I Am Not a Fool, Saintess
The moment the party arrived at their next destination, a voice slithered out from among them, low and furtive, like something trying to crawl away unseen.
"Well then, I'll be off now..."
The Bard hunched his shoulders into a deep bow.
Without so much as a proper farewell, he hurried his steps, slipping into the crowd and vanishing as quickly as he could.
He looked as though he'd seen something unholy — or as though something had terrified him beyond reason. None of his usual swagger remained. His face was bloodless, and his hunched frame seemed desperate to escape the sight of anyone watching.
The Bard never once looked back.
Like an actor who had finished his role and was exiting through the stage door.
"..........."
The Hero said nothing, simply watching him go.
In the silence, only the creak of cart wheels grinding over cobblestones and the laughter of children at play drifted past.
"H-Hero..."
And there she remained, unable to leave — the Saintess.
The hour turns back to that night.
"...I'm sorry, what?"
The Saintess stood frozen, still unable to grasp what was happening, and the Hero opened his mouth very, very slowly.
"I know. I know you never wanted to become the Saintess."
His voice was far too calm. Far too gentle.
The gulf between the words leaving his mouth and the tone carrying them made her head throb. It would have been easier if he'd simply raged at her — then she could have lashed back in kind, using his harsh words as a shield.
But the first thing he offered her was not a rebuke.
It was understanding.
"You were living an ordinary life at the monastery when, one day, you received an oracle out of nowhere. You were saddled with a duty you never asked for and thrown onto the road to your death."
The Hero paused briefly, then continued.
"The Demon King's Army and the monsters have attacked without rest. There were many nights you couldn't even sleep properly. I understand what a crushing weight it is to have responsibility forced upon you."
"......"
"It's only natural to be sick of the endless marches. The endless fighting."
"...Yes."
Strangely, as she listened to him, heat rose behind the Saintess's eyes and she pressed her lips tight.
He had struck the mark.
Perhaps it was too obvious to even say aloud. And yet the words gouged at her chest all the same — so painfully precise that she could neither excuse herself nor run from them. It would have been less shameful, she thought, to simply stand there naked.
The position and responsibility that had been far too much for her to bear. Everyone at the monastery had looked at her with expectation, with longing — or with envy. Amid the torrent of congratulations, she hadn't even been able to refuse, and so the title of Saintess had been forced onto her, half against her will.
She had grown sick of all of it. Living up to the expectations of others was simply more than she could carry.
And yet.
"That is a separate matter."
The Hero's voice was still soft.
"The fact that you suffered does not excuse everything you've done up to now."
What he offered her this time was reality.
"Three villages have passed since you joined us."
The Saintess's breath caught.
"And you have not improved in the slightest."
The Hero looked at her across the campfire.
"Every time we reach a town or city, we recruit adventurers and mercenaries from the guild to travel with us temporarily. We part ways at the next waypoint, gather new people, and repeat the process."
"..."
"What do you suppose the reason is?"
Silence fell again. Only the crackle of the fire filled the space between them.
The Saintess did not answer.
No — she could not answer.
"No doubt you never even cared who joined us, or who left wounded."
The Hero did not wait for a reply.
"The reason is simple," he said. "Because we are the Hero's Party."
The Saintess slowly lifted her head.
"To the Demon King's Army, we are the highest-priority target to eliminate. To exaggerate a little, it means running into monsters every few steps."
The Hero glanced for a moment toward where the others slept.
"The attacks and battles come so often that an ordinary adventurer would struggle to last a few days."
It was no lie. The assault that had ended mere hours ago had left their companions without rest, and only now had they finally fallen into deep sleep.
The only two awake were the Hero and the Saintess.
Just the two of them.
"The Goddess's blessing allows you and me to grow several times faster than ordinary people, and to adapt to new battles far more quickly. We were chosen by the Goddess — that is why every nation supports us in accordance with the oracle."
He spoke to the Saintess, her head now raised, in that same gentle voice.
And then, without a moment's hesitation, he declared:
"The Hero's Party must never know defeat. We are humanity's last remaining hope — the symbol that allows this age of calamity to be endured."
The words were achingly beautiful — the kind of words that could kindle a light in the heart of someone drowning in despair.
But to the Saintess, who could not yet shoulder even a single life of her own, the phrase hope of humanity sounded like the name of an abyss she could never climb out of.
"A single stumble can ruin everything."
The Hero's gaze returned to her.
"That is why, on this journey, we need companions capable of fulfilling their roles — in mind and in body."
And then the Hero asked:
"So tell me, Saintess. What was it that you did?"
Crack!
A branch burst violently in the fire.
"...!"
The Saintess flinched, shrinking in on herself before she could stop it. Perhaps she was using the sound as an excuse to escape his gaze.
"I know you were given a duty you never wanted," the Hero continued evenly. "But you refused to speak with me. Even when danger struck, you failed to carry out the role assigned to you."
"That's..."
"Every time the Bard twisted my words and spread them, you not only failed to stop him — you agreed. You carried those words to the other companions and drove wedges between people."
The Saintess could not speak.
"The result was that our party members began to distrust one another and clash. One person even abandoned the journey — not because of the Demon King's Army, but because they could no longer trust their own companions."
"......"
"You did not merely neglect your duty."
The Hero pronounced it quietly, like a verdict.
"You made the state of the party worse."
The Saintess's fingertips trembled.
"It might help you improve, going forward, if I laid out each failure one by one."
The Hero drew a slow breath.
"But it seems there's no longer any need for that."
Swoosh.
The Hero rose to his feet.
"W-wait, just a moment!"
The Saintess's body moved faster than her thoughts. She flung her hand out desperately and seized the hem of his trousers.
What filled her mind in that moment was not remorse, or anything like it.
He's going to abandon me.
"Please, just wait a little longer! I-I still..."
If she were cast out now, the monastery would brand her a traitor who had abandoned her sacred duty. The Saintess who betrayed humanity's hope. The sinner who obstructed the Hero fated to face the Demon King. If the Hero spoke of everything she'd done, the punishment waiting on the other side might well be something she'd rather die than endure.
The Hero looked down at her with the same eyes as always. His voice, too, was unchanged — perfectly calm.
"Yes, I know. I know you've had it hard."
"Then..."
"But as I just said, that is a separate matter."
The Hero looked down at the hand clutching his trouser leg.
"We are not here on holiday. Under the Goddess's guidance, we carry countless lives on our backs."
His gaze returned to the Saintess's face.
"And if you can no longer bear that responsibility, then what I mean is — we will send you home, here and now."
The Hero slowly lowered himself.
The Saintess's face was flushed red, tears welling at the corners of her eyes. Anyone who didn't know the truth might have been moved to pity by such a wretched sight.
But the Hero knew.
He knew those tears were not born of repentance. What she feared was not what she had done — but what would come back to her because of it.
"I am not a fool, Saintess."
He was the Hero.
"...I'll do it."
In the end, the Saintess let go of the last shred of her pride.
Thud!
She threw herself down at his feet and pressed her forehead to the ground.
"I'll do better from now on. No — I will do better."
Her voice shook.
"Whenever you speak, Hero, I will listen. I will never ignore your words again."
Whether she meant it did not matter. The Saintess herself didn't know. For now, at least, the only thing that mattered was not being abandoned.
"Saintess."
"If I'm ever wounded, or there's anything you need, call on me at any time. I'll obey any order you give."
"Calm down."
"I will never disappoint you again. If you have any feelings built up over what I've done, take them out on me as much as you like."
The words came faster and faster, spilling out of her.
"When battles end, I'll handle the bodies myself! I'll prepare the meals too — I'll make them with all my heart and soul, just the way you like them!"
Forehead to the ground, choked with sobs, she was already broken beyond wretchedness.
"I can never repay everything you've given me, Hero...!"
Her pleading rang out into the night air, but the Hero's expression did not change in the slightest.
"Lower your voice. The others are sleeping."
But the Saintess could not stop.
"I'll go to everyone who misunderstood you myself. I'll confess that what I spread about you was wrong."
"Saintess."
"I'll explain to all of them personally just how noble a person you truly are!"
"Calm yourself."
With every word out of her mouth, the Hero's voice was cooling, degree by degree. And still she could not stop.
"A-and also..."
Her lips trembled. She knew perfectly well what she was about to say. But she believed that if it meant surviving, she had to offer up anything at all.
Her pride.
Her faith.
Her body.
"If there's another way I could repay you..."
For the first time, the Hero's expression wavered.
"If it's needed... then even my body, as much as you'd like—"
"...!"
The instant she heard it, the Saintess went silent.
If it had been a shout, she would have flinched — and kept right on piling up excuses. If it had been a curse, she might have bowed her head and silently accepted it.
But it was neither a curse nor a shout.
It was her name. Her true name — the one she'd used before becoming the Saintess. The name no one had spoken since she left the monastery.
And yet it came out strangely mangled. Unfamiliar syllables and static churned together, so that it sounded like something no human mouth could pronounce.
Still, the Saintess knew.
She knew the Hero had just called to her.
How she recognized the call at all, she could not say — not even to herself.
The campfire stirred, swept by a wind she couldn't see, flickering in a strange rhythm. The flame bent to one side, then writhed like a living thing.
"...Forgive me."
The Hero said it — an apology, of all things.
The Saintess couldn't even judge whether it was something that required one. The fault was hers. It was only natural for him to be angry. And yet that alien voice kept echoing at the edge of her ears.
"...Hah."
The Hero let out a short sigh.
Strangely, the Saintess felt a flicker of relief — because for the first time, it seemed, he had shown something like emotion.
And in the next moment, the Hero did something she could not begin to understand.
He prayed.
With the Saintess still prostrate on the ground before him, the Hero pressed his palms together, closed his eyes, and took a reverent posture.
Only the crackle of the campfire rang out through the dark forest.
Seconds stretched into minutes. Minutes stretched into hours. The Saintess had no idea how much time had passed. She kept her forehead to the ground, mouth shut, and waited. She could not even ask why the Hero was praying. What he was listening for. Whom he was speaking with.
She simply waited.
And at last, the Hero opened his eyes.
"Be at ease."
The Hero spoke.
"The Goddess has said she will forgive you."
"...Ah."
The Saintess raised her head.
"So please — continue with us on our journey."
"Th-thank you."
She bowed again and again, murmuring her gratitude over and over.
"Thank you. Truly, thank you, Hero..."
Having knelt so long, her clothes were soaked through with sweat. Dirt clung to her hair, and tears and snot had left her face a mess. But that face, at least, was filled with the relief of someone who had escaped death.
The Saintess believed she had been forgiven.
Yet in the end, there was one question she never managed to ask. Not whether the Goddess had forgiven her.
Whether he had.
And that night, the Hero never once gave his answer aloud.