Hah, What a Mess
The Septem Council—for all its grandiose name, the chamber itself was nothing special. A flat expanse of white marble floor, one enormous round table, and chairs of identical make set before it. That was all.
The round table was a deliberate choice: it proclaimed that the Seven Holy Orders all stood on perfectly equal footing.
A circle has no beginning and no end, no top and no bottom.
In a word: no seat of honor.
That said, eyes did naturally gravitate toward wherever the Speaker sat, so that spot couldn't help but feel like the head of the table—but it wasn't as brazen as a rectangular table, where rank is divided by position in plain sight, now was it?
Besides, this blasted council seemed so averse to even the impression of a fixed seat of honor that the seating arrangements changed every single time.
With every chair identical, you had no choice but to hunt down your seat by the nameplates laid out on the table.
The Old Man and I found ours and sat. Last time, Justitia had been beside us; this time, they were across the table.
I gave Clarice a casual wave from opposite her, then flipped through the parchment listing today's agenda.
Not exactly riveting reading—but pretending to read beat sitting there with my thumbs up my ass.
While I was killing time like that, the Church of Diana, devoted to the god of gold and wine, made its entrance.
"Haaa... hic."
Chiara, the Saintess of Diana, cheeks flushed a boozy pink and breath reeking of the bottle, flopped heavily into her seat.
The Great Priest beside her let out a thin sigh and sent the room a look begging for understanding.
Oh—and why, of all seats, did it have to be right next to mine?
I found myself wanting to grab whoever had drawn up the seating chart by the throat and shake them until their teeth rattled.
Honestly, anyone in that seat was guaranteed to give me a headache, but with that dokkaebi wafting distilled liquor off her very skin, it was a special breed of torment.
"Come back when you've sobered up, you crazy bitch."
A sight I witnessed at every session, and yet watching her strut into an official council meeting dead drunk still boggled the mind.
"Heeey~ our dear Sister Beatriceee, care for a drink with mee~?"
"No."
I refused, flat and immediate. At least the use of divine power was banned inside the chamber, so she couldn't pull the same deranged Authority-flaunting stunt she'd pulled a few days back.
A genuine mercy, that.
Knowing her temperament, had divine power been permitted, she'd have fired off her Authority and turned this hallowed council chamber into a roaring booze-up without a second thought.
Next through the door came the Church of Nike, devoted to the goddess of wisdom and victory.
"Hey, you lot! Today's meeting—under or over two hours—where's your money? For the record, mine's on over."
"...Absolute lunatic."
I clicked my tongue at Elysia proposing a wager the second she walked through the door. Her Great Priest hurriedly hauled her off toward their seats.
Hm. The Great Priests really do suffer, don't they.
Chiara at least acted up because she was pickled; Elysia did it stone-cold sober, which made her the worse breed of menace.
...Or no? Was staggering in blackout-drunk actually the worse crime?
Couldn't say. Frankly, there was no need to rank them.
Easiest to just file both under not right in the head and move on.
And the genuinely tragic part was that more lunatics would be streaming in after them, one after another.
Following Nike came the church devoted to Veritas, god of inquiry and creation.
The Saintess Jaylin walked in alongside a Great Priest of the dwarf race.
"Long time, everyone. Lately I've been researching the Precognitive Dream—that Authority granted only to Saintesses. Any volunteers?"
She swept a hand back through her long violet hair, madness glinting in her pale purple eyes as she surveyed the room.
"Oh—no, thank you. My apologies, Jaylin unnie."
"Get lost. I don't have a taste for handing my body over to some mad scientist."
"I shall decliine~ After all, if I became your lab rat, I'd never get to driiink, would I nooow~"
"Wanna bet on how many people here volunteer for Jaylin's experiment, unnie? Me and you?"
...The Saintesses each gave a reply bursting with personality, as usual.
At which Jaylin clicked her tongue—tch—and mused aloud that perhaps she ought to dose them all with sleeping pills and simply carry them in.
Yep. Wonderful. I am never accepting a drink from that woman as long as I live.
Anyway—Jaylin was a priestess and a mage at once.
A Saintess walking a wildly unorthodox path, fusing magic into holy law.
And also a mad scientist.
Just last year, Jaylin had whined and wheedled about wanting to study my Holy Robe and Astra—begged to borrow them, in fact.
When I refused, she'd said, "Then I'd like to study your body instead," and I'd punted her ass clean out of the room. The memory came trickling back, vivid as ever.
...Not exactly a fond one, that.
Next came the Church of Harmonia, devoted to the god of harmony and temperance.
This order was composed mostly of Easterners, which gave it a strangely familiar feel to me; its Saintess's name was Seo-yeon.
Which might sound like we were close, calling her by name—but no: Seo was her family name, Yeon her given name. Seo-yeon was simply her full name.
Seo-yeon was, relatively speaking, a sane Saintess.
—If you ignored the way she was maniacally obsessed with balance, like a purple-skinned bald alien who roamed the stars collecting gemstones.
When her left shoulder had once popped out of joint, instead of treating it, she'd tried to dislocate the right one to match. I'd nearly had an aneurysm watching that lunacy.
I asked why she couldn't just, I don't know, treat the left shoulder. Apparently that would be "unnatural," or some such.
No—her argument was that you should pop both shoulders out, boost your natural healing, and let them knit back slowly and symmetrically. That was the correct way, she insisted.
...Right. Yeah. Also not sane.
But she was quiet and demure in daily life, so if you forced me to sort everyone, she'd squeak into the "sane" column.
In fact, she'd just given a small, silent bow of greeting and settled into her seat without a whisper of fuss. On character alone, that put her near the very top of the Saintess rankings.
Last to arrive was the church devoted to Hestia, goddess of hearth and home.
And its Saintess was Shuri—pastel-pink hair, soft rose eyes, the very picture of delicate maidenly grace.
"...Husband!"
The moment she spotted me, she came sprinting at full tilt.
...While saying that utterly absurd word, Husband, with her own two lips.
"Hey. How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that..."
"I-I heard you spent the night with that lecherous dokkaebi! Is it true?! How could you do such a thing and leave me behind!"
"...I'd appreciate it if you didn't say things people could take the wrong way."
And quit broadcasting that nonsense at full volume, you lunatic—people are getting the wrong idea!
She just had to come in last, when every other order's delegation was already seated, and start shouting the most misunderstanding-prone garbage imaginable.
"A misunderstanding? That wounds me, Sister Beatrice. Weren't we the ones who shared such a passionate night? Hic."
"Shut your mouth."
Far from putting a stop to it, Chiara was fanning the flames from the sidelines, and my head throbbed.
"Husband!"
I shot one glare at Chiara and her nonsense—and then Shuri flung herself into my chest, eyes brimming with tears.
Her petite frame fit perfectly into my arms, which was admittedly rather cute.
But the only thing behind those dewy eyes was a plan for what she wanted to do to me, so there was no way in hell I could find it cute.
"Get off me. Nobody said I was your husband!"
So I pushed Shuri's face away from my chest with a flat palm, scowling, as she nuzzled against it.
This pink-haired girl was a terminal-case lesbian.
Well—the Church of Hestia accepted only virgins as priestesses, and it was a men-forbidden zone besides, so the fact that relations between women ran rampant there was already famous, common knowledge.
But that's not my thing.
Ah—don't get me wrong, beautiful women are pleasant enough. I just don't feel any real sexual pull, is what I mean.
"...Hm. Then would you be the wife instead, Trixie?"
"Drop it."
We were both women anyway—wife, husband, who gave a damn.
I wasn't about to ask, either.
Because I knew exactly the kind of dizzyingly filthy answers that would come pouring out of this pink-haired menace's mouth.
"Come, come into my arms, Wife. I shall make you forget that lustful dokkaebi entirely."
"That is not what happened."
"Aah, what a sorrowful tale. Have you already surrendered body and soul to that lecherous dokkaebi? But fear not—rest assured, I can love even such a Wife as you, so—"
"Loud, and go sit down. Everyone's here—the meeting starts any minute."
"Hngg... so cruel!"
God, my head.
Was that hangover still lingering?
"...My apologies, Saintess Beatrice."
While Shuri and I were scrapping, Arang—wolf beastkin and Great Priest of the Church of Hestia—lightly seized Shuri by the scruff of her neck and peeled her off me.
"Ack! Let go! You mangy mutt!"
Shuri thrashed and squirmed, but with divine power off the table, no amount of wriggling was going to beat a beastkin's raw strength.
"To call a Great Priest a mangy mutt... Upon our return to the church, I shall be providing education on such vulgar language."
"E-Educated—?! Wh-What exactly are you planning to do to me?! You pervert!"
"Think as you please."
And so Shuri was hauled off to her seat like a sack of luggage, shrieking the entire way.
I rubbed my throbbing temples and surveyed the room.
Glug-glug-glug—
"Kyaah~ booze tastes gooood. Hic."
It started with the woman openly tipping back day-drinking in the middle of the council chamber—
"Clarice~ want to make a bet with me?"
—then the one treating the round table like a casino—
"Nngh! Unhand me! I must get back to my wife!"
—then the terminal lesbian arbitrarily assigning me married-woman status—
"...Seven is unsettling. The balance is wrong. It would be better to remove one... no, the backlash would be severe. Then perhaps I should propose adding one instead—restructuring as the Eight Holy Orders..."
—then the pale-faced, balance-obsessed maniac muttering delusions to herself. And—
"Great Priests? Care to sample this? It's called Cold Six. It forcibly keeps your brain awake, so even if you want to sleep, you can't. We are a bit short on samples, though—so if you'd all consent to some live human experime— whoops, testing, I'll send each of you a free box once it officially launches. What do you say?"
—and, rounding it out, the mad scientist recruiting clinical trial subjects right there on the floor.
Ha ha. What a mess.
The Great Priests were wracking their brains trying to calm their Saintesses down, and getting absolutely nowhere.
The future of the Empire was looking very dark indeed.
"So, Old Man. Would you say I count as a decent Saintess?"
"...Hmm."
Having spectated the whole circus unfold, I tossed the Old Man seated beside me a lighthearted jab.
Instead of the instant answer I expected, he swallowed and hummed.
What's with the hesitation, Old Man?
You watched this entire trainwreck and you're still hesitating?
Well then... shall I go cause a catastrophe right here, hm?
"Well. Yes. Let's say that, then."
"...Hm."
I narrowed my eyes and leveled a stare at him.
It somehow felt like I'd just been fobbed off with a deferential bow, but fine—let's call it a win.
The moment this meeting ended, I was getting out of Septimoa, quick and clean.
I'd planned that from the start, but staring into this boiling pot of chaos, the urge turned desperate.
And just as I was sealing that vow and plotting my lightning retreat—
Thud—
"Everyone, settle down, please!"
A single razor-sharp voice sliced clean through the din.
Its owner: Clarice.
Her face scrunched into a hard scowl as she swept a glare around the round table.
And just like that—spookily, instantly—the Saintesses went meek.
"This is sacred council time. Is causing such an uproar acceptable to you? Everyone, please observe proper decorum."
...Ooh. That's our Clarice.
Clap, clap—
Watching the chamber fall silent in the span of a breath, I applauded in genuine admiration.
Whereupon Clarice's dagger-sharp gaze swung around and nailed me to my chair.
...What?
I was being perfectly quiet...
"Unnie! You should have been stopping the other Saintesses! Sitting there with your arms crossed, just spectating—do you think that's acceptable?!"
"..."
I'd have stopped them if I could. But those lunatics wouldn't listen to a single word I said—how exactly was I supposed to stop anyone?
...Said, naturally, strictly inside my own head.
I dodged Clarice's gaze and buried my eyes in the agenda parchment.
Elysia snickered at the sight of me—then went eep and hunched her shoulders under Clarice's lethal stare.
Anyway—one line from Clarice. Two, maybe. And the entire madhouse just... tidied itself up.
The original heroine, through and through.
Incredible.
"N-Now, we will begin the proceedings. His Holiness Magnus, Pope of the Church of Justitia and Speaker of this session, is entering—please rise from your seats."
The clerk, who until that moment had stood frozen in helpless panic, not even daring to dream of taming the chaos, shot Clarice a look of heartfelt gratitude before clearing his throat and speaking.
At the clerk's word, we all rose from our seats—
CRASH—
"...Huh?"
At the sudden clatter I glanced over—apparently Chiara had toppled over while trying to get up.
"...Uuunh... ugh..."
"Consider this your advance warning: do not throw up."
I said it aghast, watching Chiara kneel there with both hands clamped over her mouth.
"Fuhu, 'throw up,' you say. I shall merely be creating a beautiful rainboooow from my mouth, that is aaall."
"...Out. Now."
Watching Chiara sway her way upright made my eyes squeeze shut all on their own.
Anyway.
The doors of the chamber opened, and the Speaker made his entrance.
Dragon horns jutting up between locks of crimson hair, and vivid golden eyes with vertically slit pupils.
Magnus—Dragonkin, unmistakable for that red tail, Pope of the Church of Justitia—walked slowly inside.
I'd heard he'd held the papacy for over a hundred years now, no?
A century as Pope meant his true age had to be far greater still.
And indeed—the aura rolling off the man was plenty fierce.
I stared holes into him, and sensing my gaze, he looked my way in turn.
"Everyone, please be seated."
He smiled faintly at me and spoke with dignified authority.
At his word, we took our seats.
"The Septem Sacred Assembly will now begin."
The meeting had begun.