The Undeniable Miracle

Northland had just weathered a blizzard. Icy winds, unhindered by any barrier, swept in from the desolate frozen plains, blanketing every village, town, and city across the empire’s frontier in a shimmering veil of silver-white frost.

Oliver Village, though situated further south than Kohl Town, still found itself besieged by the biting cold.

This was no season for cultivation; even game proved elusive. With Beastmen lurking, venturing into the forest was an unthinkable risk.

The Blazing Sun Holy Church Knights, hailing from the Salentz Religious Territory, moved between Northland’s various settlements with their massive logistics train.

They distributed food and supplies to Kohl Town and the surrounding villages, ensuring every household had access to free provisions.

All expenses for this monumental undertaking were deducted directly from His Holiness the Pope’s private coffers.

Initially, the populace feared this expeditionary force, poised for a prolonged stay, would cripple local harvests.

Yet, to their astonishment, the current Pope—rumored to be excessively fond of accumulating wealth—had proven remarkably generous.

Had Daphne heard these villagers’ sentiments, she would have undoubtedly bristled with indignation.

Her painstaking accumulation of wealth over so many years had, of course, been precisely for this year’s grand expedition.

Military campaigns were notoriously expensive, capable of depleting decades of savings in merely a year or two.

Daphne was not so heartless as to forcibly levy grain and taxes in this harsh, frozen land.

A force of nearly fifty thousand would overwhelm Kohl Town and its few neighboring villages.

Their purpose was to protect this region, not to plunder it.

This very fact explained the villagers of Oliver’s profound goodwill and respect for the Templar Knights.

Upon Gwynevere’s arrival in Oliver, leading a contingent of roughly four hundred — comprising two Templar Knights and their squires and guards — the village chief and several villagers extended a warm welcome.

They eagerly guided Gwynevere and the two knights towards the village’s burial grounds.

It was then, amidst the throng of villagers, that Gwynevere found herself face-to-face with Daphne, who was disguised as Ellenore.

Gwynevere hailed from the Salentz Religious Territory, while Ellenore was from the Salentz Religious Territory.

Though both fell under the Blazing Sun Church’s jurisdiction, the two regions were separated by thousands of miles, making this Gwynevere’s first encounter with Ellenore.

She had heard whispers that Arch-Chantress Ellenore Perkin often veiled her face, revealing only a pair of captivating, emerald eyes.

To witness it firsthand now confirmed the rumors.

Ellenore possessed a delicate, ethereal beauty, a quality that stirred a sense of déjà vu within Gwynevere.

However, the most pressing question remained: how could a dead woman crawl from the earth and stand before her?

“Are you truly Ellenore Perkin?” Gwynevere voiced her immediate suspicion, allowing the tip of her sea crystal staff to emerge slightly from beneath her cloak, emitting a faint, chilling mist.

“How can I be certain this isn’t some necromancer’s trick?”

The resurrection of the deceased wasn’t always a divine miracle; it could just as easily be necromantic sorcery.

Especially considering that beyond the mountains lay the very dominion of the dead.

‘Indeed, how could she prove it?’

‘Perhaps by stripping off her tunic and letting Her Ladyship the Saintess feel her flesh again, to ascertain its warmth and softness?’

Daphne was just about to extend her arm for Gwynevere to check her pulse when a sudden, loud exclamation interrupted her.

“Your Ladyship the Saintess, this is undoubtedly Lady Vatitaya herself descending upon the mortal realm to perform a miracle and save a devout believer!” An elderly man pushed through the crowd, collapsing to his knees between Gwynevere and Daphne.

Perhaps only someone of his advanced age would possess such unwavering faith that the Sun Goddess still watched over the world.

“Look, Arch-Chantress Ellenore’s face still holds color, completely unlike the pale, rigid skin of a zombie. And since waking, her appetite has been remarkably good; she’s eaten all the offerings we laid out!”

“Everyone here saw it,” a young man chimed in, echoing the sentiment.

“How could a zombie possibly be as beautiful as Miss Ellenore?”

‘Ah, at that age, beauty reigns supreme; one’s worldview is entirely dictated by aesthetics.’

Consequently, both the elders and the youth of the village unanimously agreed that Ellenore’s resurrection was a magnificent display of Vatitaya’s divine power.

Rumors even spread that her emergence from the earth was accompanied by a brilliant, corona-like light, nearly blinding everyone present.

As the subject of this spectacle, Daphne found herself sweating profusely, yet she dared not refute any of it.

After all, every claim worked in her favor.

‘Was this what they called “having a great scholar debate on her behalf”?’

Still half-skeptical, Gwynevere slowly advanced towards Daphne, leaning in to scrutinize her face and form.

“Greetings, Miss Gwynevere, I have long heard of your name…” Daphne adopted a slightly demure feminine tone.

However, as Gwynevere’s gaze roamed more brazenly over her, Daphne’s voice began to tremble slightly.

‘Blood Disguise’ could mimic appearance, but it couldn’t perfectly alter one’s physique and figure.

Thus, Daphne remained half a head shorter than Gwynevere, and her chest retained its original, modest proportions.

When Gwynevere’s gaze finally settled lingeringly on her chest, Daphne completely lost her composure.

“Your Ladyship the Saintess, where… where are you looking?”

Gwynevere withdrew her gaze, then glanced down at herself, a subtle upward curve gracing the corner of her lips.

‘This girl! How utterly uncouth! What was she comparing with a woman she’d just met for the first time!?’

Daphne was seething; she had certainly never taught Gwynevere such behavior.

The pure Saintess had clearly gone astray.

“It’s nothing. Indeed, it’s the aura of a living person; I’ve confirmed it,” Gwynevere said, feigning nonchalance as she retracted her staff and concealed it beneath her cloak.

“My apologies, Miss Ellenore, I meant no offense.”

“It’s understandable. After all, Klogotia lies just on the other side of the mountains, so caution against the undead is perfectly normal.” Daphne secretly breathed a sigh of relief.

“Saintess is merely a useless title. I owe you my respect, Arch-Chantress,” Gwynevere stated, taking two steps back before kneeling amidst the crowd and bowing her head to Daphne.

“Thank you, Lady Vatitaya, for bringing you back to the mortal realm. This is an undeniable miracle; she is benevolent and great.”

The two Templar Knights accompanying Gwynevere also knelt, reciting praises in devout tones:

“Welcome back to the mortal realm, Arch-Chantress Ellenore. And thank you, Lady Vatitaya, for she is benevolent and great.”

Most of the villagers were also followers of the Goddess, and whether devout or not, they joined in a chorus of praise:

“Thank you, Lady Vatitaya, for she is benevolent and great.”

A light breeze, laden with ice and snow, swept from afar, lifting her robes.

The silver-white snow peaks glittered brilliantly in the dawn, the dark curtain of night was utterly torn asunder, and a streak of azure painted the heavens.

At this moment, only Daphne stood upright, encircled at the center, with a sea of kneeling figures before her.

‘Finally, she felt a semblance of being the Pope again, even if only a slight one.’