At the edge of the crowd, Priest Winston’s clouded old eyes took in everything—every bit of Irene’s speech, the villagers’ confusion, and that fleeting look of exhaustion and helplessness on her face as she left.
Beneath his expression of compassion for the world, there was a trace of deep, hidden satisfaction from a plan coming to fruition.
Supporting him, Rita bit down hard on her lower lip, her emerald eyes brimming with anger and sorrow.
Once the crowd had gradually dispersed with Irene’s group, leaving only the two of them, Rita could hold back no longer.
“Grandfather!” she hissed, her voice low but sharp with accusation, “You’re too shameless! How could you use Irene like this!”
She suddenly shook off Winston’s arm, glaring at him like an angry little beast. “You deliberately spread the rumor that she’s the Saintess, pushing her into the limelight! You want to use her, use her new ‘Saintess’ status to attract the kingdom’s attention, maybe even… oppose Pope Jerolur, right? You want to make her a shield, a pawn!”
The compassion vanished from Winston’s face in an instant, replaced by an icy, all-seeing sharpness.
He didn’t deny it, didn’t even try to explain. He simply looked at his granddaughter with a calm, almost cruel directness: “Rita, you don’t want to die, do you?”
The words were like a cold dagger, instantly piercing through all of Rita’s anger. She froze, her face turning as pale as paper.
Winston’s voice was low and hoarse, heavy with age and chilling secrets: “What was our original plan? To protect the true Saintess—Her Highness Losweiser.”
“Because Pope Jerolur and the ‘Golden Descendants’ under her control have long since betrayed the Goddess’s teachings, fallen into the arms of the abyss, and become the Demon God’s claws! Their so-called ‘witch hunts’—what are they really hunting? It’s those who have awakened the Goddess’s bloodline, those with the potential to become the true Saintess—the ‘fugitives’! And Her Highness Losweiser is the one they most desperately want to erase, the true ‘light’!”
He stepped closer, his gaze locking onto Rita’s panic-stricken eyes like an eagle: “The original plan was for you—the one we found, with a faint trace of Saintess blood, enough to pass as the real thing—to act as bait, and at the ‘right’ moment, ‘bravely’ die to protect Her Highness Losweiser!”
“To make Jerolur, that devil’s mouthpiece, believe the true Saintess had already perished, so she could rest easy! Who could have thought that the real Saintess, Her Highness Losweiser, would be hiding right under her nose, safe and sound?”
Winston’s tone suddenly grew heavier, brooking no argument: “Now, the plan has changed! Irene Raven—this girl who can suddenly invoke ‘miracles’ and just happens to be Losweiser’s close friend—she’s appeared! This is the opportunity fate has given us! Tell me, Rita,”
His voice was cold as iron, “Do you want to stick to the original plan, die as a ‘bait’ and be buried forever in darkness? Or do you want to live? Do you want to see Losweiser? Do you want to stay… at Miss Irene’s side?”
“I…” Rita opened her mouth, but her throat seemed blocked.
Death? She once thought she was ready for it. For Losweiser, for her faith, she could give her life without hesitation.
But… Irene appeared.
The elder sister who reached out to her in the town’s inn, inviting her to join the party; the one who clumsily comforted her, who swooped down like a hero when she was nearly swallowed by monsters; the one who argued for the people’s rights in the lord’s manor, her eyes shining with pure light…
She let her see another possibility beyond the darkness—a feeling of truly being alive.
If one had never seen the light, one could endure the darkness.
Winston saw through her struggle, his tone softening a little, yet cutting even deeper: “Use her? Rita, you’re mistaken. Miss Irene was already at the center of this vortex of fate!”
“She’s Losweiser’s closest friend. Just for that, when the Church discovers Losweiser’s true identity, do you think she can escape unscathed? Will Jerolur spare anyone close to the true Saintess? By crowning her ‘Saintess’, giving her the title and attention, it’s actually wrapping her in another layer of protection!”
“When everyone’s eyes are on ‘Saintess Irene’, the real Her Highness Losweiser and you can hide more safely in the shadows! This halo draws the attention of the kingdom’s powers and even other churches, naturally balancing the Pope’s influence! This is the most effective way to protect you all!”
“I’ve already notified the comrades of the ‘Sword of Shadows’. They’ll assist from the shadows, making sure the ‘Saintess’ title and the influence it brings are used for our cause.”
Rita fell silent.
Grandfather’s logic was cold and cruel, yet it was like an invisible net from which she could not escape.
Sword of Shadows… those companions struggling in the dark.
They were the most devout believers, branded as heretics simply for doubting the Pope’s actions!
Yes, Irene’s title of “Saintess” truly was the perfect cover and leverage.
She lowered her head helplessly, her clenched fists turning white at the knuckles.
Refute him? She couldn’t find a single solid reason. To protect Losweiser, to keep herself alive…
Or even, for Irene’s longer-term “safety”? Such a grand-sounding, yet sickening excuse.
Her gaze drifted through the scattered crowd, falling with sorrow and guilt upon Irene in the distance—directing the guards to move the gold chests, a hint of fatigue between her brows yet still forcing herself to keep going.
Sunlight spilled over Irene’s silvery hair, as if giving her a faint halo.
At this moment, she was racking her brains over how to use this “huge sum” to feed the villagers and house them warmly, troubled by an unbridgeable gap in beliefs.
She had no idea that a burden far heavier than Vincent’s greed or the territory’s poverty—a vortex great enough to shake the kingdom, even the entire continent’s faith—had quietly settled on her seemingly slender, yet truly resilient shoulders.
Irene…
Rita whispered in her heart, Do you think you’re just cleaning up a barony’s mess?
Do you realize, beneath your astonishing calm, what’s about to press down on your shoulders is a storm that could overturn faith and tear the continent apart?
It is… the heavy chain called “hope” that we who struggle on the abyss’s edge can grasp.
In Rita’s desperate and dependent imagination, Irene’s calm, practical figure was elevated to the extreme, shrouded in a tragic and fateful “sacred” light.
That composure, in her eyes, became the true aura of a “Saintess”—one who remains unshaken even before a surging, overwhelming wave.