Chapter 44: The Illiterate Saint Prays

Yuria wiped away her tears and began walking with a blank expression.

Her eyes, devoid of focus and filled with emptiness, no longer seemed to belong to the living.

Those eyes, sunken deeper than those of the dead, radiated no life.

Instead, they harbored only sinful emotions—regret, lamentation, sorrow, tragedy, despair, and grief.

Duvel’s gaze, as he faced her while arrows rained down after severing Brikal’s flesh, remained vividly imprinted in her mind.

Duvel had smiled faintly.

That smile, free of regret and burden, had been directed at her.

What had it meant?

Did he know she shared his pain and remorse?

Was that why he smiled as he departed?

As if to say that while he regretted his past choices, he had no regrets about the choice he made today?

Yuria pondered his smile for a long time but couldn’t define its meaning.

Of course, she couldn’t.

The layers of regret and sorrow Duvel carried were a puzzle too complex for mere words to unravel.

“…Sir Duvel, why…?”

She understood that his death was a noble and heroic sacrifice—a triumph over the survival instinct.

Knowing this, Yuria’s guilt grew unbearably heavy.

It was all her fault.

Duvel had sacrificed himself because of the day she chose survival over truth.

That day, when she became weak and cowardly.

A life crucial to the kingdom had been lost in vain.

Step by step.

Though it wasn’t yet midwinter, Yuria walked barefoot across the icy-cold stone floor of the royal palace.

Feeling the cold and pain seep into her soles, she walked until she came to a stop.

“…May I enter?”

Standing before King Brikal’s bedchamber, she spoke to the knights guarding the door, who promptly opened it without question.

Yuria entered the room but immediately pinched her nose in disgust.

“…What is that smell?”

It was an unbearable stench, indescribable yet strangely familiar.

Covering her nose, Yuria approached Brikal, who lay bedridden.

The closer she got, the stronger the foul odor became, making it difficult to continue. Yet, Yuria lowered her hand from her nose.

She realized she had no right to reject the stench emanating from Brikal.

Though the High Priest had stopped his bleeding, the scars left from the healing process were ghastly, almost too horrific to look at.

Was the smell coming from those scars?

No… something about this smell seems off…

It was far too putrid to be from healed wounds. It smelled as if it had risen from the depths of a sewer.

She glanced at the knight behind her, who wore a serene expression.

Despite the nauseating smell filling the room, the knight’s face remained calm, suggesting the stench was something only she could detect.

And yet, the increasingly familiar stench stirred something in her memory.

It was a bizarre smell, as if it contained traces of something beyond human.

She didn’t know what this smell, which only she could sense, was trying to convey.

But one thing was clear: this odor wasn’t something the living could produce.

It resembled the stench of a rotting corpse, yet Brikal, peacefully asleep, didn’t seem close to death.

So why did he emit the smell of the dead? Brikal still exuded vitality, and the High Priest Keiron had confirmed that his life wasn’t in danger.

Could the priest have been mistaken?

…Surely not…

She tried to dismiss the sudden thought that crossed her mind, but Yuria’s body swayed violently.

A knight quickly caught her.

“Are you alright, Saintess?”

“Ah, I’m sorry… I just felt dizzy.”

“It seems this ordeal has been quite overwhelming for you, Saintess. Allow me to escort you back to the tower.”

She wasn’t shaken by Brikal’s condition.

She loathed and despised him; his misfortune brought her joy. She had often wished for his death.

As a once-sacred saint turned frail human, Yuria had long craved Brikal’s demise.

His downfall was something she could only celebrate.

However, for some reason, she had an ominous feeling that Brikal’s misfortune would serve as a turning point.

“…Where is the Holy Sword?”

“Only His Majesty the King and the Great Sage Warlok know,” was the reply.

“…I see.”

On that fateful day, Emilia had been stripped of both her power and the Holy Sword.

The indestructible Holy Sword and its power had been hidden by Brikal somewhere within the palace, its traces completely erased.

Yuria sighed softly and turned away.

Such thoughts were impossible to entertain now, so she began organizing her scattered worries and thoughts.

Premature concerns would only spread like wildfire.

Yet the ominous stench emanating from Brikal felt as though it were planting the seeds of worry, pressing them into the soil.

…It won’t be, it can’t be.

If she prayed to the Supreme God, perhaps one day the threads of prophecy would appear in her dreams.

As a saint, her prayers for the greater good were sometimes answered, depending on their urgency.

But now, she could only sink into the vicious cycle of worry, helpless as a fragile human, thirsting for answers that would not come.

“Let us go, Saintess.”

“Yes…”

Following the knight, Yuria left the bedchamber and headed toward the tower.

Today, the title of “Saintess” sounded particularly loathsome, but she dared not show her discontent.

To reveal her discontent would render all her past mistakes for survival meaningless.

She followed the knight silently.

As Yuria entered the tower and began climbing the stairs, she ascended to its topmost floor, where she would be closest to the Supreme God.

Gasping for breath, she knelt by the window.

Clasping her hands together, she closed her eyes and began to pray to the Supreme God, as she always had since receiving the divine oracle.

Without fail, every day, she prayed.

“Please… O Supreme God… Illuminate my path… Whatever it may be, I will walk it without hesitation…”

The late afternoon sun poured its golden rays through the window.

Yuria continued praying from dusk till nightfall and into the dawn.

With desperate longing and a heart full of sorrow, she prayed.

Though now it was nothing more than the hopeless wish of a broken human, a futile prayer, Yuria did not stop.

Even as an illiterate saint—or rather, a hollow, false saint—she persisted.

All that remained for a saint stripped of divine power was this meaningless prayer.

The Supreme God would never speak to a sinner who had blasphemed His name, yet Yuria continued her endless prayer.

“Please… please… What should I do…? Please, tell me…”

Her unanswered prayers.

Her pleas that fell on deaf ears.

She poured out her tears without end.

In Rosel’s office.

“What? A revolution…?”

Grand Duke Lucillan, who had sought an audience with Rosel hoping not to waste time, found himself raising his drooping eyelids for the first time in a long while.

The older he got, the less interest he found in the world, and the tedium of old age weighed down his eyelids.

Having lived through countless events, nothing seemed capable of piquing his interest anymore.

But Rosel’s proposal was not only intriguing—it was shocking.

“…If it succeeds, it will be a revolution. If it fails, it will be a rebellion.”

History bore this out.

A successful rebellion would be recorded as a revolution, passed down to posterity, while a failed revolution would be remembered as a mere rebellion.

Knowing this, Lucillan, seated at the head of the sofa, nodded repeatedly.

“That… that’s true. I was worried it would be a waste of time, but this proposal stirs even this old woman’s heart.”

Rosel, maintaining a solemn expression, waited silently for her to continue.

The encirclement strategies for the western and eastern fronts were progressing smoothly, but it was impossible to extend their forces to the north and south.

Deploying troops in the north and south would risk alerting Brikal.

That was why Rosel needed the support of Grand Duke Lucillan, who harbored animosity toward Brikal.

He believed she would accept the proposal to settle her long-standing grudge.

If the north was resolved, the south would follow.

There were plans to propose an alliance to the Southern Count of Blades, Nebron, but without securing the north first, they couldn’t proceed to the next step.

Lucillan was the perfect candidate—trustworthy and powerful—for the northern campaign.

Yet, despite its apparent sweetness, the proposal didn’t seem entirely appealing; Lucillan crossed her arms defensively.

Her guarded posture made her reluctance clear, and Rosel’s expression hardened.

“Hm… To oust Brikal, you say. I don’t doubt your political or military prowess, but honestly, isn’t this reckless? Brikal’s army is where the kingdom’s most powerful warriors and its ultimate weapon gather, isn’t it?”

Rosel nodded.

That was why he needed Grand Duke Lucillan’s help even more.

Only by overwhelming the enemy with sheer force could they shatter their will to fight and minimize the number of innocent sacrifices.

“That’s precisely why I am making this proposal to you, Your Grace.”

“…Why bring such a proposal to an old soldier on the brink of retirement?”

“To save this crumbling kingdom from a lie.”

“A lie… crumbling?”

Lucillan raised an eyebrow, motioning for him to continue.

Rosel pulled a blue sapphire from his pocket.

“Do you truly believe that Hero Emilia intended to commit treason, Your Grace?”

“…Believe it? What else could I do? Didn’t the Saintess herself prophesy it?”

As Rosel placed the sapphire into a magical artifact on the table, he spoke.

“What if that prophecy was a lie… would you believe that?”

“…What? A lie? Do you even realize what you’re saying…?”

“I do. It is blasphemy.”

Lucillan’s wrinkled cheeks trembled as his mouth fell open in shock.

The Saintess’s prophecy was sacred and holy.

To doubt her ability was akin to questioning the entire Imperial Church, leaving Lucillan utterly aghast.

“I… I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Don’t ever bring it up again. You’re being far too reckless!”

But Rosel remained calm.

Within that calm demeanor lay a hint of sorrow.

He understood the circumstances that had led to Saintess Yuria’s decision.

Though aware that Yuria’s false prophecy had triggered Emilia’s downfall, Rosel held no resentment.

He only wondered whether Duvel, like others, had begun to change or had refused to change despite knowing the truth.

Last night, Duvel’s gaze toward Brikal had shown signs of change.

“As Your Grace knows, divine power is not eternal.”

“Of course not.”

“And a Saintess whose divine power has run dry can speak falsehoods.”

“But… but why would she? Why would any Saintess commit such madness when she could return to the Church and enjoy a comfortable, prosperous life?”

Rosel activated the recording artifact, and soon Emilia’s bright, smiling face appeared above the table.

The true Emilia, who had always dreamed big and sacrificed herself for her comrades.

“Th-this is…?”

Rosel gazed at the recording with a distant, melancholic look.

He did not know how Yuria had lived since making her choice that day.

The events following that day were a mystery even to him.

He only hoped that she was repenting for her decision.

“Saintess Yuria made that ‘choice’ because she had no other option.”

“…No choice but to make a false prophecy?”

“That choice was ‘forced’ upon her by Brikal.”

“W-what?”

“A Saintess without divine power is no more than a common human desperate to survive.”

“What… what are you saying…?”

Lucillan could hardly believe what Rosel was saying.

The claim that the Saintess’s divine power had run out and that Brikal had exploited this?

It was an absurd, shocking tale that left Lucillan, his face flushed as if with high blood pressure, unable to speak.

It made no sense.

To exploit the Saintess for personal gain was to defy the Church.

What kind of mad king would commit such a sacrilegious crime against the Church?

What kind of mad king would engage in such foolish self-destruction?

What kind of mad king would plunge the kingdom into such ruin?

“Unbelievable! Do you intend to give this old woman a heart attack?!”

Yet, Rosel remained composed.

He glanced at the smiling image of Emilia in the recording and offered a faint smile of his own.

“…You must steel yourself, Your Grace.”

“The turbulent age of chaos has begun.”