To Those Who Know the Saint's Secret
To Those Who Know the Saint's Secret
The manifested divine power began to form a colossal barrier. A barrier that precisely enveloped the entire area where the heretic army was stationed. It looked like a golden cradle embracing them.
"From this moment onward, entry to this place shall be forbidden."
A formal tone heavy with solemnity.
At those words, the Holy Knight Commander and several priests tensed up. The Saintess's attitude, so different from her usual self, meant she was issuing a strict command.
As members of the Holy Kingdom, there was no one who would hear such a strict command from the Saintess and dare to ignore it. So everyone obeyed her order and waited outside the enormous cradle.
As soon as the Saintess placed her hand upon the barrier, its surface rippled. Soon after, the Saintess who entered could no longer be seen.
'A barrier of separation and concealment, then.'
It was a barrier that seemed to carry the intent that what lay inside must not be shown. What in the world was she planning to do in there, to conceal it to this extent?
But no one asked.
For sometimes, this world was filled with things one was better off not knowing. As members of the Holy Kingdom, no one had any intention of committing the outrage of reading the hidden stories behind the scriptures.
They simply stood there like blocks of wood, awaiting the Saintess's return. After all, no one here wished to become a frog killed by a stone thrown out of idle curiosity.
*
The Holy Kingdom was not the only one to perceive the barrier being cast. The heretic army also perceived it, and they began to react immediately.
Of course, not everyone reacted the same way. The result of a binary choice could never be identical for all. Some would try to resist, while others, in despair, could only pray.
And across that battlefield, the Saintess was walking.
'...This is why I despise insects.'
Because no matter how many you trample, they crawl out from somewhere to torment you. Even though the world had certainly been changed once, these vermin were crawling out from somewhere yet again to torment her.
'Rosaria, I will return shortly.'
Surely, she too would be feeling this same sense of loss. This hollow feeling, as if a hole had been punched through her chest, had come over her most unpleasantly. Knowing that Rosaria would also be feeling this same unpleasant emptiness, the Saintess's mind could not be filled with anything other than the thought of returning quickly.
How many died—from now on, such things could not enter her mind. The lives of meaningless insects were of less value than the possibility of this hollow feeling Rosaria might be experiencing.
It was only natural that the sounds of blathering from far away did not reach her.
Then, at last, the bowstrings were released. A rain of arrows poured down like a shower. The Saintess did not so much as blink and walked past them.
And then a miracle unfolded.
The arrows lost their form in an instant. As if they had never existed there in the first place.
Everyone who had shot those arrows at the risk of their own lives was bewildered. At that moment, the archer who had loosed his bowstring first screamed at the foreign sensation. For some reason, the arrow he had shot toward the saint was embedded in his own right eye.
He let out a scream that seemed fit to tear the heavens apart from the pain.
And that was the beginning of the miracle. Arrows began embedding themselves in the right eyes of every archer. Soon after, the Saintess opened her mouth and recited a passage of scripture to the heretics.
"...May your wounds fester and rot."
The archers began to rot alive. The attacks of ordinary people who had not touched the truth could not reach the Saintess even without her lifting a finger.
What became visible next were figures holding spears and swords.
Then, the general leading them shouted.
"I shall command the soldiers! The Sultan himself said that the Saint has blonde hair and dark gray eyes! Therefore, do not be afraid, for this one is not the Saint! Clearly, the Holy Kingdom is playing some trick!"
For some reason, the general's voice rang out clearly. The Saintess's expression, which had remained utterly unfazed even under the pouring rain of arrows, twisted ever so slightly at that single statement.
'...As I thought, I suspected someone might know.'
So at least their king knew. And regrettably, he had informed his entire army. This was nothing short of an annoyance. Because now, she had no choice but to kill them all.
"In any case, I did not come here as a saint today."
A saint did not possess the authority to directly stop a holy war. For war was the very foundation of humanity, its beginning and its end. God had not granted a saint the right to halt it directly.
But the Canaria of this moment was, for a certain reason, no longer a saint.
"...I shall command all those who know the Saint's secret."
Canaria whispered, infusing her words with the Word Spirit. Though it was a faint whisper, it echoed in the ears of everyone on this battlefield. And so, the moment all were made to submit to her Word Spirit—
The corner of the former Saintess's mouth twisted.
"Take your own lives."
The moment the command fell, every heretic drew the dagger from their waist. Soon after, screaming in agony and terror, they began stabbing themselves in the heart, the head, or the throat.
A command that could never be considered the order of a saint.
But accepting it had nothing to do with validity. It was an absolute command, so its execution came before one could ponder it, acknowledge it, or refute it.
And so, with a single word from Canaria, the army began to be annihilated.
Of course, not everyone took their own lives. On the contrary, there were those who showed a struggle to resist the command laid down by her Word Spirit with all their might.
"You possess remarkable mental fortitude."
They had managed to erase the command to some degree through their own conviction. The scriptures had occasionally recorded the existence of such beings. Commands did not work well on those who had pledged their lives in loyalty to another existence.
"Then, I shall command once more to those who have not yet taken their own lives."
She decided to grant the mercy of rest to those in suffering.
"From now on, kill all those who cannot take their own lives, and then take your own."
Of course, the option of being spared did not exist. For they had come to know a truth they must not. She would simply make them carry that secret to hell itself through the most certain method of exterminating every last one of them.
The moment that command fell, pandemonium erupted.
The sight of them striking and grappling each other, resisting death. The spears and swords of comrades who had been allies until the day before clashed, as each began trying to send the person before their eyes to hell first.
Yet Canaria did not stop.
Her steps toward the Sultan, who must not yet be dead, did not halt.
But at that moment, someone grabbed Canaria's ankle. Even as their breath was fading, they blocked her so she could not go to their lord.
Then, they spat out a dying resentment.
"Why... is one called a saint... doing something so cruel?"
Their face showed genuine incomprehension. No matter that they were heretics, this pandemonium was a scene of carnage far exceeding what they believed could be the command of one called the noble Saint.
"...Do I appear to be a saint to you right now?"
A question laced with mockery. Since they were soon to die anyway, a soul about to descend to hell for the sin of suicide under the saint's command—
She uttered what could only be called the gravest blasphemy.
"No. You're a demon."
The heretic died, blaspheming the saint to the very end. But Canaria did not deny those words.
"...Half is correct."
Canaria answered with a bitter smile.
The heretic heard the confirmation of the former saint just before death. And with the last moments of life remaining, they wanted to ask her one thing.
If not a demon, then what exactly are you?
*
Isabella could not rise from her chair, having burned herself entirely blank. And Rosaria, examining her work, was inwardly marveling.
'...How would I have made these without Isabella?'
With the help of the high-spec designer Isabella, the illustration designs for about forty cards had been finished in a single day. If she had not been there, the cards would have been born into this world as a white-eyed, blue-skinned worm and a white stickman wizard.
But thanks to the touch of the great artist Isabella, they were born into this world as a badass blue-eyed white dragon and a White Magician.
'As for the name of the game... simple really is best.'
It would have been a bit strange to use the word "King" in a medieval setting. So she used the three components that made up the game—magic, traps, and monsters—and inserted them directly into the name.
Certainly, the company that made this game would have sued for plagiarism if they saw it. But since that company had not been born yet, Rosaria was free from lawsuits. Her original TCG, Monster and Magic, Trap, was complete.
"So... are you pleased with them... Lady Rosaria?"
Isabella, who had half-lost consciousness, was asking if she liked her works.
"Yes, it's perfect. Isabella."
It wasn't empty flattery; it was genuine. The illustrations were so dynamic and lifelike they seemed like they might start moving. Even to the untrained eyes of a non-art major, Rosaria thought they might be worthy of being ranked among masterpieces.
'...Just what kind of people are the artists of the medieval era?'
She was curious about the identity of the monsters that Isabella, a human printer who could design her own work, dismissed herself as a mere ordinary person in comparison to. But after thinking about it, it wasn't incomprehensible when you looked at the famous paintings of medieval artists.
Just look at Leonardo da Vinci or Michelangelo. They were people of the past, yet was their skill not on par with today's artists? It was the Middle Ages, where no trickery was possible; perhaps it was simply crawling with monsters who had reached the ultimate arts of humanity.
To Rosaria's eyes, Isabella was a top-tier artist of that very same caliber. It seemed like a talent too precious to be wasted working here as a maid.
"Isabella, would it be alright if I made you a proposal?"
So she extended a proposal to Isabella, who had just proven herself. But regrettably, Isabella was not in her right mind at the moment. The instant the deadline was met, she had become a broken clockwork doll.
"...Shall we think about it after having something delicious first?"
But even in such a state, Isabella was fundamentally Isabella. The resurrection spell to wake her was, unsurprisingly, delicious food.
"Hehe... thank you..."
Isabella was like a wrecked art student eating a late-night snack after pulling an all-nighter. Even so, the education of neatness engraved into her subconscious made her observe proper courtesy even when she was utterly spent.
For the first time in her life, Rosaria saw a completely wrecked person eat politely.
After spending about ten minutes devouring the dessert, Rosaria even fed her holy water, thinking it might help if her throat was dry or aid in her recovery, making an effort to return her to humanity.
Isabella succeeded in returning to humanity.
"I apologize for showing you such a disgraceful display!"
Though she slammed her head down the moment she came back.
"It's fine. It was my fault for pushing you to work so unreasonably, so please don't blame yourself too much."
Once she had calmed her down, Rosaria seated Isabella back at the negotiation table.
"Would you like to sign an exclusive contract with me?"
"I... I'm not sure I understand what you mean."
Isabella looked like she didn't quite grasp what was being said. She was already a maid of this household, so she couldn't comprehend Rosaria's words about making another contract. Or perhaps her mind just wasn't working properly yet.
"Even I am aware of Isabella's background. At least, the fact that you need a lot of money."
Isabella had been the eldest daughter who left home to become an artist. And when she returned home after failing, many things had already changed. In the end, Isabella, burdened with the responsibility of supporting her younger siblings, had neatly folded away her second chance at her dream and applied to be a maid at House Versian.
Because being a maid provided food and lodging for free.
Having become the head of the family, Isabella was even cutting down on her own meals to single-handedly afford the childcare expenses for her siblings left at the Holy Kingdom's care facility—or so Rosaria had heard from the head maid today.
"So, I wish to appoint such an Isabella as the exclusive designer for my business. Of course, this doesn't mean you should quit your job as a maid. It's more of a side job. You would do both, receiving your maid's salary from my father, and your designer's salary from me."
Thinking about it, there was no one more perfect for this role than Isabella. She had the skill, and they had a connection. Plus, she was someone Rosaria could speak to easily, and being the same age made things less awkward. On top of that, she had a definite reason she couldn't quit and the willpower to follow through on it.
Wasn't she the perfect designer, with the best possible conditions?
"That... that means, so..."
Isabella still seemed unable to accept it fully. So Rosaria told her the essence of this story.
"That's right. I want you, Isabella, to draw pictures again."
The moment she heard those words, Isabella's eyes welled up with tears. They were probably tears born from thinking of the failures she had endured. And also tears born from realizing that those failures had not been meaningless.
"I... I will draw with all my might, Lady Rosaria!"
Isabella's heartfelt gratitude for giving her the chance to challenge her dream once more echoed through the room.
"For you, my lady, I will draw anything, for the rest of my life!"
As if swearing an Oath of Fealty, Isabella wept and pressed her head to the floor in a deep bow, taking the vow. It was the day the Rosaria Company gained its very first exclusive designer.