Awakening in the Slum
Intense pain, as if his entire body were shattering apart. With that, Vera's eyes snapped open.
"Ah...."
What escaped his lips was a voice cracked and parched, as if it might crumble to dust at any moment. His head throbbed with a sharp zing. A grating scratch-scratch noise bored into his ears. Dampness clung unpleasantly to his skin, and every breath twisted his guts with agonizing chest pain.
Repulsive sensations and a body in the worst possible state. What the hell was this situation?
As that thought surfaced, Vera slowly turned his barely mobile head, scanning his surroundings.
This place...
A dark space. A ramshackle pile of planks that couldn't even keep out the wind and rain properly, leaking water in steady streams—a house in name only. The so-called furnishings inside amounted to a few layers of tattered cloth and a couple of brass bowls oozing rust. Black insects crawled along the walls, and muddy water dripped from gaps in the roof. The thick, stale air and the scratching noises seemed to be their doing.
As he glanced around, Vera realized exactly where he was in an instant.
...He couldn't not know.
The Slum.
The place where he had been born and raised, the empire's festering sore.
Surveying his surroundings, Vera's mind latched onto one question. Why was he here?
As he pondered that, he recalled the events leading up to his loss of consciousness.
Clearly...
I was dying from the curse.
It was a curse born of the karma he had accumulated. Three years after the Demon King's subjugation, as the heroes who had erased the scars of that long war turned to internal cleansing on the continent, they had targeted him. He had thrashed desperately to escape, but in the end, he had succumbed to the curse and been dying.
Yet, strangely enough, the curse's gnawing energy that had plagued him endlessly was nowhere to be felt in his body now. All he sensed were the injuries and pain from prolonged combat.
Vera tried to remember why he, who had collapsed at the slum's entrance, was lying here now, but finding no ready answer, he shook off the thought and closed his eyes.
Whether someone had saved him or this was another enemy's scheme, there was nothing he could do about it now—no reason to dwell deeply.
It was a pathetically shabby space, yet traces of life lingered in every corner nonetheless. He would soon meet whoever lived here, and he could ask then.
Having made that judgment, Vera closed his eyes to pass the time, when—
Creeeak—
The plank door swung open. Vera opened his eyes at the sound and looked toward it.
What entered was...
...A woman?
A hideous figure draped in a ragged robe, her exposed skin melted away entirely by burns. Strands of white hair poked out from under the hood, matted with filth, and her feet—bare, it seemed—were caked in mud. Her eyes appeared sightless. He could tell from the lightless blue irises and the way she groped along the wall, stumbling unevenly.
What was she?
As Vera puzzled briefly, he perked his ears at the faint jingle accompanying her every movement.
Metal clinking.
Hidden weapon? Coins? Jewelry?
Listing possibilities in his mind, Vera finally grasped the sound's source only after she plopped down onto the floor with her backside.
Above her burn-scarred nape gleamed a platinum necklace.
Jewelry, then.
Vera's eyes narrowed. Precious metal adornments were the last thing one would expect from someone living in such a hovel. It sparked a suspicion: perhaps she had sold him out for that necklace.
It was a plausible theory. Among those who wanted him dead or captured, plenty could afford to pay in such valuables.
Tension coiling within him, Vera watched her. She bowed her head, exposing the necklace more blatantly, and he drew a sharp breath at its shape.
He knew that object well once it was fully revealed.
Around the woman's neck hung...
The Holy Kingdom's Rosario.
The platinum rosario reserved for the highest ranks in the Holy Kingdom. None other.
Not a fake...
His honed eye could discern that instantly.
Not a transaction, either.
One did not put a price on platinum rosarios. Merely trading one invited pursuit from the entire Holy Kingdom.
Thus, his inference: this woman was from the Holy Kingdom.
As his thoughts raced, a figure flashed in Vera's mind.
White hair. Blind. Platinum rosario.
There were others with similar traits if one searched, but for some reason, he couldn't dismiss the conclusion rising in his head. Tension etching his face, Vera studied her briefly before murmuring softly.
"...God's Saint."
His cracked voice leaked out.
She flinched. At Vera's voice, her body trembled. Vera, sensing her fingertips twitch amid the shudder, confirmed his guess was right.
As he eyed her—now the saint—with even greater tension, she turned her head toward him and spoke.
"You're awake."
A voice clear and pure, at odds with her appearance. That was Vera's first thought upon hearing it.
Having spoken, she faced him fully and began working her facial muscles. The burn scars twisted grotesquely with the motion, but Vera sensed it was meant to be a smile. Her aura suggested as much.
The gentle tone of her words. Those unfocused blue eyes, hazy yet fixed straight on him. The facial muscles straining to lift. All of it struck Vera inexplicably as a smile.
Gazing at the monstrously melted face peeking through the threadbare robe's gaping holes, Vera voiced his doubt.
"...I heard you were dead."
The saint had perished in the final battle with the Demon King. It had been such a famous incident that even Vera knew of it.
Yet why was this supposedly dead woman here in such a state?
As he posed the question laced with bewilderment, she let out a soft chuckle, answering playfully.
"If we're talking about the saint, then yes, she's dead."
"Then what are you?"
"A lowly beggar scavenging scraps in the slum."
A roundabout way of putting it, but Vera grasped her meaning.
"...So the Holy Kingdom held a fake funeral."
"Not fake. The Holy Kingdom's saint is dead, after all."
She said this while groping with her arm to stroke near Vera's chest. A groan escaped him immediately after—her hand had brushed his bruised ribs, battered like they'd been struck with a club.
"Kuh...!"
"Does it hurt badly?"
Vera clenched his teeth, glaring at her.
"... "
He couldn't show weakness recklessly. Keeping silent with that in mind, the saint tilted her head at his lack of response, then probed various spots on his body again.
"I've taken the basic measures, but... you'll still need to rest here for a while to recover. I know it's uncomfortable, but please bear with it just a little."
Her voice brimmed with genuine concern. Wariness flooded Vera's gut.
What're her intentions?
She didn't seem to be after his life. But too many questions swirled just looking at her now; no clear answers emerged.
Why was the saint alive? Why in this guise, here? How had she found him? Did she know who he was?
As questions swirled endlessly, Vera decided to unravel them one by one and regarded her.
"Did you lift the curse?"
"Fortunately, I had the strength."
An ambiguous affirmation.
"Strength?"
"God's grace was with me."
Wrinkles formed over her melted face—a smile meant to convey understanding, Vera sensed. Staring at it, the word "strength" expanded his thoughts.
He knew something of the saint's powers.
His curse had been vicious, true, but her abilities should have dispelled it without fatigue.
No reason for "strength" to factor in.
Lips pressed tight as he watched her, Vera puzzled long before inferring her words' meaning.
"...You lost your apostle powers."
"Lost isn't the right word. They were never mine to begin with."
She continued in a serene tone, laced with amusement.
"I merely returned what God had lent me."
"You gave them up yourself?"
"No reason to hold onto them anymore. It was only natural."
A hollow chuckle slipped from Vera at her response. Several doubts cleared up.
She faked her death of her own will.
No "why?" arose. For the saint he knew, her serene expression made it obvious.
"War must've worn you out."
At this point, post-Demon King, had she remained in her position, the continent's nations would have waged new wars over her. Why not? Her powers warranted it. If she was the woman rumored to be, she would have fled that fate—and erasing her existence was the method she chose.
As his thoughts flowed, she spoke. Her tone subdued.
"...You know quite a lot."
"So, gonna kill me?"
Vera eyed her as he said it. His body was wrecked. Even if she throttled him now, he couldn't resist in the slightest.
...Honestly, dying here held no regrets. He'd lived a life deserving death, and such a pathetic end fell within expectations.
Imagining her hand reaching for his throat, Vera closed his eyes.
That instant—
"No reason to."
The saint spoke.
Vera cracked his eyes open, frowning faintly at her words. She remained calmly composed.
"Why not?"
"Why would you think I'd kill you?"
"Having someone who knows your identity must be inconvenient."
"I just hope you'll keep quiet about it."
"What if I spread rumors?"
"That would be unfortunate."
Her replies flowed like water. Vera probed her expression again for intent, but the melted face betrayed nothing.
Silence stretched. With no response forthcoming even after a while, she let out a short sigh and continued.
"Rest for now. Your condition's quite poor."
"You treated me knowing who I am?"
"Do I need to?"
"Maybe. The one you saved could turn out to be a murdering demon."
"That would be tragic, but I lack the courage to ignore the suffering. I can only pray you're not."
Vera felt another hollow chuckle rise as she leaned back against one wall of the shack. Clutching her rosario from her bosom, she closed her eyes.
Praying, it seemed. An inexplicable queasiness twisted in Vera's gut at the sight, prompting a sardonic jab.
"You're a woman of true faith, Saint."
"...Rene."
"What?"
"Not Saint. Rene."
After endless acquiescence, her sole retort was correcting her name. Vera thought her a truly odd woman as he closed his eyes.