The Golden Holy Fire

The night before, Benedict had heard the rumors of the Saint of the Foreign Race for the first time.

Even so... I didn't think all that much of it.

A healer, at best, would be using Heal. Classified as an advanced magic, Heal changed in effect depending on how well the caster understood the body and how much will they poured into the working.

I figured it was simply someone well-versed in anatomy using Heal, the way such people sometimes do...

Every now and then, a healer would make a name for themselves. It was common enough. In any trade, a handful of exceptional people were bound to emerge. He had thought nothing of it.

And yet—

Gaia... is what I am seeing now truly real?

Benedict could not believe what was unfolding before his eyes. A golden surge of light was rolling and rippling through the air, and standing at its heart, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, was the foreign healer.

Unless his eyes were knotholes in a plank of wood, Benedict knew exactly what that golden radiance meant.

"D-Divine power...!"

Baron Boavang's voice tore out of him like a scream.

Yes. That was unmistakably divine power. And not merely divine power — it was Holy Fire, granted only to those who had stood face to face with a god.

A priest had to train for years before he could wield divine power. If need be, he had to endure austerities as well. He opened each day with dawn prayers, gave thanks for even the smallest grace, recited the liturgies, transcribed the scriptures, and interpreted and studied the old records. Only when the omnipotent presence of God filled the heart without a single gap did the door to the mental sanctuary open — and with it, the right to raise a temple within.

Holy Fire was a special divine power granted only to those who had faced God inside that temple. Benedict's own silver divinity was of that kind.

What god has this man encountered?

A different divine presence lived inside that golden flame. Benedict, who served Gaia, regarded her as the one true goddess. Yet he knew that other gods existed among the beings that composed the world. Anyone who interpreted the old records would know as much — and it was a matter the Church itself preferred to keep quiet.

The Saint of the Foreign Race, then, was presumed to serve some nameless, forgotten god. What form would a miracle wrought by such a man take?

Without quite meaning to, Benedict found himself absorbing every single thing Messi did.

The Saint of the Foreign Race spread his hand toward the patient.

Incredibly, he was using Heal while pouring out divine power.

Benedict shuddered as if a hammer had struck him between the eyes.

"H-Heal, he said...?"

A man who served a god — using magic? No. Was that even magic to begin with?

Magic used mana as its foundation to twist the world's natural laws and produce an anomaly. That was a violation of the natural order. A miracle, by contrast, was the faithful realization of what a great being who had made the world had decreed. That was in accordance with the natural order.

And this thing, in which violation and accordance coexisted...

What am I supposed to call it?

Something inside him shattered. For the first time in his life, Benedict's vision went dark. He felt the truths he had always known break apart.

Messi's Heal, even laden with divine power, worked without the slightest hitch.

Why was such a thing possible? Anyone who had studied magic and miracles would have flown into a rage declaring it absurd. But Messi had received an inspiration that it could be done. The reason was simple.

The god dwelling within me has recognized my magic — a violation of natural law — as part of the natural order itself.

To put it simply... it was as if the engineer who had written the program had decided to accept a bug as a legitimate feature of the software.

"Haaah...!"

The patient struck by the golden light felt ease wash through him almost at once. The burns vanished as if they had evaporated. Not only that — his rough, aged skin grew smooth. The white hairs mixed among the rest disappeared, and the dormant growth points of dead follicles stirred and stretched themselves awake.

The mining slave felt every dark thought that had nested in his heart, every scrap of despair, every fear of the future, blown away as if they had never been.

The healing was over in an instant. The rolling light faded.

And still the room was silent.

"..."

The baron and the deputy guildmaster had no idea what they were even supposed to say.

Just what is that guy...

Ereb found himself wondering, not for the first time, about Messi, who kept shattering every limit set before him.

It has to be him. No one else.

Erena was certain now. Messi was her only hope.

"The treatment is finished."

When no one reacted, Messi delivered the verdict himself. Only then did the mining slave come to his senses and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠rise from where he sat. Sensing that his body had changed, he touched his own skin, moved his limbs, and tilted his head.

He must have been bewildered. He was in far better condition than he had been even before the injury.

If ordinary Heal aimed only at complete recovery, then Heal woven with divine magic was something else entirely — a restoration that raised the body to one hundred percent of what it could be at its present age and flesh.

"..."

Benedict approached Messi in silence. Messi looked back at him.

I am curious, I'll admit. How will a priest react, having seen this...

He could have used ordinary Heal and left ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it at that. The patient would have recovered, and Benedict would have been impressed. But he would never have carved horror into the man's face the way he had just now. Messi had made this bold choice in order to surpass Benedict completely.

And the choice had been the right one.

"...!!"

The Silver Paladin — bowing his head. And to a foreigner, no less.

Baron Boavang and the deputy guildmaster of the Pengel Trading Company bristled at once.

"W-what do you think you're doing! Sir Benedict, raise your head!"

"Is this the sight you think your patrons came here to see?!"

Their plan had been to spread it through every street and alley that the Silver Paladin had overwhelmed the Saint of the Foreign Race. They had not doubted for a moment that it would go that way.

And now this? Benedict bowing his head instead?

Of all places — in front of so many witnesses! That man is going to ruin everything.

The First Young Master's wrath will be no small thing. What do we do?

They had to salvage this contest somehow. Baron Boavang stepped forward to do it.

"Fine, I'll grant he's got some skill! Worthy of being called the Saint of the Foreign Race, even. But wouldn't Sir Benedict's hands have produced the same result?!"

"He's right! That mining slave would have been healed even if it had been Sir Benedict! I cannot for the life of me see what you lack that would make you bow your head!"

The two of them set about thoroughly diminishing the result. Ereb, furious at their pettiness, was about to step in —

It was Benedict who had gone cold and hard.

"Are your eyes merely decoration? What you just witnessed was divine power! The two of you have just trampled a miracle granted by God and insulted it — in front of me!!"

Benedict's voice, so quiet until now, thundered through the Prayer House. The baron and the deputy guildmaster went deathly pale. It was the presence of the Silver Paladin from fifteen years ago — the man who had swept the undead from the earth — crashing down on them all at once.

"The same result, you say? Of course it is the same! In the work of healing, what destination is there besides saving the patient? But the time it took to get there? You witless fools! Skipping the prayers and wielding holy power is something only a handful of high priests can do!! To see a miracle wrought by such a man and still run your mouths like that!!"

There were, in fact, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠no prayers involved at all... but Benedict seemed to have mistaken Messi's Heal for a method of omitting them.

Hearing why Benedict was shielding Messi, the baron sensed that things had taken a dangerous turn and began easing himself backward.

"I-I understand... Please, calm yourself, Sir Benedict."

"Calm myself? How am I to be calm, looking at the likes of you who have slighted God!"

"W-we're sorry!"

"We're leaving!"

Baron Boavang and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Pengel's deputy guildmaster fled in a scrambling rush, seized by the distinct feeling that something ugly was about to happen to them.

The moment they were gone, however, Benedict recovered his composure at once. The fury had been an act.

"They ran off looking so pathetic that they won't dare go around talking about what happened here, if only for fear of it getting out. And if they do spread false rumors, my own mouth will not stay shut."

"You have my thanks, Sir Benedict. You are a man who understands honor."

"Compared to you, Saint, I am but a firefly held up against the moon."

He really likes that turn of phrase...

"I had thought of you as nothing more than a healer, Saint. That, I believe, is why my misunderstanding ran so deep. I offer you my apology."

"I'll accept that apology."

There was nothing to apologize for, really. Until a few moments ago, "nothing more than a healer" had been exactly right.

"...I am glad. I would not have wanted to be disliked by one who is loved by God."

"You should hear me out to the end. I said I would accept it — if you agree to the conditions I am about to set."

"I beg your pardon? Conditions?"

Benedict's face went blank with confusion.

"Ever since House Ahental's contributions to the Church were cut off, our monastery's finances have been in rather poor—"

"I am not asking for money. I merely want the stakes of a fair wager paid out."

A wager? When did we ever make one of those?

Benedict could not quite hide his bewilderment at Messi's words.

"We did make a wager, did we not? You set the terms yourself — that if I failed to heal the patient cleanly, your side would spread unpleasant rumors."

"Ah. That... yes. I was mistaken. You are quite right, Saint."

There was no such thing as a wager in which only one side set conditions. If Benedict had named his stakes, he had to bear the other side of them as well. Messi had won, and so Messi's conditions had to be honored. The trouble was that nothing had been decided — it was a blank check. Worry crept into Benedict's mind.

This is awkward. I was the one who foolishly blurted out conditions all by myself...

And having done so, he could hardly start arguing that this was unacceptable and that was out of the question.

Benedict tried a little scheme of his own, naming a condition first.

"What if I were to speak of you actively, Saint — to mention the rumors of you myself, with some enthusiasm?"

"Haha. I suspect the people of this Prayer House will manage that well enough on their own, rather more so than a close-mouthed priest like yourself, Sir Benedict..."

"Ah... yes, of course..."

The little ploy went nowhere. Messi smiled and held up his index and middle fingers.

"I will not ask anything difficult of you. But given that the wager was rather one-sided in how it came about... I want two things."

"Name them, then. I was the one who gave offense first... I will comply."

The middle finger folded down.

"First, I would like you to apologize to Lady Erena and Viscount Ahental, on behalf of the Church."

"...Apologize?"

Benedict tilted his head. He genuinely did not seem to know what he had done wrong.

"Think about it. They paid the priests a great deal of money, time and again, to have their daughter treated. And after hundreds of failures, the Church insulted them — saying it was because they lacked faith, and so on."

"That is..."

"I am not saying the treatment failed because God's power was insufficient. Lady Erena's condition was simply not a case to which divine power could be applied. The Church should have recognized that long ago and sought another way."

"....."

The Benedict of ordinary days would have cried out, You unbeliever! There is no range to which God's power cannot reach!! But in his eyes, Messi was a man who stood equal to a high priest — a man who wielded Golden Holy Fire. When Messi said it, it truly did feel as though they had been in the wrong.

"Very well. I will call on them separately and offer a formal apology. As it is a matter that must be done on behalf of the Church, I will need to speak with my superiors at the monastery as well."

"Good. There is one more thing... and that is..."

Messi leaned in and murmured into Benedict's ear.

As he listened, Benedict's eyes went round, and he asked again,

"...Is that really all you want?"

Messi nodded. And at that, Benedict looked rather pleased.

Airus von Ahental's face hardened at the unexpected visitor. It was none other than Sir Benedict.

A report had already come in. Baron Boavang and the deputy guildmaster of the Pengel Trading Company, having fled Benedict, had come babbling at length about what had happened.

Airus had not been able to hide his incredulity when he first heard it. The Silver Paladin, Benedict — outdone in the art of healing by Messi?

What kind of horseshit is this?

A healer beating a priest? And the Silver Paladin, no less? A goblin beating an ogre to death would have sounded more plausible.

And yet it was true. The rumors were already spreading through the city, and the talk in praise of that other young master had begun to surface again from under the water.

Only when the knight Haydn came to deliver a second report could Airus finally believe it was real. And when he heard that the man used divine power as well, he felt the humiliation of blood rushing backward through his veins.

"That son of a bitch... pretending to be a healer and then stabbing me in the back? I set the whole table and spoon-fed it right into his mouth!!"

His fist came down in a rage, and the desk in his office split clean in two.

It was while the servants were clearing away the wreckage that Benedict arrived. Facing the priest who had walked straight into his office, Airus sneered.

"I cannot for the life of me understand why a man so poor at healing is serving as a priest. You ought to go back to being a paladin, as you were before."

"Hm. You yourself lead the cavalry, Lord Airus, despite riding worse than your younger brother. It is rather the same principle."

Something in Airus's temple twitched.

"I command House Ahental's cavalry because I am the rightful heir of this house!"

"I see. But it is still true that you ride worse than your brother, is it not?"

Benedict answered with a blank, even look, as if he were not being sarcastic at all — merely stating a fact. Airus knew well enough that his younger brother surpassed him in martial skill. A perfectionist was never going to enjoy that particular truth. It was a complex he carried, whether he admitted it or not, and this zealot had walked in and put his finger on it at once.

Does this bastard not plan on leaving here alive?

He could not fathom what confidence had brought a has-been all the way here to pick a fight.

"I assume you did not come all this way to comment on my horsemanship... What is it you want?"

"I came because I know full well that you orchestrated this affair, Lord Airus."

"Ah. So you're angry, then? You should simply have done better, shouldn't you? At least you have the shame to know you lost to a foreigner."

"No. I have come to offer you my thanks."

Had he heard that right?

"...What?"

"Thanks to you, I came to know Messi, did I not? That skill of his — wielding Golden Holy Fire, skipping the prayers, working miracles... He must surely house a remarkable god within himself. Meeting such a person is no easy thing."

From that point on, a sudden and unending flood of praise for Messi poured out of him, and Airus felt his breathing grow short. His blood pressure surged; his face turned a deep, congested red, and a vein stood out on his forehead.

In front of whom... is he praising whom, right now?

If it had been praise of Ereb, he would already have lost his patience and reached for his sword. But it was Messi being praised, which made it strangely difficult to explode. And yet the heat rose in him all the same; the blood rushed to his head, and he could not bear the pulling taut at the back of his skull.

"S-stop... that's... enough!"

"Oh dear. How thoughtless of me. You look unwell, and here I have been rambling on... Why is your complexion like that? I have seen any number of men who lose their health to overwork. As it happens, I have come with a fine suggestion. Why not take a restorative leave and enter our monastery? If you spent some five years listening to the word of God and purifying your soul...."

"D-drag this man out of here at once!"

Benedict kept running his mouth without pause until the servants hauled him away.

Going to Airus and recommending he take monastic vows. That had been Messi's final condition.