Chapter 207: Turning a Blind Eye-5
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 207: Turning a Blind Eye-5
Though he didn't say a word, the Saint was flustered.
His eyes, wavering uncontrollably, were proof enough.
"What is the matter? Did you expect the sword to glow?"
The Pope sneered as he looked at the Saint.
As if unable to believe it, the Saint looked back and forth between the blade and his own hand.
"The crime of impersonating a Saint."
Was this truly the same Pope who had worn such a genial smile?
The sheer arrogance and mockery in his tone yanked the Saint out of the sea of his own thoughts, like a fish caught on a hook.
"You look quite shaken."
The Saint quickly tried to fix his expression in the face of the Pope’s blatant condescension, but it was like closing the stable door after the horse had bolted.
Instinctively, the Saint gripped his knife tighter.
"You didn't think I'd have no way to protect myself, did you?"
The Pope spoke with an air of leisure, noting the Saint’s right hand, which was white-knuckled with tension.
"If you don't believe me, feel free to test me. You seem to take quite a bit of pride in your fighting skills, so go ahead and try."
"You think I won't?"
The Saint could only growl. He felt a chilling sense of certainty emanating from the Pope's eyes.
He intended to hurl the knife at the Pope. But before he could even execute the thought, a thick, viscous killing intent seemed to seize him by the scruff of the neck from somewhere unseen.
‘Someone is here.’
An opponent whose victory he couldn't guarantee even when he inhabited his body as the Heavenly Demon’s disciple.
The Saint thought of the Commander of the Holy Knights, a man who boasted a massive, imposing frame.
"I like that expression much better. It’s... more human, shall we say?"
The Pope spoke as he poured himself a glass of wine. The crimson liquid trickled into the glass with a soft gurgle.
The old fox gazed contentedly at the ripples in that small, swaying sea.
"This would only prove the Order is so incompetent that it can't even distinguish a fake Saint, wouldn't it?"
The Saint spoke, having regained his composure.
It was an attack armed with its own logic, but to the old Pope, it seemed duller than a wooden sword used by children playing soldier.
"I wonder. How about this? 'After returning from Madini Village, the Saint began to act strange.' Something like that?"
"What?"
"We could explain that while you were the Saint until then, a certain incident occurred in Madini Village, and a wicked devil took over the Saint’s body and began to mimic him."
"Who would believe that the Saint was defeated by a wicked devil?"
"The ends of several holy people were exactly like that. They sacrificed themselves to defeat devils or heretics. Why should a Saint be any different? Moreover, for a Saint who isn't even properly described in the Scripture, it’s even easier to make up stories."
"Do you think people will believe that so easily?"
The Saint squeezed the words out, and the Pope laughed.
He chuckled as he raised his glass. Even as he swallowed the wine, his eyes remained fixed on the Saint.
"There is no need to convince people. One only needs the power to make them believe."
Clink. He set the glass down on the table with indifference, as if teaching a lesson.
He wagged a finger, pointing at the Saint in a most irreverent manner.
"The Saint’s whereabouts are unknown. He may be imprisoned somewhere, or he may have already ascended to heaven."
"The important thing is that we have captured the devil who harmed the Saint."
The Pope slowly rose from his seat. With every step he took, the Saint’s heart vibrated in his chest.
The old man stood behind the young Saint. He reached out and patted the Saint’s shoulders twice.
As if telling him to cheer up.
"Even if people don't believe it... if I am the real Saint, you are committing a grave sin."
The Saint played his final card as if in a desperate struggle, and the Pope gripped the Saint’s shoulders firmly.
He slowly leaned down, bringing his face close to the Saint’s ear.
"If you were the real Saint... you wouldn't have been surprised when the sword didn't glow, would you?"
He whispered in a very low voice.
"What?"
As if struck in a vital point, the Saint froze where he sat.
"Actually, that sword is a fake. It only mimics the appearance of the holy relic. Even if the true Saint came, he wouldn't be able to make that sword glow."
"What matters is your reaction—how surprised you were when it didn't glow. A true Saint would have doubted the sword. Because he would have been certain of his own identity."
"Reattaching a severed head? Well. Human memory is prone to severe distortion and exaggeration. Besides, didn't you use Luminescent Candles to fake a miracle before you were arrested by the Inquisitors? I suspect you used a similar trick. Perhaps you used a body double for the execution, or perhaps you are a double for the one who was executed."
"Whatever the case, it doesn't matter," the Pope added.
"In the first place, how could someone who knows nothing of the Scripture or the Doctrine be the Saint? Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
The weight on the Saint’s shoulders grew heavier and heavier.
The Pope pulled his face away from the Saint’s ear. He patted the Saint’s shoulder a couple more times as if finishing up.
The Pope headed straight for the exit of the dining room.
"Are you not afraid of God?"
The Saint, listening blankly to the receding footsteps, spoke with a face full of spite.
At those words, the Pope turned around with an incredulous expression.
"There is no God, 'Saint'—sir."
"If you want to keep your life, please continue to act as you have been. As the benevolent and kind Saint to everyone."
"Do you think I'm afraid of dying?"
"Then how about this? If you keep acting in a way that defies my expectations, I will start by taking the heads of your attendants."
"......."
The Saint fell silent at the Pope's words.
Thinking he had struck the Saint’s most painful spot, the Pope smiled broadly.
"So, please watch your behavior."
The Pope turned back around and headed out of the dining room.
"This is a warning as the Pope."
With a polite bow, the Pope left the room.
For a long while, the Saint could not leave the table, staring only at his own knees.
"Fuck...."
A low murmur filled with resentment represented his state of mind.
*
One month.
The Saint faithfully carried out his schedule.
He attended meals with nobles and performed relief work without a single complaint.
He always treated people with a benevolent face and helped them with an inexhaustible kindness.
Everyone sang praises, calling the Saint a gift from God.
However, the more they did, the more the Saint’s face hardened behind his mask, and the deeper Maria’s worries grew as she watched him from his side.
Since the Saint’s behavior had changed after she caught him masturbating, Maria believed the responsibility lay with her.
Every night, she offered prayers of repentance, wishing for the Saint’s mood to return to normal as soon as possible.
Into this stagnant daily routine, something arrived to stir the waters.
An errand boy had come with news of Antonio's family.