A few days later, in the early morning.
Inside the main church of the Southern Diocese, sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows onto the floor.
This church had been built with extreme extravagance. Mythological scenes painted the magnificent dome, and the walls were inlaid with gold leaf and jewels.
It was some distance from the Olivias territory, but it served as the residence for clergy and the heart of the entire Southern Diocese.
Yet at this moment, the air inside this sacred hall felt heavy, even tense to the breaking point.
Deep within the church, archbishop Duran sat behind his expensive desk.
He wore a red bishop’s robe embroidered with gold thread, and his fingers were covered with gemstone rings that symbolized power and status.
But his current expression did not look like that of a powerful figure.
Smack!
A sharp sound broke the silence in the room.
Duran suddenly slammed a document onto the table with force.
The impact was so strong that it knocked over the delicate inkwell beside him. Black ink flowed across the desk, staining the expensive carpet.
But he couldn’t care about that.
His chest heaved violently. His round face, which usually wore a hypocritical smile, was now twisted with rage and fear.
He stared at the document on the table. His eyes were bloodshot, as if he wanted to burn the thin parchment to ashes.
It was an official letter from Duke Olivia’s mansion.
The content was simple, even generous.
Her Highness, Saintess Eleanor Olivias, stated that in consideration of the Church’s financial difficulties, the Olivias Family would cover all expenses for the upcoming winter festival.
This was a good thing.
At least on the surface, it was something any clergy should be grateful for.
But Duran’s eyes landed on the note written in elegant handwriting at the end of the document.
From today onward, all expenses for the winter festival will be fully covered by the Olivias Family.
Furthermore, on the day of the festival, we will publicly display the diocese’s financial records for the past year, subject to the supervision of all believers.
Open the books.
Those four words were like a sharp dagger stabbed straight into Duran’s heart.
“This… this damn brat!”
Duran gritted his teeth and hissed the curse.
His voice was hoarse and full of venom.
“How dare she! How dare she do this!”
‘What does this mean?’
‘Open the accounts?’
‘What is she trying to do?’
‘She’s trying to roast me over a fire!’
As the archbishop who had controlled the Southern Diocese for over a decade, Duran knew exactly how dirty his hands were.
Most of the donations from believers, the funds that should have been used to repair churches and help the poor, had flowed into his own pockets.
He had used that money to expand his private estate, buy expensive antiques, and even secretly supported several mistresses.
These matters were not exactly secrets among the high clergy of the various dioceses.
After all, the emperor was far away, and he wasn’t the only one doing this.
As long as he didn’t go too far, the higher-ups usually turned a blind eye.
Besides, he had a thousand ways to cook the books.
He could forge expenses, inflate project costs, or even stage an “accidental” fire to destroy the ledgers.
If his opponent were just a powerless ordinary Saintess, Duran wouldn’t even need to act himself. A slight hint would be enough for his subordinates to sideline that arrogant girl, turning her into a smiling mascot.
But this time was different.
The opponent sitting across from him was Eleanor Olivias.
She was the precious daughter of Duke Eisend.
Behind her stood the entire Olivias Family, a behemoth rich enough to rival a country and possessing terrifying military power.
Money?
He couldn’t threaten her, nor could he bribe her.
The Olivias Family lacked nothing more than money.
Status?
She was born a duke’s daughter, and with the title of Saintess, her status was higher than his, a bishop.
Power? Force?
Don’t be ridiculous. Duke Eisend could crush him with one hand.
Ever since this girl returned to the territory, he hadn’t had a single peaceful day.
She had not only forcefully taken over church affairs but also won people’s hearts everywhere, squeezing him, the legitimate Archbishop, out like an outsider.
And now, she had directly flipped the table, demanding the accounts be made public.
This was not a negotiation; it was an ultimatum, a death sentence.
Duran slumped back in his chair, cold sweat beading on his forehead.
‘No… she must have something on me, or she wouldn’t need to make this move. She’s trying to destroy me!’
Once the accounts were made public, his messy records wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny.
Not only would his reputation be completely ruined, but he might even be taken away by the Church Tribunal, spending the rest of his life in the Inquisition’s dark cells.
Fear coiled around his neck like a snake, suffocating him.
“Damn it… damn it…”
“What do I do?”
Duran held his head and paced back and forth in the office.
He was like a rat trapped in a cage, anxiously searching for any way out.
But there was none.
All paths had been blocked by that seemingly harmless Saintess.
Just as Duran was sinking into despair, light footsteps came from outside the door.
A gentle voice sounded.
“Archbishop?”
Then the office door was pushed open softly.
A young nun with short chestnut hair and emerald-green eyes walked in.
She carried a new tray with freshly brewed hot tea and several delicate pastries.
“You seem very troubled.”
The nun—Mi Ya—approached Duran.
She placed the tea on the only clean spot on the table, then gently began to clean up the broken pieces and documents that Duran had knocked to the floor.
“If you don’t mind, have some tea and rest for a while.”
Mi Ya looked up. Her eyes, clear as emeralds, were full of sincere concern.
Her smile was still so sweet, as if no worldly filth could taint her.
Seeing this innocent and kind girl, Duran’s anxious emotions calmed a little.
This novice nun had originally been assigned to help with his miscellaneous chores.
But ever since he drank the tea she had brewed that day, Duran had felt a strange fondness and trust for this novice nun named Mi Ya.
She was not only quick with her hands but also understanding, always appearing when he needed her most.
In this cold church, she was the only one who brought him a little warmth.
So he had kept Mi Ya by his side, almost like a secretary.
Duran sighed deeply, slumped back into his chair, and took a sip of tea.
The warm liquid flowed down his throat, restoring some feeling to his cold hands and feet.
“Sigh…”
Duran looked out the window and smiled bitterly.
“I’m afraid… I’m finished.”
Mi Ya blinked and asked innocently, “Why do you say that, Archbishop?”
“Are you facing some difficulty? I’m just a little nun, but I hope I can share your burden.”
Duran shook his head.
“It’s useless.”
“This opponent is too strong. That Saintess… she’s forcing me into a corner. Once she succeeds, I’ll have nothing left.”
He didn’t hide anything from Mi Ya.
In his view, this little girl didn’t understand the twists and turns of power struggles. Telling her wouldn’t hurt; it would just be a way to vent.
“Publicly auditing the accounts?”
Mi Ya tilted her head, as if pondering the meaning of the word.
“Then… as long as you prevent her from auditing, won’t that solve the problem?”
The girl said softly.
“Prevent her? How?”
Duran smiled bitterly.
“She has the Duke’s backing. The documents have already been sent to every church. The winter festival is coming up, and all the believers in the diocese will be watching. Can I publicly eat the accounts?”
Mi Ya kept her sweet smile.
She watched Duran finish the hot tea in his cup, and a hint of an unnoticed smile flickered at the corner of her mouth.
“No, that’s not what I meant.”
She walked behind Duran, stretched out her slender fingers, and gently pressed them against his tense temples, massaging him.
Her fingertips were cool, yet very comfortable.
Mi Ya’s voice became a little ethereal, like a murmur, echoing in Duran’s ears.
“Archbishop, think about it.”
“The reason people care about the accounts is that they live comfortably, so they have the leisure to care about where the money goes.”
“But…”
“What if something more important than the accounts happens on that day?”
“Something more important?”
Duran was taken aback.
“You mean…”
“For example…”
Mi Ya’s fingers slowly slid down, stopping at Duran’s neck.
“What if, in this cold winter, a sudden ‘plague’ descended upon this land?”
“People would start getting sick, start suffering, start struggling on the edge of death.”
“At that time, who would still care how much money that Saintess spent, or how much you spent?”
“All eyes, all prayers, would be focused on the ‘person’ who could save them.”
Duran’s body stiffened.
He turned his head and looked at the girl behind him in horror.
“You… what are you saying?”
“I’m talking about an opportunity.”
A very subtle, eerie light flickered in Mi Ya’s emerald eyes.
That light was no longer like spring’s tender leaves, but more like a will-o’-the-wisp from deep in a swamp, full of decay and vitality.
“Archbishop, you are the pillar of the Church.”
“If the Saintess falls, or if she cannot resolve this ‘test,’ then…”
“Who would be the one to stand up and save everyone? Wouldn’t that be you?”
“This… this is impossible!”
Duran felt his throat go dry.
“Are you asking me to create a plague? No! That’s insane! If I’m found out, I’ll die even worse!”
“Shh—”
Mi Ya raised her finger and gently pressed it to Duran’s lips.
“Not creating a plague, Archbishop. You misunderstand.”
She smiled even brighter, even more innocent.
“That is the ‘gift of life.’”
“Life needs cycles. Decay is the nourishment for the new.”
“This is not a disaster, but a grand ceremony.”
“And you don’t need to worry about being discovered.”
Mi Ya took out a small bottle woven from unknown green vines from the wide sleeve of her nun’s robe.
Inside the bottle was half a bottle of green liquid that seemed to be slowly squirming.
“This is a little specialty I brought from my hometown.”
She pressed the bottle into Duran’s trembling hand.
“You just need to have someone put this into the water source near the festival, and everything will happen naturally.”
“That ‘life’ will bloom quickly, then wither quickly.”
“Ordinary priests and doctors won’t be able to find the cause, nor can they cure it.”
“Including that little Saintess—she won’t be able to either.”
“But…”
Mi Ya leaned close to Duran’s ear, her voice full of temptation.
“I know the recipe for the antidote.”
“If you are willing.”
“At that time, you will be the only one holding the antidote, the savior who can snatch the believers’ lives back from the ‘God of Death.’”
“Think about it, Archbishop.”
“When that lofty Saintess is helpless against the plague and can only watch the believers suffer.”
“When you appear with the antidote, like a god descending to save the multitudes.”
“Who will be the true Saint?”
“Who will be the true master of the Southern Diocese?”
“Those so-called accounts, those so-called embezzlements…”
“In the face of life-saving grace, will anyone still care?”
Duran’s hand trembled.
He stared at the strange little bottle in his hand.
Reason told him this was a trap, the ravings of a complete madman.
But deep inside, many voices seemed to whisper in his mind, making his spirit very hazy.
After all, he had no way back.
If he didn’t do this…
He would be dead.
Eleanor had backed him to the edge of a cliff. If he didn’t do something, he would face complete disgrace and a prison sentence.
If so…
Why not take a gamble?
Duran’s breathing became rapid.
His murky eyes gradually took on a greedy green light, like a gambler’s.
He slowly tightened his grip on the little bottle.
“Only… we know the antidote?”
He asked hoarsely.
“Of course.”
Mi Ya smiled and nodded, her emerald eyes curving into two crescents.
“Only we know.”
“This is… a secret operation for just the two of us.”
Looking at Duran’s completely corrupted eyes, Mi Ya’s heart was filled with delight.
Ah.
Such fertile soil.
That soul full of fear, greed, and despair was the perfect bed for cultivating vitality.
She could already see it.
At the upcoming winter festival, in that holy square, countless gorgeous “flowers of life” blooming on people’s bodies.
It would be beautiful.
If only Her Highness the Saintess could see this scene.