her.
If it came to that—could he accept it? His own death was one thing. He had no confidence he could stand by and watch Ciela die. Anyone who knew him would have been appalled at the thought, but Marcus was deadly serious. If only the brat's behavior had been a little better, he wouldn't be this nervous. Should he have simply told her she was going to be the Hero and to watch her step?
…That would have been grotesque in its own way.
Either way, there was nothing left for him to do now.
"Praise—"
The Saintess would appear soon. The Goddess would descend and take form in this place.
And then—light flared, and from within it a petite woman stepped forward. Her face was somehow vacant; she blinked a few times and began to walk. Everyone who had gathered for this day held their breath, and the candidates dropped to one knee in unison, hoping for the Saintess's choice.
The Saintess moved through their ranks without hesitation, as if she already knew who she wanted. Each time she passed, a disappointed candidate's head bowed. They were not the Hero. Not being the Hero was one thing—simply having stood here would become a considerable asset.
The petite woman's steps brought her before a candidate with snow-white hair, the opposite of her own. At a glance the youth could have passed for a girl—a pretty boy so thoroughly in the category that there would have been change left over. The brat had apparently found the whole spectacle boring enough to yawn, then startled awake in a way that was almost comical. Scorching glares turned on the candidate.
Not that one. We'll settle this after. Just because that face is pretty doesn't mean you get picked for it. If it weren't for the Order, that one would be working the streets. Ptui!
It was Ciela.
She wiped away the tear her yawn had squeezed out and blinked without meaning to. Strange—why couldn't she see any feet? Wait, why wasn't the Saintess moving? There were still plenty of people behind her.
Whether Ciela understood or not, the Saintess—taciturn as if she had no need for unnecessary words—tapped Ciela on the shoulder. Get up. You're the Hero.
It was like a kitten climbing a butler's pant leg to claim him.
"…?"
Ciela lifted her head in blank confusion. When she still didn't rise, the Saintess prodded her shoulder again, urging her. Ciela stood reluctantly, cold sweat breaking out under the many heated stares fixed on her.
What is this?
Bewilderment mixed into the silence, and then a powerful voice rang out.
"The Hero has been chosen! His name is Ciel—"
The Saintess had selected her Hero. Marcus could not tell whether he was supposed to weep or laugh. Suddenly he was worried about the pilgrimage.
O God, is this truly… no. Forgive me. You must have your reasons. Surely.
His faith, at least, remained firm.