Report on the Fall of Purity (5)

"…I'll wait outside."

Lily planted her fists on her hips.

"Didn't you say it wouldn't bother you?"

"It's for your comfort. It's cramped in here. And what if someone bursts in? I'll stand guard outside, so take your time changing."

He thought he heard a faint hmph, but Cain didn't push it further. He stepped into the corridor and carefully closed the door behind him.

The room wasn't well soundproofed. There was a slight gap under the door, and voices leaked through it. If they were going to discuss the case with Lily, they'd need to block that gap somehow.

From outside came the chants of the knight order. Their own form of prayer, perhaps. Soon after, accusations of sin rang out, followed by the sounds of flogging and screams.

Did all knight orders do this? Or was the Mercy Knight Order just particularly zealous?

Cain had no way of knowing. He wondered if William Archbishop had been subjected to the same treatment back when he was a holy knight in the Mercy Order.

Who was getting beaten? And who was doing the beating? Was the victim connected to whoever had reduced the archbishop to such a pitiful state…?

Knock knock.

A knock came from behind him. Cain opened the door.

Lily, now changed, held her arms slightly out from her sides.

The room was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠dark, and the moonlight even darker. A thin shirt. Thin pants. Golden hair naturally loosened, draping over her shoulders. Her face and body weren't clearly visible. She was standing with her back to the light.

But her silhouette was sharp. Like a slender crescent moon on a clear night—not fragile, but delicate. Even covered, the soft curves stood out all the more.

Cain froze.

A shadow rippled at Lily's feet. It passed her long, straight legs and firm abs. The gap between her shirt and pants was pushed open by large, upright breasts lifting the fabric. That seemed to be why her cute, indented navel was so visible.

Eventually, it climbed past the deep cleavage to her face.

It wasn't Lily's face. It was a shadow that had erased her eyes, nose, and mouth.

Anyone who's stood watch on dark streets for long knows it. Shadows have shades within them. Like the dead rising. Something you want to forget. Thought you'd forgotten. Try not to think about.

A human face takes shape. The flickering shadow stares forward, then spreads into a smile like blood staining a dress.

—Cain…

"Cain."

The shadow vanished. Cain gasped for breath, as if he'd forgotten how to breathe.

Lily tilted her head slightly, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

"I… I'm all dressed… Why are you just staring without saying anything…?"

The moonlight brightened a touch. Shy yet thrilled, her voice cracked slightly. Lily's clear face came into view—a living, warm-hearted woman's face.

Cain sighed, rubbing his chest.

"Don't you have anything warmer? You look cold."

"I do, but… After wearing chainmail all day, this area's been chafing…"

Lily's long fingers brushed lightly over the top of her chest. A soft ow escaped her.

Cain looked down.

"Must hurt like hell."

"It's nothing, sir. A bit of olive oil will soothe it. I brought some in my bag. If it's all right with you…"

Lily took a step closer. Cain bent down, grabbed the bed blanket, and held it out to her.

"Use this as a whetstone. If you're standing in the corridor, wrap it around yourself."

A silence laced with disappointment. Three breaths.

"…You mean the blanket for the corridor?"

"I need to change too. Block the door for me. The draft out there's brutal."

Pouting, Lily took the blanket and draped it like a robe. Cain gave her shoulder a gentle shove—get going. Beneath his palm, warm skin and a sweet, faintly poignant scent wafted up. Where his fingers brushed her hair, wildflowers lingered.

Lily closed the door. His palm burned, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the scent kept blooming inside him. If this is a miracle, then miracles must be like this, Cain thought as he stripped off his clothes one by one. Hoping his rotten luck from the day would peel away with them.

Where Lily had stood, neatly folded clothes lay. Probably what she'd worn today. A habit drilled in from the knight order—perfectly squared.

Cain, about to ball up his own discarded clothes, scratched his head and mimicked her folds. It wasn't great, but in the dark, who cared.

Changed into fresh clothes, Cain called Lily back in. The cool corridor air helped settle his nerves a bit. Remembering the voices leaking through the gap, he laid his own clothes along the bottom of the door to seal it.

"Sound was leaking."

"The gap's higher than I thought."

With a single motion, the blanket slipped from her shoulders. Even knowing she was fully dressed, Cain instinctively squeezed his eyes shut.

Lily brushed past him, picked up her discarded clothes, and knelt on one knee by the door. Unreal moonlight flowed down her back like honey. As she breathed, as she folded her clothes neatly, her body rippled softly. The shirt was so thin the shadows didn't blur—they sharpened.

The moon was that cruel. Not illuminating, but casting darkness to reveal.

Each breath showed how much her deceptively slender shoulders rose. How her arms moved as her delicate, long fingers tenderly straightened the rumpled fabric. Moonlight gathered in the narrow waist revealed between the hem of her curled-up shirt and the see-through pants. As she arched her back slightly, it flowed downward. Round. Vivid. Tracing secret curves before clinging to her upright heel, as if gazing up at Cain.

That heel, that pretty pale foot, the dipped arch and tiny toes that kept curling—they'd fit in my palm. I could hold them with one hand.

Cain thought it without realizing. So he lay on the bed. On his side, facing the wall. The hard floorboards restored his stubborn reason. He understood a little why monks slept in such discomfort.

"Let's talk lying down. I'm beat."

That was all Cain said. He waited until Lily lay down and pulled the blanket over herself. He glanced at the door. His neatly folded clothes were there. She'd unfolded and refolded them. Despite the smell, she hadn't complained once.

On top of Cain's clothes lay Lily's. Tops with tops. Bottoms with bottoms. Clothes carrying their owners' scents and warmth overlapped.

Lily had done it on purpose, no doubt. Hidden by the blanket, Cain kept rubbing his palms against his collar. As if that would wipe away the warmth filling them.

* * * *

Cain explained what he'd seen to Lily. Beatings, bruises. Broken bones. The archbishop had it worst, but the guards weren't much better off.

"Wrists and ankles were a mess. Everyone's. Collarbones and solar plexus too. The bruise patterns scream 'sheathed sword strike.'"

"The guards probably ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠drew weapons. Wrists are prime targets in duels anyway. Whoever wielded the sheath didn't swing wildly."

"Yeah. Wrists all hit top-down to disarm and prevent rearming. Then collarbones and arms neutralized for total threat shutdown. Ankles… just to stop them running?"

Lily fell silent at Cain's question.

"Guards were likely armored. Well-trained soldiers can form a tight phalanx easily. Once wrists were hit, they'd block with their bodies… That's probably why the upper body got pummeled mercilessly. After they fell, ankles crushed to avoid interference."

It made sense. Unarmed personnel—monks, priests, servants—had crushed bones too, but not as brutally as the guards. If you could use such a metaphor for the injured, it was the difference between sand and gravel.

"There's more weird shit." Cain furrowed his brow.

"Bruises were intact, right? I could even guess the angle. Taller guards had darker bruises below the collarbone, shorter ones above. Strike angle and slope nearly identical."

Lily's breathing grew ragged. She understood the implication.

Cain nodded. "My take: one person did this. Strike method, angle, force, varying wound spots per guard… Considering imperial scabbard length, height's about mine. Victims confirmed it too—one guy, they said."

"One person… Hard to fathom."

"Tell me about it. Not your average joe, obviously. Asked if magic or sorcery; they all said yes. But no clue what."

"Tough question to answer precisely. But magic and sorcery… that's church jurisdiction, isn't it?"

True. The Security Bureau handled all crimes, but magic, sorcery, miracles, and heresy followed church rulings. Most were false claims anyway, kicked back to the empire.

"Yeah, but we don't know if it's fake or real. Let's skip that for now."

Lily didn't press. Instead, she summarized what she'd heard.

"Understood. So this unknown assailant… crushed resisters harder, and even non-resisters one by one—bones with the sheath, tongues pulled. Is that it?"

"Pretty much. Not the sheath for tongues, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠though."

"Strange. A sheath isn't a weapon."

Lily's voice brimmed with confusion. "It's not durable enough to shatter bones and joints of over fifty people. Not like a hammer or flail. And carrying multiples? Doesn't add up. Custom-made maybe?"

Cain wanted to smack his forehead. She was right. No scabbard could pulverize that many without breaking.

Idiot. How'd I miss that?

"Now that you say it… Metal ones exist, but who'd make a scabbard like that without custom order? Anyway, that's my haul: solo act, magic or sorcery, my height. Your side?"

"Nothing groundbreaking. Knights and monks knew little. So I dug into why the chaos erupted. But something didn't add up."

"Like what?" Cain lay flat. Side-lying was getting uncomfortable. Lily lay facing him.

"His Holiness the Pope already knew about this. Before us, at least."

Probably. Per Anna, first victim Abbot Arius was hit at least three months ago.

"Yet the handling here feels… sloppy, disorganized, panicked. Like they were totally unprepared. The church is known for simple systems and smooth hierarchy-driven processes—unlike the empire."

The church's secrecy was ironclad. Even the Imperial Guard couldn't crack it. The Pope wielded influence across nations; stealing their intel net would boost the empire's. But their closed, swift operations always thwarted them. Security Bureau and Guard alike.

Backed by rigid command and streamlined structure—the church's longevity secret. Organizationally, more stable than the empire.

Yet this mess? After already being hit once?

"Why? Figure it out?"

"Heretic Inquisitors and the southern Mercy Knight Order commander arrive tomorrow. Talking to them will clarify, but… I heard something odd. His Holiness plans to canonize the attacked heroes."

"What?"

Cain bolted upright. Unexpected.

Canonization. Declaring living people as eternal 'saints' in church memory. Saints were martyrs, miracle-workers, prophets who elevated the persecuted church near state religion.

But all posthumous. Never the living.

Lily sat up too. The blanket slipped, tugging her shirt shoulder down, nearly baring one breast. She didn't notice.

"A courier arrived. Abbot Bartholomeo was shocked. Said it doesn't make sense."

Cain lay back down.

Canonization process…?

Not church personnel, but Security Bureau gave him knowledge of their rival/ally.

To saint someone: rigorous verification. Spotless life? Every detail from birth scrutinized.

"…Big trouble."

"Something click?"

"Canonization's a fancy word for… digging up everything on William and the heroes from the roots. Legally comb through one life entirely. Meaning…"

Silence pooled between them. A cup that refilled endlessly unless drunk.

Cain clenched his fist.

"The Seven Heroes hid something from the church. Something even His Holiness didn't know. He only learned recently."