A mage slapped the saintess.
A mage slapped the saintess.
In front of the makeshift relief station stood about ten people lying on the ground. Some missing arms, others missing legs. Their wounds varied, but all were critical injuries teetering on the brink of life and death. The lightly wounded formed lines, waiting their turn for treatment. Holy power bloomed in blue light from the priests' hands, filling flesh and stitching torn skin back together. It was a miracle utterly inexplicable by modern science—truly the work of a god.
But the process wasn't as smooth as it appeared. Channeling holy power to heal someone drained tremendous stamina. The more severe the wound, the more power it required, leaving exhaustion etched on the faces of those treating even the minor injuries. And the saintess was no exception. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. Yet she didn't stop. True to her title, she sacrificed her own body to heal the patients.
The problem was that her efforts were pointless.
"Please... please...!"
Golden holy power blossomed from the saintess's hands—a pure, noble hue granted only to her. Befitting her epithet as God's proxy, her holy power far surpassed that of ordinary priests. People said it could even save those on the verge of death. Even Franz, who despised the saintess, had to agree. After all, it was she who had saved him when he lay dying after clashing with the Demon King.
But that only applied to those still clinging to life. No proxy of God could revive the already dead.
"Why... why...!"
The holy power blooming from her hands failed to absorb into the patient and scattered into the air. The patient was already gone. The surrounding priests knew it. Only the saintess refused to accept reality.
She couldn't give up. Again and again, she summoned holy power. Sweat dripped from her forehead. Blood beaded from her nose and fell in drops. The priests tried to dissuade her but couldn't press too hard. How could mere believers question God's proxy?
That was where Franz stepped in. Having partied with the hero's group for so long—and being the one who always fought back without hesitation—it gave the priests the conviction they needed. With all eyes on him, Franz rubbed his forehead.
I get it to some extent, he thought. But damn, can't things ever go smoothly?
A saintess was, by definition, someone who sacrificed herself for others. Her current frenzy was just desperate thrashing to save a life—hardly something to condemn. The issue was how deeply that ideology had taken root. Ideals remained ideals precisely because they couldn't be realized.
Haa—. Franz let out a deep sigh and stepped forward. Ignoring the priests' gazes wasn't ideal either.
Soon, his hand gripped the saintess's shoulder.
"That's enough. You know it's no use."
"...I can do it."
She summoned holy power again. But the brilliant gold scattered uselessly into the void. Franz narrowed his eyes. Multiple people had told her the same thing already—was she just stubborn?
Words wouldn't cut it anymore. Franz grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. She thrashed, shaking off his grip. Bloodshot eyes glared at him with sharp fury.
"What do you know to interfere?! Do you want to take another life? Why can't you stand not killing people?!"
"Is it my fault that person's dead? And yeah, I'd love to just leave a blockhead like you alone. But if you're gonna be stubborn, at least don't drag others down with you."
"How can you give up so easily? Are lives unrelated to you that worthless? If you're going to weigh them on scales, why not play God yourself?! Fine!! Then I'll die soon too! My life must be lighter than a feather to you!"
Slap!
Fed up, Franz backhanded her cheek. Her head snapped around at tremendous speed.
"S-Saintess?!"
"Are you alright?!"
Shocked voices rose from the priests. The saintess was the church's most sacred being. Naturally, murmurs rippled through the crowd at the sight of her struck. But Franz, seething with anger, didn't hear a thing.
The saintess turned her head back, glaring at him. Then—ptui—she spat out a small white clump. A tooth.
Franz flinched for a moment, but he was in too deep to stop now. Might as well fix her mindset while he was at it.
"Back to your senses? Listen when people talk. Quit being so damn stubborn."
She bit her lower lip, clenching her fists. She wasn't one to stay quiet out of fear, so at least she'd heard him. Silence hung between them, and Franz belatedly noticed the situation. From villagers to priests, everyone stared. He was the only one left looking foolish, having shouldered the blame.
Right or wrong, the intervener never had it easy. Franz scratched his head awkwardly.
"Priests, please take the saintess and let her rest. She looks wiped."
"B-But I...!"
"Just go cool off. We'll handle things here."
The saintess fell silent. She knew better than anyone her condition was dire. Soon, paladins escorted her away. Watching them go, Franz reached into the small pouch at his waist.
Is it really a dispatched mage's job to go this far? he wondered. But since I'm here, might as well do something.
"Anyone heard of elixir? One sip and new flesh sprouts right up. No joke—it's real."
Elixir, grape flavor. Stolen from the Demon King's castle. Effect: full HP recovery. Comes in cherry flavor too.
* * * * *
On a hill overlooking the village, the saintess stared at the panorama with unfocused eyes. Most buildings had been repaired, but they were still far from pristine. The sight dredged up memories of her childhood.
Back then, the only intact structure in her village was a tiny chapel. Young Justia lived with her parents. Her father was a tenant farmer working a noble's land, crushed by heavy taxes that left the family starving despite his daily toil. Yet Justia was happy. As long as she had her mother and father.
Hunger was bearable. Still, just in case, she prayed at the chapel every day. Hoping her pleas reached the heavens.
Goddess, make our family happy.
Goddess, let our family eat delicious food.
The Goddess watched over all, so surely she'd answer if the prayers got through. She was innocent then—just a child content with family, food, and joy.
But the world wasn't innocent. It brimmed with evil.
That day was a rare happy one for Justia. Her mother had bought a scrap of meat with restaurant wages. Justia tasted meat for the first time. Tough and meager in watery soup, but it brought a smile. Happiness—with family, sharing meat.
But it didn't last. Bandits prowling nearby raided their home.
The saintess still remembered vividly.
"Justia, cover your mouth tight and don't come out no matter what."
Justia obeyed, hiding in a small chest, mouth stuffed with clothes. But the rickety wooden box had cracks. Through them, she watched everything.
Her mother hid Justia's half-eaten bowls outside. Then her father's cry rang out.
"Y-You bastards! What the hell—ugh...!"
A sword blade gleamed in candlelight. Red blood sprayed everywhere.
"P-Please, spare us. I'll do anything!"
The bandits tore off her pleading mother's clothes, sated their lust, then stabbed her gut. Tears streamed from her mother's eyes. Blood gushed from her belly. The bandits' faces showed no guilt—calm, as if it were nothing.
Justia trembled violently. Tears flowed, shoulders heaved. Yet she kept the promise, mouth sealed, silent.
Luckily, the bandits—finding nothing worth stealing—didn't check the chest. It looked too poor for anything inside. Long after they left, Justia crept out and ran to the chapel.
Her parents were already dead, but how could a child know? She just believed priests could heal wounds.
But at the chapel, despite her desperate pleas, the priests coldly refused. No money. Even church folk didn't work for free.
Justia could do nothing. Powerless, she stared at her parents' corpses.
She hated humans—those who stole lives without remorse. She hated priests—who ignored those pleading for salvation.
Orphaned, she grew in an orphanage, visiting the chapel daily to pray. Why let them die? An omnipotent god, why not save them?
Cruelly, the Goddess granted power to such a Justia. A saintess born hating God yet unable to abandon the needy—a walking contradiction.
That was why. She couldn't abandon the woman whose thread of life had snapped. She looked just like her mother. The image of her dying mother overlapped, and again, she could only watch.
Gazing at the sky, the saintess wondered why she'd been given this power.
Then—
Grrrrrr...!
A grotesque scraping sound, like metal on metal, echoed from behind. A monster.