The Saintess’s Return and a Priest’s Welcome

Ellenore Perkin, the Grand Chantress, was naturally frail and unable to complete the journey on horseback alone. Several carriages had been arranged for her within the northbound retinue from the St. Mary’s Ecclesiastical Domain.

However, all these carriages had been utterly destroyed during the beastmen’s attacks, rendering them unusable.

Gwynevere instructed her attendants to hasten back to Kohl Town to prepare new carriages. It wasn’t until midday, when the carriages successfully arrived at Oliver Village, that they finally began their journey back.

“What did you witness in the world after death?”

Inside the slightly jostling carriage, Gwynevere and Daphne sat facing each other. Gwynevere held her staff horizontally across her lap, her legs bent to the side, and her gaze flickered directly towards Daphne.

“Only… darkness? Nothing at all…” Daphne’s entire body trembled faintly as she hugged her arms tightly, curling in on herself. “And it was so cold, a biting chill… colder than winter here…”

“Were there any particular signs before you awoke?” Gwynevere’s tone was flat, devoid of any human warmth, sounding more like an interrogation.

“A beam of light, I saw a beam of light.” Daphne spoke with theatrical emotion, even managing to squeeze out a tear from the corner of her eye. “That light dispelled the darkness and the biting cold. It was warm and fervent, and I saw the figure of a lady standing within it. That must have been the benevolent and great Lady Vatitaya.”

Naturally, the Saintess, whose heart was harder than stone, showed little reaction to Daphne’s heartfelt performance. She merely offered a bland assessment: “Lady Vatitaya’s appearance this time seems more purposeful than when she manifested during my childhood. The Sun Goddess undoubtedly has her reasons for bringing you back to the mortal realm.”

‘Purposeful’—the word felt strange somehow. Could deities truly be ‘perfunctory’ when manifesting their power?

Yet, according to the original timeline, Lady Vatitaya had simply fallen back into slumber after bestowing her blessing upon Gwynevere. She hadn’t even opened her eyes to intervene when her chosen one was murdered by the Blood Clan.

‘Perhaps, in a way, that could be considered ‘perfunctory’?’

Nevertheless, there was nothing to be done. The Sun Goddess Vatitaya now existed only as an incomplete concept. The divine souls of many other gods of order had long since dissipated, just like hers, beyond any hope of reunification.

“Upon returning to Kohl Town, please ensure you rest well for a period.” Gwynevere’s ice-amber eyes held no ripple of emotion, her gaze causing a subtle shiver of trepidation. “The Knight Order has encountered numerous troubles recently and may not have much energy to attend to you. Please bear with us.”

“I merely require a quiet room; I won’t trouble you too much,” Daphne said with an awkward laugh.

“It is excellent that you understand.”

After this brief reply, Gwynevere closed her eyes, resting on her own accord, and spoke no further.

‘How unlikable.’

As the carriage swayed gently, Daphne watched Gwynevere resting opposite her, silently complaining. Compared to Edith, the Saintess was far more cold and uninteresting, utterly unlikable.

There was indeed a difference between raising one daughter and another.

Though Daphne had always groomed them to be the core strength against the impending Twilight of the End, and shouldn’t have invested too much emotion, she wasn’t truly stone-hearted.

However, with Gwynevere’s personality, Daphne found it difficult to regard her as a daughter.

No emotions, no desires, no aspirations.

It seemed nothing mattered to her; she simply did whatever was asked, more akin to an obedient puppet or a machine than a living, breathing young woman.

Her human empathy was thin, and her interpersonal relationships were a mess.

To spend every day using such an icy heart to guess at others’ thoughts and emotions seemed needlessly exhausting.

A strand of platinum hair fell from her forehead, dangling near the Saintess’s finely sculpted brow. She seemed oblivious, her breathing steady and even, as if she had already fallen asleep.

‘She probably hasn’t slept all night.’

The Pope had vanished yesterday, and this morning, such a chaotic incident had erupted.

With Bertram gone and Arvis absent, Gwynevere was the sole leader of these Templar Knights. She had to shoulder the burden.

Daphne instinctively reached out to brush the strand of hair behind Gwynevere’s ear, but her fingertips halted an inch from her brow.

She suddenly realized that she was no longer Pope Bertram. Grand Chantress Ellenore and Saintess Gwynevere were supposed to be meeting for the first time today; such a familiar gesture, typically reserved for close relatives, was no longer appropriate.

Even though she had returned, many things could never go back to how they were.

Her hand quietly retracted, and a touch of melancholy entered Daphne’s eyes.

As she sat sideways, her gown inevitably revealed a glimpse of her white-stockinged thigh through its high slit. The chill wind of the Northland slipped through a gap in the curtain, swirling into the cramped carriage, causing Gwynevere to shiver during her brief nap.

“You foolish Saintess, what will you do without Edith and me?” Daphne sighed.

She then removed the cloak from her back and gently draped it over Gwynevere’s lap.

****

The two Templar Knights who had accompanied Gwynevere remained in Oliver Village to guard against the increasingly rampant beastmen attacks. Meanwhile, Gwynevere and Daphne arrived back in Kohl Town by carriage in the afternoon.

Kohl Town’s local church stood prominently in the very center of the town. Houses lined both sides of the central road, and behind a wide plaza, the somewhat solemn black and white edifice rose conspicuously.

A gilded cross stood atop its pointed roof, and the church’s emblem, a sundial intertwined with a longsword, was carved beneath the eaves.

Inside the church hall, tables and chairs had been removed, replaced by temporary linen beds. The mingled scents of blood, decay, and medicinal herbs made it feel less like a church and more like a hospital.

Indeed, it was precisely that. The small town had no hospital, and only a building of the church’s size could accommodate so many wounded.

The local town priest had heard the news of Grand Chantress Ellenore’s resurrection and her imminent arrival in Kohl Town. As soon as Gwynevere led Daphne into the church, the priest stepped forward to greet them.

Pastor Amos was nearing fifty. A few strands of aged silver-grey hair peeked out from beneath the edge of his white priest’s hat. His stern, rigid face was etched with several sharp wrinkles, immediately betraying a man of difficult temperament.

“Miss Ellenore, the Emerald of St. Mary’s Ecclesiastical Domain, I have long admired your reputation.” The priest forced an unnatural smile onto his aging face. “After this incident, it is all but certain you will become the Grand Archbishop of St. Mary’s. Lady Vatitaya’s favor and compassion for you are almost comparable to the status of a Saintess.”

‘That didn’t sound particularly friendly.’

Furthermore, as Amos spoke, he kept glancing, intentionally or not, towards Gwynevere standing beside Daphne. It was hard not to suspect the old man had an ulterior motive.

“Miss Ellenore was the sole survivor among a retinue of sixty-four. Escaping death is no easy feat, and she now requires a quiet environment to rest.” Gwynevere, ever indifferent to such veiled subtleties in conversation, coldly cut short the priest’s ill-intentioned pleasantries. “You have reserved a room for the Grand Chantress, haven’t you, Pastor Amos?”

Amos cleared his throat awkwardly. Just as he was about to speak, he was interrupted by a series of quick, light footsteps.

“Sister, you’re back!”

A girl with long, golden curly hair, holding the hem of her aqua-blue gown, pattered quickly down the stairs. Before her figure even appeared, her soft, bell-like voice echoed joyfully through the church hall.

Hearing that familiar voice, Daphne’s mood instantly lightened, as if all the hardships she had endured had simply vanished.

‘As long as Edith is here, everything will be fine.’

‘Because she’s simply an angel.’