Throughout history, across all times and places, humanity has obsessively pursued immortality and eternal youth.
A life free from aging and death, where one could live forever.
The methods varied greatly.
Elixirs, mercury, drugs, dietary regimens, spiritual training—you name it.
With countless attempts recorded over the ages, people tried every method imaginable.
But if one were to pick the most brutal of them all, there is one undeniable peak: blood.
Blood has always been seen as the essence of life, the source of vitality and energy.
It wasn’t long before people thought of using the blood of healthy and young individuals to gain strength and prolong their own lives.
A famous historical example is Elizabeth Báthory of 16th-century Hungary.
She was a woman who allegedly killed hundreds of young maidens to bathe in their blood.
Believing that her skin would become firm and youthful when soaked in blood, she committed these heinous acts hundreds of times, much like Qin Shi Huang’s futile search for eternal life.
A more “refined” approach involved transfusions.
Taking blood from young people with compatible blood types, the rich would inject it into themselves to boost their vitality and slow aging.
Shockingly, such practices became common in the 21st century, with evidence suggesting benefits such as improved circulation and enhanced physical condition.
Pssh!
“Ahhh!!”
“Please bear with it. It will only hurt for a moment.”
And what, then, of the Holy Nation’s current practices?
They were engaging in something far darker: blood-drinking.
Rather than smearing blood on the skin or injecting it into veins, they consumed it directly, absorbing its properties by drinking.
But unlike vampires, they did not elegantly draw blood with fangs.
They had no such biological capability, no nobility, and certainly no restraint to determine an appropriate amount.
What they did have was the audacity to harm the Saintess, the Goddess’s chosen representative, for their selfish well-being and indulgence.
They crudely cut into her arm, collected her blood in glass goblets, and drank it straight.
“Oh… Truly, the divine power bestowed by the Goddess…”
The method was crude, revolting, and barbaric.
Yet, disturbingly, it worked.
The effects were undeniable—far more potent than any other methods mentioned before.
It was a grotesque ritual, but one that yielded results so powerful it was impossible to ignore.
The divine power imbued within the Saintess’s body, as ordained directly by the Goddess’s oracle, was infinite.
That power permeated her entire being, wrapping every single cell in her body with supreme, immense divine energy.
Each cell was practically a sacred relic in its own right.
“Thank you, Saintess. Thanks to you, I’ll be full of energy for another day tomorrow… Oh? Have you already lost consciousness?”
So then, what happens when an ordinary human drinks that blood, allowing the divine energy within it to enter their body?
It’s simple. They experience rejuvenation, an increase in their own divine energy reserves, and the miraculous healing of all ailments.
Every imperfection in the body is erased, returning them to their prime physical state.
It’s no exaggeration to say that this surpasses any known elixir or miracle drug in existence.
Of course, the effects only lasted until the ingested blood was fully digested.
But to the Holy Sovereign, that didn’t matter.
As long as he could continue extracting and drinking her blood regularly, he would remain in peak condition.
Much like how cows or goats are milked daily, the Saintess’s blood was extracted every single day.
All for the fleeting happiness and health of one greedy human.
A living, breathing vessel in the guise of a human—a precious livestock.
That was the current state of the Saintess.
“Now that we’re finished, take her back to her room.”
“What about her meals? How should we prepare them?”
“The usual. Make it plentiful. Meat, fish—load it up. She’ll need proper nutrients to replenish the blood we’ve taken.”
“Understood, Your Holiness.”
Having been drained of her blood, the Saintess was led by the guards back to her so-called “personal quarters.”
While it was labeled a private space, in reality, it was a prison.
All exits were barred with iron bars and dozens of locks, sealing her inside completely.
“…How many times has this happened now?”
On the hard bed in the middle of the room, the Saintess sat up, having regained consciousness late at night.
Her voice was heavy with bitter self-deprecation as she glanced at her arm.
The bandages wrapped around it were soaked with fresh blood.
“A thousand times? Two thousand? I’ve lost count by now.”
She was only six years old when she was chosen as the Saintess—a simple, innocent girl from the countryside, handpicked by the Goddess Herself.
And now, she was twenty-two.
Sixteen years had passed.
As a child, she had been separated from her parents and subjected to the Church’s near-brainwashing education, tailored specifically for the Saintess.
By the time she became aware of the world around her, she was assigned the role of an elite healer.
Her miracles, accessible only to the Saintess, were reserved for the noble patrons who made massive donations to the Church.
After exhausting herself during the day healing the wealthy and powerful, her nights were spent “donating” her precious blood to the Holy Sovereign.
It was always just below the threshold of causing permanent harm to her body, carefully calibrated to avoid complete physical breakdown.
Even slaves from centuries past, she thought bitterly, might not have been exploited to this extent.
At least slaves only had to surrender their labor; they weren’t forced into emotional servitude or coerced into giving their blood.
“How much longer can I endure this?”
Though she had no formal knowledge in such matters, the Saintess instinctively understood one thing:
No human body could survive this kind of abuse for long.
The only reason she had lasted so far was the divine protection of her sacred power and her ability to use miracles to heal herself.
Had she been an ordinary person, she’d likely have been reduced to a dried corpse long ago—perhaps not even lasting a year.
“If only I could go mad… If I could lose my mind, I’d have no regrets.”
She cursed the fact that divine power protected her mind as well as her body.
Had she been allowed to descend into madness, her soul might have found an escape from this hellish existence.
But no matter how much she suffered, no matter how agonizing her heartache, her sanity was forcibly maintained.
It was psychological torture at its worst.
“Goddess… Is this truly the world You envisioned?”
The Saintess raised her eyes to the sky beyond the heavy iron bars.
A full moon glowed faintly, illuminating the night and casting its light upon her.
“Clergymen who care nothing for morality or justice twist Your scriptures for their greed. The Holy See exploits my power purely for profit, and the aging Holy Sovereign endlessly demands my blood to stave off the end of his life. Is this… truly the sight You hoped for?”
Clasping her rosary-wrapped hands together, she intertwined her fingers tightly.
Gently, she knelt on the cold stone floor, lifting her gaze toward the heavens
She asked, her voice trembling with pain and sorrow.
There was no answer.
Just as it had been for years, tonight was no different.
“You were the one who chose me as the Saintess, weren’t You? You gave me Your oracle and made me Your representative, didn’t You? Then please, tell me… show me something. Grant this unworthy servant a response.”
“The Holy Nation has completely rotted away. Those who claim to serve and worship You have become greedier than the most corrupt nobles.”
“They say with their lips that they honor You, but in truth, they chase only immediate pleasures and wealth, not the afterlife. How much longer will You sit idly by and watch this tragedy unfold?”
Her voice wavered between desperation, lamentation, and anger, her emotions swirling into words she herself couldn’t fully define.
Abandoning the proper decorum of prayer, she poured out all the bitterness and frustration that had accumulated within her.
A life torn from her parents, forced into separation.
Beaten, indoctrinated with bizarre knowledge, never allowed to make a single friend.
Living every day as the symbol of faith, receiving the worship and reverence of strangers while being denied any joy or happiness of a normal life.
She would live as a puppet until death, robbed of even the smallest freedom.
She demanded to know why such a burden, one she had never asked for, had been thrust upon her.
If her life was to be nothing but pain and torment, she begged for at least a shred of accountability.
But there was no answer.
Just as it had always been, even in this moment, silence was the only response.
“If You won’t speak, if You won’t answer me… then I have my own plans.”
The Saintess clenched her teeth so tightly that blood seeped through her lips, staining her mouth crimson.
This one-sided, unanswered dialogue had played out hundreds of times before.
Until now, she had endured through sheer faith. But she was at her limit.
For 16 years, she had served a being who had never once spoken to her.
Her once-unshakable faith had turned to weariness, then bitterness, and finally despair.
“Goddess—no, Kether. I will no longer serve You through faith.”
She dared to utter the forbidden name of the Goddess, a name even the Holy Sovereign would never dare speak.
According to scripture, such an act was grounds for divine punishment—a heavenly wrath beyond comprehension.
But no punishment came.
Not even the faintest sign of retribution.
It was as if the being she sought had never existed in the first place.
“You abandoned this world and me. So now, I will abandon You.
From now on, I will use the divine power You granted me for myself.
No longer will I live a life of being used by others. I will use my power to pursue my happiness, to reclaim my life.”
“I will no longer follow the orders of the Holy Sovereign. I will exact my revenge on everyone who exploited and tormented me and reclaim my freedom.
“Perhaps, as a result, the Holy Church itself may collapse. But why should I care? To me, they’re nothing more than a collective of my enemies anyway.”
The Saintess unclasped her hands, spreading her arms wide as she cried out to the heavens.
“If You have any objections, then show me something—anything! Send me an oracle, strike me down for my blasphemy, or curse me however You wish! If You remain silent, I’ll take it as Your consent. Is that acceptable to You?!”
Once again, there was no response.
Her body remained unharmed, and the divine power coursing through her veins remained intact.
The Saintess closed her eyes briefly, waiting.
But when nothing happened, she let out a hollow laugh and tossed her rosary aside.
“…Ha. I really was an idiot to serve something like this.”
The void of emptiness and the unfairness of her life threatened to drive her mad, but she refused to remain idle.
She couldn’t afford to waste time doing nothing, even as her mind unraveled.
“…I’ll run. I’ll escape this country.”
She picked up the spoon that had come with her meal.
It was a fragile utensil made of silver, but with her divine power, she could strengthen it enough to make it usable.
She had to carve a path to freedom, no matter what.
Meanwhile, in the Kingdom of Ulranor.
“We’re infiltrating the Holy Nation from here on. Once we cross the border, you’re to either speak only in their language or stay completely silent. Got it, you fools?”
“Yes, sir, Your Excellency!!”
Carolus was in the middle of executing a counter-infiltration operation.