The Falling Saintess

The Saintess was falling. No flames, no hymns, no prayers. Downward. Into the endless pit.

Her body halted. Breath caught in her throat.

"...Guh!"

Her chest slammed into something hard. No sound of breaking bones. Instead, it felt like being tightly gripped by stone.

Her head shook, blood rushing in her ears. She thrashed instinctively.

"Let... go..."

Arms loosened. She was gently lowered to the ground. This time, it was real stone. A stone floor crusted with dried blood and ash. Covered in remnants of the long-dead.

Gasping for air, she looked up. There was a sky. Not the night sky, not the cathedral ceiling. A red sky. Dull crimson, like blood thinly smeared.

And against that sky, someone loomed over her.

A person.

...No, not quite human. Ashen gray skin. Layer upon layer of scars and horrific burns etched across it. A body hardened by prolonged battle. Not oversized, but solid. Through matted black hair dusted with ash, ink-black eyes peered out—like spilled ink, devouring all light that entered rather than reflecting it.

Those eyes quietly scanned her.

The first words were curt.

"Name."

No questions about where she came from. What she believed. What sins she'd committed. Just her name.

She licked her lips.

"......Jan."

The man nodded once. Only then did her surroundings come into focus. Crumbled walls and toppled towers. A half-ruined castle between them. Before the gates, a wide clearing littered with shattered stone and metal, layered with dried bloodstains.

Yet a path cut through it all, unnaturally tidy. A narrow passage scraped clear of blood. To the right, a training ground of stacked stones. To the left, deep ruts from hauling something heavy. The threshold into the castle bore overlapping footprints.

This wasn't an abandoned ruin. It was a place someone was still using.

"Rak."

A voice came from behind. She turned her head.

A girl stood there. Dark red hair. Medium length, falling to her shoulders. Vivid red eyes. In this castle, that red alone felt strangely alive.

The girl approached.

"You're... really broken up bad."

Her red eyes trailed over Jan's torso and side. Scorched flesh. Cracked bones. Spots where blood had dried and burst open again. This body had fallen more than once.

Raksha asked, "Can you save her?"

The girl nodded shortly.

"...Yeah."

The girl's hand settled between Jan's chest and side. Her fingers trembled briefly, then stilled.

Not the pure light of the cathedral. A murky red glow, seeping through blood and ash. It spread slowly from the edges of her wounds. Flesh forcibly knitting, blood clotting, bones grinding back into place.

The pain didn't vanish. But it coalesced into a single, bound mass.

She drew a deep breath. Her lungs burned inside, but she could breathe.

Without thinking, she asked, "...An angel?"

The red eyes widened briefly, then wavered. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠The girl shook her head.

"No."

Then she said, "I'm a demon."

Jan inhaled again instead of replying. Blood. Ash. The air here.

—It's alive.

That much was certain.

Raksha spoke without shifting his gaze. "This is hell."

"The place you fell into is the front line—even in hell—that got shredded first."

She licked her lips. "I... was supposed to wipe out everything here."

Demons. Things to be cleansed. That's what she'd been taught on the surface.

Raksha didn't answer right away. His shoulders twitched faintly.

"Cleansed, huh."

A tone neither mocking nor serious.

"They like that word up there."

He paused, choosing words, then added shortly, "It's different here."

Without thinking, she asked, "How?"

Raksha glanced up slightly, at the red sky visible through the crumbled stone. "Plenty want to die."

Flat, but weary somewhere in it. "More than want to live—they just want it ended."

Easier to grasp than any sermon from above.

Raksha tapped the ground twice with his foot. "So we set an order."

"...Order?"

"Who needs erasing now, who can wait a bit."

His ink-black eyes flicked over her. "You're not at killing level yet."

She shut her mouth. If she'd truly wanted death, she'd have closed her eyes on the fall. She'd watched to the end. Where the pit bottomed out.

Raksha exhaled faintly. "Killing's easy."

"Just drive the blade a little deeper."

He looked down at the bloodstained floor. "Do the easy ones first, nothing left to do."

She must have looked confused. Raksha added curtly, "In hell, my job's handling the troublesome ones first."

"The ones that take effort to keep alive. The ones who keep begging for death."

His lip quirked ambiguously. "That's you right now."

She swallowed a sigh-like breath. "...So you'll kill me eventually?"

"Eventually."

Raksha nodded. "Wanting death can wait here."

He dropped his gaze. "That's not what you need now."

"You need the broken parts patched first."

Only then did he tilt his chin toward the girl. "Heal her first."

The girl replied shortly. "Got it."

Her red eyes deepened. The red light from her hand seeped deeper into the flesh. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Not fully healed. But it wouldn't snap right away.

Jan closed her eyes. As her body lightened a bit, memories of above surfaced. Walls. Banners. Burning village. People kneeling in prayer.

And the word before her name.

Saintess. Salvation. Prayer.

───Don't make me laugh.

I wasn't a saintess from the start. Before the war, I was just a kid in a normal village. Name: Jan.

That day, too, was ordinary until sunset.

"Jan, you fetched the water?"

Mother asked. I'd just hauled two buckets from the well, trudging back over dirt paths.

"Yeah."

I set the buckets down. "Lots of people today. Grown men in armor..."

"War's breaking out," Mother sighed. "The priest said so too. North and south fighting again."

War. I'd heard the name plenty. Never seen it. War was always on maps. Somewhere east. Near northern castles. Southern plains. My feet stayed safe.

I asked lightly on purpose. "They'll come here? Our village isn't even on maps."

Mother smiled bitterly. "That might make it more dangerous."

"Armies like spots off the beaten path to rest."

Those words lingered. But that evening, it was still "someday." I never dreamed war would crash down on our sky.

That night, the sky turned red sooner than usual. Not sunset—fire somewhere.

The smell hit first. Burnt. Oiler, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠deeper, more sickening than burning straw.

People rushed out.

"Where?"

"South? West?"

Voices mixed. Someone yelled, "Right next to the village! Fire jumping the walls!"

I waited instinctively for bells. Moments later, they rang. Clang—clang—clang— Urgent, relentless.

People surged one way.

"To the cathedral!"

"Safe inside!"

Someone grabbed my arm. "Jan!"

Mother. "Hurry!"

I dropped the bucket, blended into the crowd, running. Pushed into the cathedral, I glimpsed sky through door cracks. Red flames leaped between roofs. Too fast. Too close.

Someone murmured prayers. "Father and Son and..."

The rest faded. Breath short, like already in flames.

Mother hugged my shoulders. "It's okay. It'll be okay."

No one believed "okay."

The priest stood at the altar, shouting hoarse. "Pray! God sees you!"

I knelt. Hands clasped by habit. "Lord..."

Mouth moved, but mind wandered elsewhere. Burning roofs. Riders shaking spears. Animals' cries, trapped.

What if we're next. What if the doors open.

Prayer faltered on my lips.

Then, a voice in my head.

『Keep going.』

Man or woman? Adult or child? Unclear.

『Pray.』

I inhaled sharply. "......Lord."

『Just call.』

Shoulders trembled. Altar relics twisted oddly. No prayer came. So I just said it.

"Let us live."

Voice cracked. "At least... everyone here."

『Granted.』

The voice laughed in my head. That instant, outside noise ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠dipped slightly. Red light battering windows veered. Flames heading for our roof jumped to the next building.

Not untouched. But our building held "a little longer."

People gasped. "The prayer..."

"Was heard..."

Someone behind: "That kid."

Finger pointed at me. "Just now, that kid..."

Someone said, "Saintess!"

First just a shout. Excited, tossing words. But they repeated it.

"Saintess..."

"The saintess is protecting us..."

Hands grabbed mine. Mother's, neighbor auntie's, strangers'.

"Keep praying."

"Please."

I prayed. Don't remember words. Just pleas to live. Hold a bit longer.

Flames didn't fully die. But our village didn't burn completely that day.

Next morning, half-burnt, half-standing, people said, "The saintess saved us."

I couldn't deny or accept the name. But from then, another word always preceded mine.

Saintess Jan.

And that name soon dragged her to the battlefield.