God’s Will and Mortal Schemes

“So, she is your trump card, then?” Pierre, the Foreign Minister, turned to Bishop Rhys and inquired.

“Has she been hidden away all this time, or was her discovery a genuine accident?”

“I can only say that all of this is God’s will,” Rhys replied with an air of profound serenity. “Perhaps God arranged for Antolia to come to us, to save us.”

“It’s rather strange,” Pierre mused, glancing at him. “You’re a priest, so hearing such words from you shouldn’t be odd, but coming from *your* mouth, I can’t shake the feeling of being mocked.”

He continued, “I’ve always seen you as a pragmatist. It’s precisely your realism and your disbelief that prayer alone brings salvation that has kept you from collapsing entirely. For someone like you to retain faith and remain in the church at a time like this is nothing short of incredible. Yet now you’re telling me you believe in God’s will… Are you playing games with me? But indeed, let’s be serious. Do you truly believe the Holy See can ever reclaim its former glory?”

“It’s likely impossible,” Rhys admitted with a wry smile. “Indeed, if you look back, you know me well from my days as a monk. The church was one of the few avenues for a scoundrel from the backwoods to rise in society. I won’t deny that, in the past, I genuinely sought to become a cleric, to preach in my parish, to line my pockets with the people’s offerings, and to sell a few trifles under the guise of faith. That life was certainly comfortable, and not bad at all. You remember whose coattails I rode back then, don’t you?”

“‘Saint’ Kasa,” Rhys uttered, a hint of mockery in his voice, prompting Pierre to chuckle as well.

“Archbishop Kasa’s statue still stands here,” Pierre remarked. “Even with the collapse of the Holy See, people still remember his achievements. Every year, there’s a day dedicated to laying wreaths for him. You’re surely aware of the saying: ‘If Archbishop Kasa hadn’t fallen in the conflict with the orcs, he surely would have led the Border Church to withstand the Demon King’s army, preventing such a tragic outcome.’”

“But we both know that’s utter nonsense,” Rhys countered. “The one who never takes the field is always deemed the strongest. Archbishop Kasa was nothing more than an opportunistic charlatan, an incompetent. The true savior during the Siege of Linders was not him; he merely reaped the final rewards. And the Eastern Mines War unequivocally revealed his true mediocrity. But what does it matter? Some believe his legends; no one truly cares what such a man was like in life. They only know his legend survived, leading some to refute it and others to sing his praises. Ultimately, what he left behind was not himself, but a name, and the image that name represented.”

“You see through everything so clearly, which is why I’ve always considered you one of the few truly intelligent people,” Pierre stated. “So this time, why haven’t you seen it? The King doesn’t care about your needs at all; he merely desires your submission. If he insists, you’ll have no recourse. You cannot possibly rebel against your own kingdom in Draine. He wants you to understand that.”

“Any capitulation is negotiable,” Rhys replied, “but negotiation requires leverage. Without it, one is merely a pawn on the chessboard, to be manipulated at will. We have already lost so much. As you said, at this juncture, everyone can see that the church no longer possesses its former splendor. Yet, this is also a blessing. It means that all who are still willing to remain beneath this banner, all who are willing to join it, are either steadfast fools of faith or valiant seekers of light. We have sold the cathedral’s paintings, its decorations, and its stained-glass windows, but the light endures. Holy Light is the last vestige that grants us a shred of dignity; I cannot let go of that, too.”

“That child, she is merely a child,” Pierre said, his voice softening. “You shouldn’t involve her in such matters. It’s far too much for her.”

“I did not bring her here,” Rhys stated, causing Pierre to pause. Then, Rhys pointed a finger skyward, a serene smile gracing his lips.

“All of this is God’s will. Just as my good friend Pierre will help me overcome this ordeal.”

“…Madman!” Pierre cursed under his breath. He then stroked his beard and departed. Rhys watched his retreating back. Off the record, they were the closest of friends. When Rhys served as Archbishop Kasa’s aide, Pierre, as the Duke’s younger son, also worked as a junior official in the city hall. In their youth, they had both shared their grand ambitions in the same tavern. With the passage of time, Rhys became a fallen bishop, and Pierre rose to become the nation’s Foreign Minister, a position akin to a prime minister. Yet, their private friendship had always remained strong. The church’s continued existence, its ability to maintain its place and identity within the city, was entirely thanks to Pierre’s willingness to help.

“I once lost my faith, and I lost myself,” Rhys mused, gazing serenely to the side. “But I ultimately chose to persevere because there are still those who need the church to exist, and because I still have brothers I can rely on.”

****

“So, the border forests are really dangerous at night?”

“Miss Anto must have been very popular with all sorts of people when she was at the border, right?”

On the other side, young men and women gathered around her, their lives as noble scions being both affluent and tedious. What they cherished most were the deviations from the norm, the unexpected changes. What could possibly captivate their attention more at this moment than the topic of ‘a beautiful nun from the humble borderlands’? The answer was nothing. The girls were interested in her life and her beauty, while the boys were captivated by her preferences and her beauty. Surprisingly, despite her humble origins, Sister Antolia’s social etiquette training had not been neglected. She could answer every question with grace, and after adapting to the environment, she even displayed a somewhat talkative nature. Though she rarely initiated topics herself, her kindly smile in response to others always made them feel as if they were being caressed by a gentle spring breeze. Such a tender girl invariably appealed to the softest inclinations within men’s hearts.

“Miss Antolia… she’s truly beautiful,” one of the young women remarked. “I’d heard before that believing in the Holy Light can really improve one’s skin. I didn’t quite believe it then, but after seeing Sister Antolia, I have no choice but to believe.”

“Well, actually, skin quality is primarily determined by one’s innate constitution, supplemented by later care…”

“Then, what kind of skincare products does Sister Antolia usually use? Could you tell us about them?”

“Oh, those… I can’t afford the skincare products sold on the market,” Antolia replied, lifting her gaze. “I usually make my own, using unique herbs, spices, and flowers from the borderlands. If you don’t mind, I can share some of my usual care items with you all. Of course, everyone’s skin texture is different, so different methods are needed for particular individuals. Special formulations can also be arranged.” A pure smile graced her lips, and for some inexplicable reason, it was so deeply moving, making everyone believe she harbored no ulterior motives; only pure goodwill seemed to overflow from her. Many young men had already added Sister Anto to their mental lists, and the noble young women, far from excluding her, silently murmured to themselves, ‘She truly is an angel.’