A Year for Each Other
A Year for Each Other
By the time Isabella left the Holy Nation, she had already settled into her second winter in Mikel's workshop. Day after day, she threw herself fervently into her now-blossoming talent, painting even as she cut back on sleep.
The familiar rhythm of a knock.
Mikel had come to check on Isabella, who had been working through the night as she did every night. The moment the door opened, there stood Mikel with a kindly smile, carrying up the desserts Isabella loved.
"My worthless disciple, making her master run errands."
His words were harsh, but a smile lingered at the corners of his mouth. After all, what master wouldn't be pleased to see a young disciple striving so diligently every single day?
And yet, Mikel couldn't be entirely pleased. Isabella was pushing her body to the point of strain, utterly engrossed in her work.
"...If you push yourself that hard at your age, you won't grow up to be a fine adult, Isabella. Staying up all night when you should be growing tall isn't good for your development. This is advice I'm giving you as an adult, before I say it as your master."
Mikel had brought the cake and coffee that Isabella loved. Still, he himself had lived exactly the same way at her age. Pressing her any harder than this would have been nothing but hypocrisy.
"...Thank you. But if I don't do at least this much, I won't be able to keep the promise I made to my friends. I'll indulge my stubbornness just a little longer — only until I'm satisfied, Master."
Her tousled hair was matted in clumps. Her worn apron was spattered with paint in several places, and her hands were filthy with graphite. Dark circles had settled deep beneath her eyes. Isabella sat painting, looking less like a girl and more like the undead.
Of course, all artists lived like that, so it wasn't strange. But it was hardly a good look on a child.
"...And if you go around that unkempt, you'll never find a husband."
He offered Isabella the advice, thick with teasing.
At those words, Isabella bristled and shot back.
"Haha! As if that could happen! I may not be a beauty on the level of Canaria or Rosaria, but this unworthy Isabella can confidently boast to you, Master, that I fall well within the bounds of being fairly pretty myself, you know? And on top of that, a girl that pretty with world-class artistic skill? That's truly unstoppable, Master!"
"Ahaha!" Isabella laughed as she answered her master.
"...Your self-esteem is admirable, but you're a sight to behold, my disciple."
"Still, you were the one who teased this genius painter beauty first, Master. A beauty of my caliber dressing up would be a crime, you see. Living this grubbily right now is just giving everyone else a fair chance— Ow! That hurts, Master!"
Mikel, finding it increasingly difficult to listen to Isabella's nonsense any longer, gifted her a sharp rap on the head with his knuckles.
"...Enough of that nonsense. All I wanted to tell you is that I'm simply worried about you. I'd like to tell you that there's no need to push yourself so hard already, but... as you say, my unworthy disciple won't listen to a word I say, so I grew curious about the reason and came bearing bribes."
Isabella had already polished off the bribe (or what had been the bribe) with relish. The combination of sweet cake and bitter coffee was simply too potent. It was more than enough to loosen the tongue of a well-fed young artist who had succumbed to corruption.
"...May I ask why you're trying to succeed so quickly? It's good to have a fierce drive as an artist, but... I'm curious about the reason you're working so hard, to the point of harming your body."
Mikel had seen many disciples come and go. But there had been few like Isabella, who from a young age ran with her eyes fixed on the sky. That was all Mikel was curious about. What kind of sky had she glimpsed, to make her strive so desperately?
"...It's because of my friends. To stay beside Rosaria and Canaria, I had this intuition that I needed to become better than I am now. You might not know this well, Master, but I've spent nearly my whole life with those two. I know exactly how special they are."
They were two brilliantly shining girls.
Like the sun and the moon, Rosaria and Canaria were beings of dazzling radiance. And Isabella had lived her life gazing at those beings. She knew that she, too, possessed a light of her own — but she had realized it wasn't a light anywhere near that bright.
She simply wanted to be worthy of standing beside them. To remain at the side of the sun and the moon, wouldn't she need to be at least a small star? That was her thinking.
"Rosaria is definitely going to become someone important in the Holy Nation. She was a child with that kind of light. How should I put it... Yes, the Saintess! Rosaria was the kind of child who felt like she'd become something like the Saintess and stand at the very top of the Holy Nation."
So saying, Isabella painted the picture before her eyes — Working Title: Rose of the Holy Nation. For the past several days, Isabella had been rendering the Rosaria she remembered onto paper as faithfully as she could, coloring her beautifully.
"And Canaria, too... she was the kind of child who'd probably be good at anything, really. She excelled at whatever you asked her to do. She'd read difficult books with ease, recite verses from the Sacred Scripture, handle physical tasks, and she was even quite good at drawing — good enough to hold her own as a second-rate or first-rate artist, at least. Canaria was a child with the talent to become first-rate in every field."
When they had entered the convent together, everyone had looked up to those two. She remembered seeing people even nickname them the Golden Rose and the Black Knight behind their backs, gazing at them with admiration. Those two were such brilliantly shining beings.
"But I wasn't on that level. I didn't have the talent to take up a profession befitting a child of the Holy Nation. So I made up my mind to pour everything into brushwork — the one talent I do have. I wanted to become a master artist, like you, Master — someone important enough that the Pope of the Holy Nation would commission work directly — so that I could stay beside Rosaria, who might become the Saintess, and Canaria, who would be guarding her side."
Hadn't they made a promise before she left this place? That the three of them would walk through life together forever. It was just that Isabella, whose talents lay in a different direction from theirs, was starting from a slightly more distant place... but in the end, all paths converged — Mallyu Guijong. Someday, when time had passed, they would laugh and chatter together again, and share precious moments just as they had back then. That was what she believed.
"So that's why I keep burning the one talent I have, like this. With the thought that if I'm going to reach the sun and the moon, I'll need to be at least a star like you, Master."
While others were awake, she moved just the same as them. And when others fell asleep, she pushed forward a little further. Because that was the only desperate struggle a girl who wished to become a star could make.
And at that answer, Mikel simply found his disciple admirable.
For there was no one more noble than a person who lived for friendship.
"That aside, the anatomy is a little off here, Isabella."
"Wah! It's true! Wait, how did I miss this? For the super-genius beauty painter Isabella to make such a historic blunder!"
"Gyaaah!" Isabella shrieked, clutching her head.
"...In that case, this master is off to bed."
Mikel thought to himself that he had taken on a noisy but entertaining disciple. And now that he knew the reason his foolish disciple was pushing herself so hard, he decided he would yield to her stubbornness after all, and descended the stairs.
Because it was impossible to break the stubbornness of a human who wished to become a star shining in the sky. Mikel was not the sort of person to lecture Isabella, who lived exactly as he himself did. His only wish was for his disciple to enjoy a full, happy life without regrets.
"Ugh... I was messing around and the paint dripped again."
If it had been daytime, she would have fainted.
But now it was the late hours of early dawn. So all Isabella could do was beat her chest inwardly and curse the red paint that had struck the wrong spot and was now dripping down Rosaria's portrait.
"...Ominously, why does it have to flow from the eye?"
The red paint she had dabbed onto her brush to color the jewels of the crown had been poorly thinned, and now it was streaming down from Rosaria's eye like bloody tears.
It was a painting she had worked on quite diligently, so discarding it was out of the question. Swallowing her tears, Isabella simply changed the title and concept of the work she had been painting.
Not yet knowing that Rosaria had become the Saintess, Isabella titled it The Rose of the Holy Nation Shedding Tears of Blood and began painting a portrait of Rosaria with blood streaming from her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Rosaria. I'll definitely paint you pretty and proper next time!"
Offering an apology that would never reach her.
*
It had been a year like hell.
A life exactly as Erika had warned. The brutal torture and abuse continued without end. Had Erika not been there, Rosaria's spirit might well have broken.
"Haaah.... haaah...."
The searing pain across her back, as though flames had been set upon it, would not fade. From where the whip had struck, her torn flesh continued to weep blood. But that was not all.
"...What a pitiful sight."
Bruises, wounds, and even bloody tears streaming from her eyes. The figure was far too dark for a girl who bore the name of Saintess. The impact of the whip had burst the capillaries in her eyes as well, and the bloody tears kept flowing down Rosaria's cheeks, dripping into the water she had gathered to wash her face and staining it red.
"...Still, I have to pull myself together, don't I."
It was a life so agonizing it felt like madness. But Rosaria had a supporter named Erika at her side. At the very least, she had a mentor who kept advising her and guiding her so that she wouldn't lose her mind and wouldn't forget that very first goal.
But Canaria wouldn't have that, would she.
She would be locked up somewhere in a basement, being tortured continuously. For the sake of the Pope's grotesque bullshit scheme to create a Demon King, the being she loved without end would suffer without respite.
When she thought of Canaria, who would have to endure that torture all alone with no one's words reaching her, the torture Rosaria herself was enduring now felt like nothing.
And at the same time, a pain greater than the torture she'd just suffered began to bloom from her chest as if bursting into flame. Onto that crimson road traced with tears of blood, the leaden weight of a heart bearing an even redder agony began to spill down.
Just then, Rosaria caught sight of her own reflection in the mirror. That shadow she had once seen on Canaria on their very first day at the orphanage—pitifully, it now fell over Rosaria as well.
'...Canaria is a demon?'
At least, not in Rosaria's eyes. The demons were the rotten upper classes of the current Holy Kingdom. Those sons of bitches who tortured her and stole away the person she loved.
Thanks to them, Rosaria was able to realize something.
That she, too, was a person who could burn with rage and harbor a vulgar, murderous intent just like anyone else.
"...Canaria, I'll definitely save you."
Rosaria finished looking at the mirror. Before long, she saw an illusion of Canaria on the surface of the water stained with her own blood. Then she pressed her lips to it, cursing this world that tormented her in her heart.
Resolving to burn it all to ashes with a flame redder than blood.
*
"...You really do show up with tiresome consistency."
The demon hanging from the cross sneered expressionlessly at the man.
The man's name was Francesco. He had fallen out of the Pope's favor and been dispatched so that, should Canaria go berserk, he would be the first to die—using his death to alert them to the rampage. He was a tool-like human, worse off than a condemned prisoner.
"...I've said it many times, but if I don't do at least this much, it feels as though I can't atone."
Francesco stood before Canaria with cold ice, a towel, and clean water. Then he opened the prison door, stepped inside, and prayed for Canaria.
After finishing the short prayer, Francesco opened his mouth.
"...I don't think you're a demon. My daughter used to talk about you all the time, after all. That's why, just as it's written in the scriptures, I'm simply showing mercy to a good person who's been wrongfully imprisoned."
Though fallen, he had once been a cardinal. Until he finally reached his breaking point and openly criticized the Pope's corruption with a sharp rebuke, he had lived as a cardinal of this Holy Kingdom.
And his daughter, following in that path, had also entered a convent as a member of the Holy Kingdom, dreaming of becoming a nun.
That was when she learned the name of a nun named Canaria. The one with black hair and golden eyes, the symbol of demons—the Black Knight of the convent. The knight who swatted away the insects that swarmed around the rose named Rosaria. His daughter's eyes had sparkled as she sang the praises of their friendship.
So how could the Saintess's friend possibly be a demon?
"...Regrettably, I am indeed a demon."
"...A demon in spirit, not in body."
Just as he always did, Francesco wrapped ice in the towel and pressed it to Canaria's face as her temperature rose. Because when you're beaten or tortured, your body runs hot.
Even though he couldn't bring himself to stop the torture, he wanted to at least give her this brief respite once it was over.
Then, carefully wiping the blood-soaked face of Canaria, he asked her bluntly.
"...If you want water, say so."
They both knew Francesco's actions were hypocrisy.
But if he didn't do at least this much, Francesco felt as though he was committing a sin so vile it could never be forgiven—so he was simply atoning in his own way.
Of course, he knew this act was meaningless. When rain falls, you ought to hold an umbrella over someone; what Francesco was doing now was the foolish act of standing in that rain alongside her.
"...Is it really acceptable for a priest of the Holy Kingdom to bring tribute to a demon every single day like this? You'd be branded a heretic and killed, you know."
Canaria furrowed her brow and sneered at him. Whether she did or not, Francesco simply continued his own private act of atonement.
"...Dying doesn't matter. I've already lost everything. Still, when the time comes to die, I want to die as a man who held his pride, who fulfilled his own sense of justice."
The Pope had charged him with the sin of blasphemy and had Francesco's entire family executed right before his eyes. He had already passed the worst possible sentence upon him—to remain alive and bear that sin.
"So please, indulge for just a little while this twisted dream of an idealist who would rather die as a righteous man than live as a dog of the defiled Holy Kingdom. It may be hypocrisy as you think, but good is still good, is it not."
Francesco pulled away the towel, now filthy with blood.
As expected, the girl before his eyes had the appearance of a being you could never call a demon. She was simply a girl who loved her benefactor—that was all.
"...You're enjoying your own little play, I see."
"Sadly, my audience is already dead. Still, having survived in this wretched state, I must keep dancing, even if alone. Because if I don't, I'll end up living that craven life those pieces of trash want of me."
It was the smooth-talking excuse of a failure. The shape of a man who had grown twisted, like a tree that had grown bent where it was broken. And yet, reaching toward the sky was no different.
Somehow, that figure seemed sublime. More than the current Pope, the man before her eyes was the one who truly deserved that crown.
Canaria, who had watched that figure for a long time, opened her mouth to use this man in her own plan.
"......Then, would you not form a contract with me?"
By now, Canaria had swallowed over fifty demons.
Drawing close to becoming the Demon King, her words already carried weight. And the word 'contract' she had just spoken was, among demons, a binding pact that must be kept.
"...Though I have fallen, I was once a cardinal of the Holy Kingdom. I have no intention of living a life shameful enough to enter a contract with a demon. However... if it is not a contract but a promise, I'll hear it out and give it some thought."
Because 'contract' was a word of demons, but 'promise' was a word of humans.
Believing that a shred of humanity still remained within Canaria, Francesco was saying that he could at the very least make a promise—human being to human being.
"...If you grant me my request, Francesco, on the day the Holy Kingdom falls, I will spare your life. And I promise you the right to become the first Pope of the new paradise I will create. How does that sound? Does it pique your interest?"
"When the gain is great, the price tends to be just as great... What could you possibly want to stake such an enormous promise on?"
Even at the Demon King's declaration that she would destroy the Holy Kingdom, he was not surprised. If anything, it was because deep down he had been wishing for it. The Holy Kingdom was already a filthy nation that had forgotten its holiness, after all.
Better that it be destroyed and rebuilt anew.
"...Please, tell me news of Rosaria. And tell her news of me as well. And until I leave this place, make sure she doesn't die—stop it by any means necessary. If you keep just these three things, I will make you the first Pope of paradise."
It was a desperate request from Canaria. Because what tormented her now was not the pain of torture but the negative thoughts and hallucinations born of not hearing any news of Rosaria—that was the primary cause.
"...Contrary to your worries, the Saintess won't die. No matter how much of a garbage dump the Holy Kingdom is, they wouldn't recklessly kill a Saintess who's so difficult to produce. In that case, it seems I'm fortunate enough to only have to play the very easy role of a messenger pigeon."
A Saintess was their strength. No matter how much they trampled and persecuted her, the Holy Kingdom had maintained its warped structure—incapable of sustaining itself without a Saintess—for far, far too long. Regrettably, they were in the middle of lashing the very pillar that held them up.
"...I promise. On the name of a family long vanished, on this worthless life of mine, and on the honor of a believer whose faith has not yet faded—I will grant your request."
Give your water to those thirstier than you.
Give your bread to those hungrier than you.
And as long as you live in soundness of body, heed the sincere requests of those who live in injustice.
...Because Francesco had not forgotten that passage of scripture.
He was merely granting the request not of a demon, but of a wronged human being—Canaria. Because she herself had called it not a contract, but a promise. On that day, within the Holy Kingdom, Francesco became the only person other than Rosaria to know that the Demon King before his eyes possessed a human heart.
.......And so, just as the parting of Canaria and Rosaria had been sudden, their reunion was equally sudden as well.
It was the day two months later, when Canaria swallowed the final demon—Baal.