The Saint's Holy Axe
Let me tell you about Silenia, the fortress city perched on the northwest border of the Orphen Empire.
Five hundred years ago, during the great war against the demon race, it had anchored the empire’s western front and become the spark that ignited their counteroffensive—an impregnable stronghold. After the empire’s victory brought long years of peace, Silenia gradually fell into decline. Yet even now, after five centuries, its towering, thick walls still loomed with undiminished majesty.
The city’s lord, Viscount Jindrich Pavern, however, seemed almost comically out of place among such grandeur. Short, soft-bodied, balding, with a burn scar twisting along his jaw—he looked nothing like the master of a historic fortress. Jindrich knew exactly what people whispered about him, which was why he preferred to stay shut inside his chambers, drowning in paperwork except when official duties forced him out.
But wishes and reality rarely walk the same road.
“Haa…”
He had squeezed himself into armor that no longer fit and was pacing the battlements in restless circles.
“What in the world am I supposed to do now?”
One week had passed since the Demon King’s army launched its invasion. In that brief span, reports of major defensive lines falling had flooded in. Among them was the grim news that the northwestern line ahead of Silenia had been breached—and that a detachment of the enemy was now marching straight for the city.
“Haa… At this pace they might as well have the gates thrown open for them every time they attack.”
Even with his adjutant Dolia trailing a few steps behind, Jindrich could not keep the tremor of anxiety from his voice. Ahead lay an unstoppable enemy. Behind him, the lofty officials in the imperial capital were breathing down his neck, demanding he hold the fortress at all costs. And—
“Haa…”
Jindrich gazed down at the makeshift refugee camp inside the walls and let out yet another heavy sigh. The shelter had long since exceeded its capacity; the conditions looked wretched even from a distance.
“It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say every refugee in the region has gathered here. Actually… that might be exactly what happened, hasn’t it?”
“Since the allied forces stationed ahead of us were wiped out, it’s almost certainly the case,” Dolia replied flatly. She had been scribbling notes the entire time without missing a beat.
Jindrich shot her a slight frown, then asked, “Among the refugees who arrived yesterday, were there any capable of holding a weapon?”
“One volunteer and two more conscripted from those still sound of limb. Three in total.”
Jindrich caught himself about to sigh again and rubbed his temples instead. More mouths to feed, yet far too few hands to fight.
“This is troublesome. The longer the refugees remain, the heavier the burden on my soldiers…”
“And yet you still took them all in, knowing that?”
“Then what was I supposed to do? If I hadn’t accepted them, they would all have died!”
The weight of responsibility and raw anxiety made his voice boom louder than he intended. Dolia simply stared at him. Embarrassed, Jindrich raised his voice even more to cover his discomfort.
“Wh-what? Do you have something to say? If you do, then by all means—”
“It’s noisy, so stop squawking and look over there.”
Dolia waved her hand as though shooing away his words, then pointed beyond the wall.
“H-hmph…”
Show some respect to your superior! Don’t forget that I am the wartime commander here! Jindrich screamed inwardly, then obediently followed her finger with his eyes.
Several black specks were crossing the plains at the foot of the hill, moving briskly toward Silenia.
“They don’t look like enemies… there are far too few of them, aren’t there?”
“Indeed.”
Dolia answered without much interest and handed him a spyglass she had produced from somewhere. Jindrich accepted it with a reluctant expression and lifted it to his eye.
“……?”
He rubbed his eyelids, looked again, then frowned and adjusted the focus.
“??”
What he saw was a ragged column of men, women, and children trudging along with exhausted faces. At their head strode a lone girl, smiling brightly, her steps proud and confident. In her hands she carried an old, crude halberd, and impaled upon its spearhead was the massive head of a troll.
“No, I’m not mistaken… I’m definitely not seeing things…”
“What is it?”
Instead of answering, Jindrich passed her the spyglass. After peering through it, Dolia’s own expression twisted in much the same way.
“…A head that size would belong to at least a centurion, wouldn’t it?”
“Uh… y-yes, probably?”
“Marching around with something like that is usually considered a blatant provocation toward the enemy… correct?”
“It would seem… so?”
“And they’re heading straight for us…?”
“As you can see… yes?”
The pair stared at the approaching dots, blinking in unison, until they spoke at the exact same moment.
“Ah.” “We’re screwed.”
In the middle of the windswept plain, two very different groups faced each other across an invisible line. To the onlookers, the atmosphere seemed tense, as though both sides had suddenly encountered unwelcome strangers. That impression belonged mostly to the wary citizens of Zelewald and the nervous Silenia soldiers yanked from their posts in the middle of wartime. The people who had actually caused the situation, however, carried themselves quite differently.
“Judging by the direction you came from with your troops, I take it you are the one in charge of that fortress city!”
Saint Lucie declared cheerfully, slamming the butt of her halberd into the ground. The giant troll head dangling from the spear tip opened its mouth with a grotesque bueee, tongue lolling out like it was taunting them.
“Eek…”
The soldiers Jindrich had brought stiffened even further at the bizarre sight. Jindrich himself felt the same, but the word “in charge” gave him courage. He forced a smile onto his face and answered the girl.
“Y-yes, th-that is correct… But if I may ask, who… exactly are all of you…?”
“As for me—!”
Lucie’s eyes sparkled as she began to reply, but Milos quickly stepped in front of her.
“I-I will explain instead!”
Fearing that Lucie might say something inappropriate in front of important people, Milos launched into a swift, concise recounting of everything that had happened since they began their desperate flight. Lucie raised an eyebrow, watching his back, then gave a small chuckle and nodded. The scene looked strangely like an adult quietly observing a child’s school presentation, and Jindrich felt a vague sense of unease.
“…And that is how we ended up fleeing all the way here.”
The reactions were mixed. The Zelewald citizens and guards nodded in shared understanding, some even wiping away tears. A few Silenia soldiers shook their heads or let out disbelieving chuckles, as though they had heard pure nonsense. Others eyed the girl called the “resurrected saint” with open curiosity. Jindrich, meanwhile, looked as if hundreds of question marks were about to spill from his eyes.
The church, notorious for being ruthlessly thorough about anything concerning its saints, left her coffin unattended all this time? And she was resurrected in perfect condition without using the heretics’ forbidden magic…? Is that even possible?
His original plan had been simple: quickly usher these bold provocateurs of the Demon King’s army inside the walls. But now that he stood before them, his instincts screamed danger. Especially those eyes of the so-called “saint.” They were the eyes of a wild beast—no, something far more dangerous. The eyes of a starved predator that had gone days without food. How could such eyes belong to a small, fragile-looking girl?
In a world where impossible events kept piling up, if this child carried some corrupted power, if she was the seed of a calamity even more terrifying to the empire than the demon race itself… did someone like him have the strength to bear responsibility for it?
A primal fear of the unknown surged through him.
“…Prove it.”
“Pardon?”
The sudden shift in Jindrich’s demeanor sent a chill down Milos’s spine.
“If that person is truly a saint, she should be able to wield divine power. Therefore, prove right here and now that she is the church’s genuine saint by using it.”
Divine power—the force once wielded by the first saint, Beatrice. A special power only the church’s chosen saint and a handful of priests could command. Similar to a mage’s mana yet unmistakably different, a saint’s divine power served as proof of identity in itself.
“Th-that is far too sudden a demand. Besides, the saint has only just been resurrected and is hardly in normal condition after battling the demon race!”
Milos barely managed to swallow the rest—Especially when she herself said she doesn’t even remember who she is!—but the response was ice-cold.
“N-no. This is a necessary procedure. I know it is rude, but if you refuse, I-I cannot allow you inside the castle.”
“Ugh.”
Though he still stuttered, Jindrich’s tone had grown firm. Pressed by that resolve, Milos glanced sideways at Lucie. He had harbored doubts of his own. After all, this girl who had emerged from the saint’s coffin had never once used divine power while fighting the demons on the road to Silenia. He had never even seen her cast a healing spell on the injured guards. The only thing she ever did was split demon skulls with axes taken from their corpses.
If the saint cannot prove she is the real saint, then we…
Milos’s gaze drifted to the soldiers Jindrich had brought. Their commander’s changed attitude had wiped the smiles from their faces; their hands now rested on their weapons.
…Damn it.
There was only one gamble left.
“Huu… Very well.”
He would bet everything on the chance that Lucie truly was the saint.
“Saaaaint— Ladieee!!”
Milos called out in an exaggerated, theatrical voice to hide his trembling.
“Even if it’s difficult, please show them just for a moment! Yes! It’s nothing at all—just show them, yes!”
“Oh, I see. In that case, I won’t need to waste time searching for an axe I like.”
“…Huh?”
A sudden burst of pure white radiance exploded directly in front of Milos’s eyes.
Giant Axe of Holy Light
“Graaagh!! My eyeees!!”
While Milos rolled on the ground clutching his face, Jindrich and the others craned their necks to stare at the pillar of light soaring into the sky. It was far too enormous to be called an axe. Overwhelmed by its sheer scale, Jindrich muttered as though entranced.
“To shape divine power with such precision… and on such a colossal scale…”
In one hand the saint held a rusty halberd with a troll’s head impaled on its blade. In the other she gripped a gigantic axe formed entirely of light. She stood there—small, yet towering—with a relaxed smile.
“A power granted when one wishes for it with all one’s heart… Indeed, a saint’s power is truly wondrous and convenient.”
Lucie’s gaze drifted slowly from the axe of light to Jindrich.
“Don’t you agree?”
In that instant, Jindrich realized the terrible mistake he had made. He had dared to test a true saint. No—he had failed the test of faith personally bestowed by the saint who had resurrected in this world to save the empire in its hour of crisis.
“I-I greet the Saint.”
Jindrich’s knees hit the dirt. One by one, the Silenia soldiers followed, kneeling behind him.
“Your aid is desperately needed. Please do not cast out even the people of Silenia because of my foolish doubt!”
With a dull thud, Jindrich pressed his forehead to the ground. Tears of regret slipped from his tightly shut eyes and soaked into the earth.
“Rise, proud servant of the empire.”
The girl’s fair, delicate hand—still gripping the halberd she had driven into the soil—gently rested on Jindrich’s shoulder.
“How can a commander kneel so carelessly in wartime?”
“Saint…!”
“Yes. Now that I have come, everything will be fine. Therefore, prepare yourselves…”
The saint’s glistening lips curved into a smile that was anything but pious.
“…to guide me to the enemy.”