Chapter 63: The Hero and the Saintess’ Reunion (1)

The Hero and the Saintess’ Reunion (1)

The Holy Stigma of the Divine Lord.

It was a mark bestowed upon those who had inherited the power of the Goddess Gaion, a symbol known only to Saintesses and Saints.

Even within the long history of the Holy Order, the mark was something only Saintesses were privy to. A spiral with feathered wings on either side, and a halo drawn above—it was this very emblem that appeared before Yuria’s eyes.

The Holy Stigma was a sacred secret, forbidden from being spoken of or revealed, acknowledged only in silent understanding between Saintesses and Saints.

Thus, its mystery had been preserved for countless ages.

“This… This is! The Holy Stigma… Mmph!”

Startled, Yuria instinctively covered her mouth, her body trembling as she darted her eyes around the room.

The Holy Stigma was a divine secret, forbidden to be uttered aloud. If someone overheard, it could lead to grave consequences.

Roselle withdrew the Stigma and offered a reassuring smile.

“This place is rarely visited unless there are esteemed guests. You need not worry.”

Even as she forced herself to breathe, Yuria’s wide, rabbit-like eyes remained fixed on him.

Saints, as their other title, Shadow Wanderers, implied, were beings shrouded in secrecy. It was rare to ever encounter one.

And yet, standing at the edge of despair, Yuria had now come face-to-face with a Saint.

“Ah… I can’t believe it. That Duke Roselle is a Saint… But I am no longer a Saintess. Is it even permissible for you to reveal this to me?”

“A Saintess remains a Saintess until she returns to the Holy Order and undergoes the Lower Baptism.”

“That’s true, but…”

Yuria murmured, still in disbelief.

To have encountered a Saint…

They were the eyes of the Divine, spread across the continent, yet never revealing themselves. Unlike Saintesses, who returned to the Holy Order to live out their remaining days after their divine power faded, Saints simply blended into the world, living among ordinary humans.

Thus, meeting one in a lifetime was an exceedingly rare occurrence.

Yet, something puzzled her.

“But… I read in my Holy Studies that Saints do not seek power or wealth… Not that I mean to say you do, Duke. It’s just… something I remember reading…”

Saints moved through the world as the Divine Lord’s watchful eyes, acting as unseen guardians.

Unlike Saintesses, who remained bound to their sacred towers, Saints roamed freely across the land, untethered.

That was what the Holy Scriptures had said.

And yet, the Saint before her was also Duke Roselle—a man who had built a great duchy, wielding immense wealth and power.

It was a stark contradiction.

Roselle responded without hesitation.

“There are different types of Holy Stigmas.”

“Different types…?”

“The Stigma of Judgment, the Stigma of Atonement, the Stigma of Restoration—each dictates the role a Saint must fulfill.”

“I… I see. I learned that in my studies as well.”

“But the Stigma I bear is the Stigma of Salvation.”

“The Stigma of Salvation…?”

“And the one I must save is Hero Emilia.”

“Wh-What…?”

“The Holy Stigma bestowed upon me by Goddess Gaion exists solely for the salvation of Hero Emilia.”

Yuria’s breath caught in her throat.

“Th-Then, from the very beginning… you were always meant to save Emilia?”

Roselle nodded.

The Stigma of Salvation marked upon him existed for Emilia alone.

The Holy Stigma was a divine gift, a fragment of the Divine Lord’s power that could be withstood only in small amounts by mortal vessels.

And the Stigma of Salvation had been given to save Hero Emilia.

To save her, Roselle had been granted authority and resources, as pure salvation was not bound by restrictions on power or wealth.

“Then… did you already know all of this would happen?”

‘All of this.’

Yuria knew exactly what was meant by those words.

Roselle’s expression hardened, and he nodded once again.

“I do not know everything. I am no Divine Lord.”

“I… I see.”

Yuria let out a breathless murmur.

The Holy Stigma of Salvation had nothing to do with her.

She understood that now.

But strangely, she did not feel resentment or sorrow.

She had been meant to end up here one way or another.

Meeting a Saint in this way was a stroke of fortune.

Rather than resenting Duke Roselle, she found herself feeling… disappointed in the Divine Lord instead.

If the Divine had foreseen everything, why had no guidance been given?

Would she have heard something—anything—had she chosen death when Brikal raised his blade against her?

Had she chosen to die as a Saintess instead of living as a fugitive, would the Divine have granted her a path to salvation?

“No.”

“Huh?”

She blinked, looking up at him in confusion.

“It seemed as if you were thinking your decision that day was a mistake.”

Roselle’s words pierced through her thoughts.

Yuria lowered her head, her expression clouded.

Yes, it had been a mistake.

Had she met her end as a Saintess, at least she would not be suffering in this purgatory now.

She had lived, but was she truly alive?

“Do not blame yourself.”

“What…?”

“It was not your fault. When a person is driven into desperation, their vision narrows, and they can see only the needle in front of them.”

“…!”

Roselle’s reassurance felt almost divine, as though the Divine Lord Himself was offering comfort.

Her eyes grew damp.

“And if you had chosen death that day, the seeds of the Demon King Helroc growing within Brikal would have truly taken root.”

Yuria shuddered.

She had sensed it too—that eerie feeling, that certainty that Brikal would have killed her despite all logic dictating that he could not.

“If that had happened, the situation would have spiraled beyond control. The Holy Empire would have intervened immediately.”

“The… Holy Empire…?”

“The Holy Empire would never have allowed the execution of a Saintess without their consent. It would have ignited a Holy War, and the Elond Kingdom would have been doomed.”

A war between the Elond Kingdom and the Holy Empire…

Had Brikal truly executed her, the kingdom would have fallen.

Now, she finally understood.

Her choice had not been entirely wrong—there had been light within the darkness.

That was what Saint Roselle was telling her.

Of course, that did not erase her sins.

It did not lessen the hell Emilia had endured.

But…

She was grateful nonetheless.

The Saint Roselle, who offered her comfort.

The one who was saving Emilia to correct the mistakes of her past choices.

To repay that, to uphold the will of the Holy Stigma, she now knew exactly what she had to do.

“…I’m sorry…”

“There is no need to apologize. You only followed the path set by fate.”

Despite Roselle’s comforting words, the moisture in Yuria’s eyes grew heavier.

“I’m sorry… I’m truly sorry… I will return to the Holy Order, confess my sins, and accept my punishment… I’m so sorry…”

The punishment for the choice she made that day would be insignificant.

That much had been preordained—like the unfolding of a story.

However, the fact that she had chosen to run away instead of taking responsibility was an unfortunate decision.

And the Holy Order would be the one to pass judgment upon her.

Of course, as a fellow sinner, Roselle would help her.

“I’m sorry… I’ll do anything…”

Yuria repeatedly bowed her head, like a sinner repenting before a priest.

She knew that he had no authority to forgive her, nor was he the one who should be receiving her apology.

Yet Roselle silently listened.

For now, he chose to simply listen.

In place of the Divine Lord, who no longer heard her prayers, he would bear witness to her repentance.

As a fellow sinner who shouldered responsibility for this disaster.

For part of the guilt that weighed her down had been caused by his actions.

She would likely never know the truth.

That the Saint of Salvation—the title she knew him by—was only one of many names Roselle possessed.

And so, for a long time, Yuria wept before Saint Roselle, repenting her sins.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Seated at her desk, Emilia sketched diligently.

Each time she had free moments, she had drawn fervently.

Before she realized it, she had reached the part of the story depicting the final battle against the Demon King.

Lady Cilia’s friends had often visited to borrow copies of her work.

Apparently, a young noble named Glon was especially fascinated and had been persistently begging to meet the creator of the story.

Cilia had confided in her, saying it was becoming a bit troublesome.

Still, it was a pleasant thing to hear.

It meant there were people who loved the tale of the Hero.

Today, as always, Emilia was hard at work drawing when she suddenly set down her pencil and stood up.

Knock, knock, knock.

It was Roselle’s knock.

She hurried to the door and opened it, revealing Roselle, who stood with a gentle smile.

“Roselle.”

“Did I interrupt you?”

His gaze fell upon the scattered drawings on her desk.

Emilia chuckled and playfully nudged his arm.

“What do you mean, interrupt? I wanted to se—ah, no, never mind.”

She had almost said it.

I wanted to see you.

The words felt too awkward, so she quickly shut her mouth.

Her relationship with Roselle.

She was sure that they had moved beyond the bond of master and s*ave, but their connection was still uncertain.

There had been no confessions, no mutual declarations of love.

Of course, she knew.

She knew how much Roselle cherished her.

But just knowing wasn’t enough to define their relationship.

And she couldn’t tell what stage his feelings had reached.

So she remained cautious.

The closer they became, the more she felt as though she were reaching for a forbidden tree, something beyond her grasp.

Roselle was too perfect—both as a person and in his status.

If he approached her, she had no intention of rejecting him.

After all, what woman in the world would turn away a man like Roselle?

But he never crossed that line.

He stayed at a distance, never advancing beyond the emotions he allowed himself to show.

It felt as though something was holding him back.

As if shackles bound him, keeping him from stepping any closer.

If they were to define their relationship, she needed to understand what those shackles were.

And so, the deeper her feelings grew, the more carefully she tread.

Roselle extended his hand toward her.

He understood her conflicted emotions.

But he could not fully express his own feelings to her.

Because he was a sinner.

Because her healing had to come first.

The truth he carried was too heavy, and revealing it would bring another trial upon her.

So he hesitated.

Should he reveal the truth?

Or should he bury it forever, taking it with him to the grave?

He had yet to make his final decision.

But he knew.

The time to face that truth was approaching.

Even so, Emilia’s complete recovery remained his first priority.

He had planned for a lifetime to bring her to this point.

Now, as she finally healed, he did not want to tear open old wounds.

For now, he would follow his divine mission—the path of Salvation that the Divine Lord had entrusted to him.

Emilia hesitated for a moment, then gently placed her hand on her chest before taking his hand.

“…Why are you holding my hand…?”

“Let’s go.”

“Go… where?”

“It’s time to peel away the last scab.”

For now…

He would do everything he could to ensure her wounds fully healed.

Even if it was an excuse.

Even if it was cowardly.

As a bystander, as a watcher, this was the only choice he could make.