Saint Marygold (7) - Round 14
“The winner is Lancel Dante!”
The preliminaries—first, second, third rounds.
The citizens of the empire, having witnessed Lancel Dante's unstoppable momentum with their own eyes, no longer doubted him.
He dominated every match. It was only natural that rumors spread far and wide: bet on Lancel Dante, and you'd make a fortune.
“Betting on Lancel Dante is like duplicating silver coins!”
Around that time, the pilgrimage knights began getting nothing but dirty looks from the streets of the capital.
These men, who had never been ignored by anyone before, were now too busy dodging people. They had to watch themselves around the fury of nobles who'd lost their fortunes.
Roars of rage erupted daily from Duke Mayril Dunn's mouth.
“You idiots can't even beat that one guy, and you let things get this bad? And you call yourselves knights serving the divine?!”
—Drop Lancel Dante right now!
The pilgrimage knights, who had initially followed those orders with enthusiasm, were slowly coming to realize the truth.
That beating him through fair means might be impossible.
“Win by any means necessary. Any means!”
The pilgrimage knights put Duke Mayril Dunn's words into aggressive action.
'No holds barred, huh?'
A petty victory was better than a righteous defeat. That was the consensus among the pilgrimage knights.
Small sabotage became rampant: tampering with Lancel Dante's equipment to make it flimsy for his matches, or deliberately blocking the carriage carrying him to delay his arrival at the arena.
Of course, none of it fazed him. Lancel, hardened by centuries of loops, shrugged off such trifles.
In the end, they didn't hesitate to escalate to real threats.
In the capital, plenty of nobles would take a crossbow bolt to the knee for the right price. Requests poured into the thieves' guild nonstop: make Lancel Dante unable to wield a sword or even walk for a while.
Of course, those too yielded zero results.
Lancel Dante always showed up in perfect condition, toyed with the pilgrimage knights like children, and walked away unscathed.
“Today's winner is once again Lancel Dante!”
The eightieth church has been built!
*Marygold's karma decreases by 1 point.
The statues of the saint in the capital had finally surpassed eighty.
It was undoubtedly good news, but Lancel sensed something off.
'The pace is faster than expected.'
Building saint statues wasn't hard if you put your mind to it.
But getting devotees to show up and pray daily at each one? That was no small feat.
That was why, in his previous loop, even after ten full years, Lancel had barely reduced Marygold's karma by fifty.
Yet now, eighty already. In just two years. No matter how he sliced it, it was too fast. Way too fast.
'Why is this going so well?'
Lancel would soon find the answer from Marygold herself.
* * *
“Aim for Lancel Dante!”
“Grab that bastard quick!”
It was the day of the fifth round of the knight tournament finals.
Thanks to some wildly creative folks, the arena resembled a ship's deck. The knights clashed in a brutal melee, fighting until only one remained.
Even with blunted swords, a solid hit could draw blood or snap bones.
“Gaaah!”
“M-my finger!”
As screams echoed from all sides, Lancel sensed something different from the usual.
Amid the ceaseless collisions of knights, one stood still—a knight in a silver helmet covering his face, staring straight at Lancel.
“Lancel Dante. I bear you no grudge.”
A familiar voice.
“Nerph?”
The man flinched visibly.
“How do you know my name?”
“...I have my ways.”
“...?”
He brushed it off awkwardly with vague words. Couldn't exactly say from the last loop.
'What’s this guy, who should be glued to the 1st Princess, doing crawling out here?'
Nerph, the knight in silver armor.
One of the people who'd trained under the same master as Lancel. A 'senior brother,' in a sense.
Though only Lancel remembered that.
“I wouldn't have expected someone like you in a place like this. What's the occasion?”
“...I've been asked to force you out of the tournament. Don't hold it against me. It's all for the empire.”
“Honest, aren't you.”
Lancel stroked his chin thoughtfully.
The 1st Princess wouldn't have ordered this. Someone must have approached her—probably the imperial archbishop or the pilgrimage leader. Too few obvious suspects; made him wonder if there was someone else.
“Lancel Dante. I'll send you back with a painless break, if I can help it.”
A gleaming blade whipped out from Nerph's waist.
'Been a while. Let's see what he's got.'
The two advanced on each other—and vanished in an instant.
Clang—!
A deafening clash rang out as sparks flew. Compressed air around the colliding blades erupted in a shockwave.
Lancel felt a tingle in his grip. This was leagues beyond the fakes he'd faced. Good. Now we're talking real knight.
“Not just talk after all, Lancel Dante.”
“You neither.”
Nerph's blade thrust like a stinger.
Lancel deflected the snaking strike sideways, smirking bitterly.
'Even the mood-ruining vibe when you're watching is still there.'
This was the Nerph from his memories. Sword and temper both polar opposites to Lancel's.
The guy had a god-given talent for slashing and stabbing. Hard to imagine him as anything but a knight.
Lancel had struggled against that blade every time in the past, but now...
“...!”
Lancel charged straight in.
He slipped past Nerph's blade by a hair's breadth.
Grabbed his collar and slammed him to the deck with all his might. Wood splintered, shards flying.
“Ugh!”
Nerph hit back-first and scrambled to rise, but it was too late. Lancel's blade hovered at his nape.
“You're bleeding. What now?”
Lancel grimaced, pointing to his chest. Nerph's thrust had grazed it, leaving a long gash.
Helmet off, Nerph just stared in stunned disbelief.
* * *
“Does it feel better now?”
“Kinda, yeah.”
“How about now? Now?”
“Hm.”
At the news of his injury, Marygold had rushed over and was now thirty minutes into desperately trying to cast a heal.
“Urghhh!” Will it work?
As Marygold squeezed out every ounce for her healing attempt, Baron Ivil Shen spoke up from the coachman's seat.
“No matter how I think about it, it's uncanny.”
“...?”
“Miss Mary, I mean. She doesn't seem ordinary. You should see the crowds at her dawn prayers these days.”
Her popularity was booming?
Lancel had never been early enough to join Marygold's dawn prayers, so he half-ignored it.
Baron Ivil Shen's Marygold fandom had been going strong for months now.
“Sick folks say just hearing her prayers makes them feel a bit better. I was skeptical at first, but seeing the rumors spread... it's gotta be real. Not just me feeling it.”
“...Sounds like some cult.”
Lancel muttered to himself.
Marygold's morning prayers were nothing special.
She'd just head to the saint church in the capital's heart, mumble through prayers she knew, and come back.
Variety was lacking too—repeat listeners caught the same phrases looping.
And that healed people?
If true, Marygold was a saint descended upon this era.
Lancel chalked it up to typical Baron Ivil Shen hype.
“My ankle twisted not long ago, but after her prayer, it felt better. For real.”
“Sure, sure.”
“You should go sometime when you're free. It's legit.”
Lancel watched Marygold pour her all into 'healing' right in front of him.
'120 more to go.'
* * *
Back home, as he undressed, he froze upon noticing something.
“What the—?”
Lancel touched the gash from Nerph.
His stinging chest was nearly healed. Just a bloodstain on his shirt.
Not deep, but gone in half a day? No way.
He pulled a dagger from his pocket and hunted down Marygold. Shook her awake from bed.
“Uegh?”
“Forget the ugh—try a heal?”
He pointed to a fresh cut on his palm, just made with the dagger.
Half-asleep Marygold stretched her arm toward his voice.
“Uuum...!”
She furrowed her brow, focusing. Healing was just 'squeeze hard,' in her mind. Predictably, nothing happened for a while.
But after three minutes...
“...!”
Blood slowed. The wound began closing. Glacially slow, but undeniably healing.
'Heal. It's heal.'
The effect was pitifully weak.
Nothing like the game’s flash-bang heals that revived the dying in a sparkle.
But it was heal. Undeniably.
For the first time in two hundred years, Lancel witnessed white magic.
