The Saintess Who Should Not Exist

At Libitina's observation, Asselin raised his eyebrows as if genuinely surprised. Then, a moment later, he waved it off as though it were of no consequence.

"The reason I don't demand proof is that I would have no way of accurately judging it even if you provided any. My knowledge of Saintesses is sorely lacking. If my ignorance has offended you, I apologize."

"Your ignorance?"

"Ah. You did say you were from five hundred years ago."

He murmured it as if he'd briefly forgotten that piece of information — which, in turn, proved that he hadn't taken her claim the least bit seriously to begin with.

It was the moment Libitina's eyes began to narrow dangerously.

"The last official manifestation of a Saintess was five hundred years ago."

At Asselin's next words, Libitina forgot the anger she'd been biting back and stared at him, wide-eyed.

"…I'm sorry, what did you just say?"

Asselin studied her open bewilderment for a quiet moment before explaining, calm and measured.

"I mean that in the time between your death and the present day, no Saintess has ever existed upon this earth."

Libitina found herself utterly speechless.

The last moment she remembered — the world just before she entered the demonic cave — was one where Saintesses, while hardly common, were not singular beings either. Even setting aside Saintess Livia, the Order had other Saintesses laboring to raise their successors. Saintesses were…

What in God's name happened to all the other Saintesses?

"I am in no position to judge you lightly, nor can I gauge the extent of your influence, and so I cannot simply hand you over to others — nor, for that matter, permit even casual contact. I ask for your understanding in this."

Libitina, who had been on the verge of asking after the other Saintesses' whereabouts, shut her mouth. By Asselin's account, he was ignorant of the very existence of Saintesses. Something had clearly gone terribly wrong. There was no point interrogating a man who knew nothing; what she needed was to go to the central Order and dig through whatever records she could find.

Pressing her tongue against her lips, Libitina forced her pounding heart to calm and answered in a voice gone flat and cold.

"You've wrapped it up in very fancy language, but the conclusion is that you don't trust me, so you'll watch me yourself. Isn't that right?"

"If that is how it sounded, then the fault lies in my poor phrasing. I apologize."

"So if I'm such an unreliable quantity, why leave me this much freedom? What if I decide to command everyone around me with a single glance?"

At this somewhat rebellious question, Asselin's eyes thinned. Was it her imagination, or had his tightly pressed, straight lips curled into something suspiciously crooked?

"Ah. Was such a thing possible five hundred years ago?"

Oh. Not her imagination after all.

"You're laughing at me."

"That was not my intention. That said, if that is how it appeared, I apologize."

So a perfectly polite apology could leave this foul a taste in one's mouth. It was a newly acquired piece of wisdom she could have done without.

Seeing Libitina's expression darken, Asselin clicked his tongue softly. Adopting a deliberately magnanimous tone, he tried to placate her.

"However, I must confess — I do not put my faith in unverified myths or miracles."

Libitina's mouth fell open before she could stop it. That, truly, was blasphemy so flagrant she could scarcely believe it had come from a holy knight's mouth.

"You don't believe in God's power?"

"Humanity leans upon the authority of God. The Order exists to shelter their frailty and to serve as a compass pointing them toward the righteous path. It does not resort to blind agitation through an uncertain divinity."

Every single word out of Asselin's mouth was so astounding that Libitina, flabbergasted beyond measure, couldn't even muster a rebuttal.

An uncertain divinity? Holy power that drives out demonic energy and purifies corruption, manifesting right before his eyes — how could anyone spew that kind of nonsense even after witnessing it? Holy power was God's undeniable grace, His blessing made flesh.

Oh, right. He'd said the last Saintess appeared five hundred years ago. So this man had never once seen holy power manifest.

…Not just this man. Everyone in this entire world?

Even thinking it herself, it refused to feel real, and Libitina found herself glancing around the room without meaning to.

A world without God's power — how was that even possible? Could such a world even exist? She could not bring herself to believe Asselin's words. And yet, no one who spoke that way could be mocking her with a lie.

She had survived that hellish demonic cave. She had even awakened as a Saintess. She'd thought her life was finally, finally about to turn around.

Libitina felt it in her bones. Her life hadn't merely tangled — it had tangled beyond all hope of unraveling.

Jeremiel was hurrying through the corridors. The reason was the Lux's sudden summons: cancel every appointment on his schedule. As one of Radilion's high priests, his calendar was far too weighty to permit day-of cancellations on a whim — so it was hardly unreasonable to suspect that something had gone very wrong.

The moment he opened the door, the first thing to catch his eye was the stained glass, glittering in the sunlight. On the enormous window, easily three times the height of a man, a straight beam of light symbolizing God's mercy was rendered in rich, resplendent color, and beneath it, kneeling figures of mortals praising the divine.

Rainbows poured down from the sunlit glass. And beneath that radiance sat an elderly woman in pure white vestments, her countenance serene and gentle.

"Your Holiness."

The Lux — the title borne by Radilion's sovereign and the High Priestess who led the Order. It was also, at present, the title held by the woman radiating that sacred presence: Asterion.

When the new arrival called out softly, Asterion — who had been studying a document throughout the sound of the door opening — at last lifted her head.

"Ah, Jeremiel. There you are."

Smiling warmly, she held out the paper she'd been reading.

"Read this."

Jeremiel approached with a puzzled expression and took the paper from her hands. As his eyes swept over the densely packed script, his head tilted slightly.

"This is… Vice-Captain Frixus's report. Isn't he currently dispatched to the sanctuary?"

"He is."

Asselin Frixus was rigidly conscientious to a fault; he would not gloss over even the simplest of reports. And yet even so — for a routine inspection of a sanctuary, was a report this thick truly necessary? Wondering what could possibly have demanded such length, Jeremiel began reading the document in earnest. Soon, his eyes wavered almost imperceptibly.

When he finished, he couldn't believe what he'd read and returned to the beginning. But no matter how many times he read it, the words did not change.

"This…"

"I would like you to go and receive her yourself. I have instructed that Vice-Captain Frixus bring her as far as Elham for the time being."

With a voice soft as drifting silk, Asterion spoke — evidently judging that Jeremiel had absorbed enough of the report's contents.

"Vice-Captain Frixus would never submit a fanciful report, so it is worth your personal attention to verify."

"…Do you believe this account is true?"

"Who can say? That is precisely why I am sending someone trustworthy. Someone like you."

As head of the Records Management Bureau, Jeremiel was deeply versed in the history of the Radilion Order — and erudite in the secrets that had never been released to the public. It meant he knew far more about the "Saintess" written on that page than any ordinary priest did. Everyone knew the breadth of his learning, so there was nothing remotely strange about him being the one sent to greet a Saintess.

At the same time, Jeremiel was provisionally treated as the Lux's successor. In practice, he was Asterion's right hand, executing a wide range of duties under her delegated authority — from ceremonial public appearances to work of a rather darker, more clandestine nature.

"I have deliberately made no public announcement, so the matter will stay simple. If she is a fraud, we punish her as one. Vice-Captain Frixus tends to shy away from exercising summary judgment on the guilty — so the judgment will be yours to make."

Jeremiel understood exactly what role she wished him to play. Gazing down at the word "Saintess" in silence, he asked, his voice composed.

"And if this turns out to be the truth?"

At that question, Asterion burst into light laughter, as though someone had just told her an amusing joke.

"That a Saintess from five hundred years ago crawled out of her tomb, you mean?"