Chapter 36: The Miracle That Heals Wounds and Cures Diseases
The mystery that healed wounds and cured diseases went by the name of miracle, and it was the exclusive domain of priests. Knights accumulated history through training passed down their lineages, gaining power in the process. The Holy Empire's priests learned miracles no differently. They, too, piled up history.
Hundreds of years ago, a religion had arisen under the banner of faith in the gods and devotion to them. That religion grew until it became a nation called the Holy Empire. The priests' miracles were the product of centuries of religious rites and devotion. The method for wielding this mystery called a miracle was simple. Inflict wounds on the body and heal them. Fall ill and recover. Repeat the process endlessly.
At the end of this ceaseless cycle of injury and healing, the Holy Empire's priests gained the power to heal others. Those who knew the truth of the world understood it as the manifestation of history accumulated within the religion itself, but they couldn't very well announce that to the public. The Holy Empire framed it as receiving power from the gods through ascetic trials. Priests became sacred figures chosen by the divine, elevated far above common folk.
Among them, holy knights stood out even more. They didn't just perform miracles—they possessed superhuman combat prowess akin to knights. Even a knight like Strekl had no counter if struck in a vital spot during battle. Holy knights who could heal their own wounds and return to the front lines were treated as invaluable assets, incomparable to ordinary knights.
The man bound before Marhal had once dreamed of becoming one such holy knight. His body, tempered in ways impossible for ordinary people, and the scars on his arms proved it. Traces of inflicting wounds on his arms in dozens of ways and healing them to etch miracles into his flesh.
"Who... who are you?"
"Just a not-so-common mercenary. But a would-be holy knight turned bandit in the West...?"
"I'm a cast-off! How dare you speak the Holy Empire's name with that mouth!"
"If you aspired to be a holy knight, you'd have more than average pride. Yet here you are, admitting you're a cast-off so readily? Most people blame the group that abandoned them."
"That's the way of heretics."
Fear still lingered in the man's eyes. But the faith in his heart stood against it. And against Marhal, that backfired.
"A man of such fervent faith, turned to banditry? Didn't the gods teach you not to steal or kill? You've broken both."
"You dare doubt my faith?!"
Faith had overcome fear. As if he'd never been afraid, the man thrust his face forward, ready to bite. His two bound companions jerked with the motion.
"No, I'm not doubting. I'm impressed, actually. A self-proclaimed cast-off holy knight aspirant holding onto his fervent faith while robbing people. Isn't that strange?"
"I... I..."
"Orders from above, right? You couldn't help it. The land touched by evil mustn't fall into ignorant hands. Misusing something left by demons could bring disaster again. Something like that. Or maybe they just promised money and status."
The man's eyes wavered. Marhal had hit more than halfway to the truth. He'd been told lambs shouldn't tread unverified land. Succeed, and he'd be ordained a holy knight. The man before him had gleaned it all from a mere glance. What devil leading the faithful astray would do such a thing? The burning rage cooled, replaced by icy terror surging like frost.
He wasn't the saintess from scripture who slew devils. A failed holy knight aspirant couldn't stand against one. Resigned to death, the man felt himself sinking into endless mire at Marhal's next words.
"Strekl, untie them."
"They tried to kill us."
"No one died or got hurt, did they? Besides, bandits and robbers give mercenaries work."
"I don't care, but these aren't just my spoils."
In the corner, Bayola retched from the sight of blood, while Marin patted her back. They'd heard the exchange and now looked up.
"I'm fine. Urp...!"
"Me too."
Bayola turned away and hunched over as vomiting resumed; Marin thumped her back again. The emotion in the gesture was no illusion.
"See? Told you."
"Kill me instead! Kill me, you devil!"
"I've always thought death's too easy an end, haven't you? A real devil would keep people alive as long as possible."
"The wicked go to hell for punishment."
"Suffer in life, suffer in death—double the pain. Even the gods would approve. Perfect way to satisfy devils and gods alike!"
The man bowed his head, soul drained. He looked like a man whose spirit the devil had stolen.
He was released. His men too. The two surviving underlings bore mortal wounds, but they weren't true subordinates anyway—just Holy Empire mercenaries and vagrants he'd gathered and called his own.
"Oh, right. What's your name? I can ask that much, yeah?"
"Astram."
"I'm Marhal. I'll be waiting to hear that name again. Bandit Astram."
The carriage rolled on. Bloodstains trailed the horses' hooves and wheels. Astram didn't move from the spot for hours. His men had long breathed their last.
Hiiing.
A horse approached. A rope tethered it to a stake in the ground. It nudged Astram's head, as if begging to be freed.
"They left this? For me to leave on? To keep banditry going? Me! Who was meant to be a holy knight!"
Astram laughed. Madly, for a long time. Then he rose.
He forgot the high priest's orders. Souls meeting devils were tainted, they said. His was tainted beyond saving today.
Astram. Bandit Astram. Not a holy knight, but a bandit. The devil was right. No matter what anyone said, his deeds were killing and thieving—capital sins forbidden by scripture. He no longer qualified as a man of faith. Just another beast, like the criminals he despised.
"Fine. If that's what you want, I'll become it."
Astram resolved to become a devil.
The carriage lurched into motion again. Karian sat quietly in the corner, staring out the window. His mood visibly soured. The rough shaking alone revealed who held the reins. And inside rode a newcomer, absent before the self-proclaimed bandit Astram.
"Was it really okay to let them go? Small fry to me, but a pack led by that guy could cause real damage."
The holy knight aspirant Astram already had low knight-level skill. With miracles too, ordinary mercenaries couldn't handle him. Left alone, he'd soon build a major force.
"I told you—mercenaries need work. One or two failures can be blamed on them, but repeated flops hurt the whole guild. Then they'll send big shots for scouting and extermination. That's when things get fun."
The informed mercenary guild could bite back at the Holy Empire, or bury it via deals. The history piling up would serve its purpose someday.
"How'd you know he was a holy knight aspirant?"
"I've been wondering too."
Rebella had understood nearly all of Marhal and Astram's Holy Empire tongue exchange; Strekl had pieced together the gist from key words. What puzzled them both was how Marhal had identified him. They'd have spotted it from his forearms too—priests' scars were infamous. But Marhal had deduced it from mere words.
"Holy Empire speech is soft in pronunciation. Persuasive talk needs controlled emphasis. The Empire favors strong sounds, fitting its might-worship. Duchy tongue mixes West influences—hard to compare, but midway between Holy Empire and Empire. Astram used pure Holy Empire but emphasized every word. What organization drills hard speech as habit?"
"Military. Soldiers."
"Not a common grunt if he's leading bandits, and no Holy Empire officer bandits out here. So, special mission holy knight?"
"Logical, no contradictions. But nailing someone's origin from one phrase? Possible?"
"I explained last time."
"Hard to believe again."
Imagine: a stranger greets you once and pegs your birthplace, group, and orders. Beyond skill—pure magic. Terrifying to the target.
"I can't do it for everyone. Take Strekl—battlefields mix accents; nothing clear. First language Duchy? Obvious, though."
Soft Holy Empire, hard Empire, middling Duchy. Learning a second language shows. In pioneer villages, guessing origins from speech was basic.
"The Holy Empire issuing such orders from the shadows... no small matter."
"You seem to know everything, yet blind here."
"Blind? Me?"
Rebella bristled at Strekl's words. Pure force, she couldn't match him—fine, he could tease her weakness there. But knowledge? She'd studied widely as Bayola's guard. Taking "dumb" from a mere war-hero knight? Unbearable.
"Wars erupt over single fiefs, killing hundreds, thousands. Think the powers that be stay idle over half the world?"
"That's why the Union exists."
The Union kept major nations and groups from committing core forces to the land race. Do so, and face united backlash. Block logistics and funds, even empires hurt. No one moved lightly. That's what Rebela knew.
"War's foundation is betrayal. The better the backstab, the higher the praise. No one's hit hard yet—all quiet. But one solid blow changes everything. The Union's West protection vanishes."
The West became landlords', not nobles', thanks to the Union. If it failed, the Duchy would first swallow developing pioneer villages. Others would follow, turning the East to warzone.
"Better prepare to defend our land first. The one we're meeting has big interest there too."
"To a priest?"
"Priest too. Plus greetings to contacts. Might get a good priest referral."
"Big shot, huh."
Even famed doctors killed patients often; priests cured ills and wounds on the spot if conditions met. Priest connections were power itself. More so in priest-scarce West than Empire.
"Big shot he is. Rebela, you've heard the name. Azenman Riantl."
"Lord Azenman Riantl?!"
Rebella leaned forward. Azenman Riantl—inseparable from talks of this era's genius, her idol too.
"Really? We can meet that Lord Azenman Riantl?!"
"Mm. For now. Steel your heart."
"Of course!"
Not what he meant... Rebela's "preparation" and Marhal's differed entirely, but he let it lie. She'd learn meeting him.