Chapter 40: The Church's Free Miracles
Marhal, Bayola, and Rebella had found the church.
The cities in the Border region mostly belonged to major metropolises, and every major city naturally had at least one church. Where there were many people, money gathered—and with it, demand for miracles. It was a simple calculation.
A large crowd had gathered in front of the church.
"This is odd. A church drawing a crowd like this?"
Religion held great meaning in the lives of easterners, that much was true. But people rarely visited churches on ordinary days. The god worshipped by the Holy Empire was an omnipotent, singular deity, and according to scripture, all events in the world were the god's choices, the god's will. Priests were special people chosen by that god—the elect. People respected the church and priests, but they also feared them and kept their distance.
Marhal tuned into the conversations around him. The speakers weren't hiding their words, so eavesdropping was easy.
"Looks like they're healing wounds for free. Some special occasion?"
A priest's miracle was proof of being chosen by the god. Such miracles were rarely bestowed upon commoners. Twice a year—on the Holy Empire's founding day and the creation day when the god supposedly shaped the world—a handful of the sick might be healed. But today was neither of those days.
Marhal rummaged in his pocket and pulled out the paper from Azenman Riantl. Reattach a severed arm, was it? That was a feat beyond the ordinary, even among the religious—a realm of the extraordinary. It made this spectacle understandable.
Priests didn't strengthen their miracles solely by inflicting wounds on themselves. Healing others' wounds was another method. But few priests actually practiced it. Treating one noble was worth more than healing a hundred commoners. Just treating nobles for pay steadily built their history. And the priests' sense of being the elect meant they couldn't waste their chosen power on lowly commoners.
But there were exceptions. The history from healing a hundred commoners might be mediocre, but if it became a thousand, then ten thousand, it turned into a feat—a monumental achievement etched into history. Those were the words of a saint, an inhuman who had transcended humanity, so they rang true.
"Let's go in."
Marhal stepped inside. Compared to the bustle outside, the interior was quiet. A few visibly ill or injured people waited in line—that was all.
"What can I do for you?"
A boy doing odd jobs approached and asked. Marhal instinctively checked the child's language. Holy Empire tongue, but with a lingering ducal accent. He'd learned the ducal language first, then the Holy Empire's. The accent hadn't fully faded, likely because the church priests had drilled him relentlessly—or because the boy had desperately mastered it to survive.
The boy was terrified of Bayola and Rebella, who exuded an extraordinary aura at a glance. Working at the church for years, he'd seen plenty of peers who crossed some unpredictable noble's mood and ended up broken or dead, carted out the door. When anyone noble-looking entered, caution was inevitable, no matter who.
"We were referred by Lord Azenman. We need a wound treated. Here's the letter of introduction."
"W-wait a moment!"
Azenman Riantl was a VIP of the highest order around here. Even mid-tier nobles bowed to him. The boy snatched the paper from Marhal and hurried inside like he was running.
Moments later, a woman emerged from an inner room. Marhal knew her.
"You?"
"What a coincidence. I never imagined you were with the church—a chosen one, no less."
The nun was the woman who'd sold flags at Marhal's pioneer village. What an astonishing stroke of luck. Or perhaps the whims of accumulated histories at play.
She'd been selling flags alone back then. Not impossible, but tough. Talented merchants fought tooth and nail for flag-selling rights; a few deaths over it barely counted as news. Marhal had pegged her as resourceful, but a church backing explained it. Buying favor with a capable nun for a single flag concession? Not a bad deal for the Union.
"Hold on."
The nun beckoned Marhal closer and pulled his shoulder in.
"Please keep my flag-selling a secret."
"A transgression?"
She nodded faintly. For an ordinary priest or nun to defy the Holy Empire's will was a capital crime, punishable by immediate execution. But exceptions existed in everything. Those who "accumulated well" in any field were prized, and organizations and nations scrambled to secure them.
Marhal recalled her flag-seller attire: sleeves between short and long, exposing just a bit of forearm—light clothing. Her exposed neck and forearms bore no scars. Either she'd received meticulous healing during miracle training to avoid marks, or her body accepted miracles flawlessly. A top-tier talent managed at the Papal Court level.
"Understood. But could you treat my companion's wound first?"
"Her? Is it the arm?"
"She injured a nerve during the land race. The skin healed, but the arm's still useless."
"You, knight? Hold still."
The nun rolled up the sleeve of Rebella's limp left arm, kneaded the whole thing with her hands, and nodded.
"This is treatable right away. Just a moment."
The nun closed her eyes and stroked Rebella's arm once. That was it.
Rebella's left hand twitched. Fascinated by the returning sensation, she flexed it this way and that.
Rebella spoke haltingly in awkward Holy Empire tongue.
"Thank you. Then, the payment..."
"No need. This isn't about making money."
"That guy over there doesn't seem to agree."
In one corner of the church, a priest glared at them with resentment. His greedy face oozed disdain. He seemed not just typical, but extreme in his disposition. Treatment from him would've been exhausting.
"Bishop Anton doesn't like me healing for free."
"Just him?"
"...Actually, most priests feel the same."
Marhal's pointed question drew a glum reply from the nun. Even now, over half the people she treated had let simple wounds fester into something worse through neglect. The Holy Empire didn't monopolize just miracles. The knowledge from examining and treating countless illnesses was another weapon. The Muet Empire's royal physicians paled next to the Holy Empire's specialists—like apprentices before masters.
But the Holy Empire kept it secret. Unless the upper echelons collectively lost their minds, it would stay that way. Spreading medicine diminished the miracle's mystique; packaging medicine as miracles amplified the church's authority and influence.
She'd left the Holy Empire hoping she might change something. Arriving in the west and even running a flag stall had been good, but it only hammered home the harsh reality.
"I made a deal with the bishop. Time's short—I have to go."
"What's your name, Sister?"
"Alasil. Alasil Egoman."
"I see. Sister Alasil. I'd like to meet again sometime."
Alasil vanished back into the inner room, and the three stepped outside. Not even Bayola or Rebella, who might've spoken up, said a word until they were well away from the church.
Only when it was out of sight did Bayola speak.
"Egoman... That's Yullan Egoman, the saint's surname, isn't it?"
"There might be others with the same name on the continent, but a Holy Empire nun? Unlikely."
Bayola and Rebella's gazes turned to the one person who knew the Hero Party better than anyone.
"The saint was celibate. An orphan with no relatives."
"Adopted daughter?"
"Doubtful. If the saint had taken in an outsider, it would've caused an uproar."
Even if he'd adopted someone, the saint—who harbored resentment toward the Holy Empire's system—wouldn't have raised them as priest or nun while giving them his name.
High chance it's the Holy Empire acting alone... Does he not know, or is he pretending not to?
Marhal might suspect the latter for a thief or mage, but for the saint, the former seemed possible. On the way back east after slaying the Demon King, the saint had repeatedly said contact would be hard once he returned to the Holy Empire. The path he chose didn't look easy, even to Marhal. No room for distractions.
All signs pointed to Alasil being a fake. No real connection to the saint.
"History succession?"
Bayola voiced what Marhal had been pondering.
"Probably. What else could it be?"
"History succession?"
"You don't know either, Rebella?"
"No. I can guess roughly, but..."
"Not surprising. Even Strekl probably doesn't. It's a concept only vaguely known to groups with truly ancient histories. History succession. Simply put, forcibly linking a severed history."
"Forcibly linking history...? Is that even possible?"
"The Bachea Empire fell completely with the demons' rampage. But suppose some madman believes he's Bachea imperial blood and acts like it—what happens?"
"He dies."
Spot on. If someone claimed Bachea imperial lineage, every eastern noble would swarm to kill him. The Bachea Empire symbolized the fallen west. Its imperial blood could rally scattered westerners, poach a few landlords, call in old-timers nostalgic for the past, and build a nation overnight. The eastern nobles knew it—and acted.
As far as Marhal knew, several prominent western nobles had fled east from the demons. But after the war, they all died or vanished. Not one or two—all of them.
"Don't be so realistic. What if that person survives, keeps up the insane claim, has decent savvy to gather followers smoothly, and people around him start truly believing it?"
"He becomes real Bachea imperial blood...? But does that even make sense? History accumulates. Swallowing it without building any?"
"You know karma?"
"Heard it's slang from ascetic groups."
No one knew what they practiced or aimed for. But groups delving into history and cultivation definitely existed. They interpreted the world through their unique term, karma.
"According to Mar—the mage—karma just keeps piling up endlessly; it never vanishes. There's an eternal tower. It grows, but never disappears. Others say the tower's gone, but really, the owner vanished, and the tower endures. Anyone who finds it and claims ownership becomes the new master."
"If that worked, countless lost arts from history wouldn't have vanished."
Human history brimmed with talents and geniuses, their crafts and techniques. But only a fraction survived. Many god-given arts had been lost.
"I said possible, not easy. Just possible."
Even Mar Silanatiell, the inhuman mage, had tried and failed multiple times. For ordinary folk, it'd be a lifetime wasted in futility. That's what history succession was.
"So the nun?"
"Impossible for an individual. But a nation? If the Holy Empire claims her as the saint's adopted daughter and its people accept it, wouldn't some of the saint's history transfer to her? Easier since the saint's still alive."
"...But from what you said, the saint doesn't seem the type."
"Holy Empire's doing, then. Up to the saint to sort it. No point dwelling here—let's go."
Rebella glanced back toward the church.
Alasil Egoman, falsely claiming the saint's name. And beside her, the Hero Party's guide.