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chapter 29
At this moment, whether one had faith or not, whether one harbored ill feelings toward her or not—everyone present was nothing more than a spectator. This confession belonged to her alone.
“O God, I have been falsely accused.”
At the very first sentence that left her lips, murmurs rippled through the once-silent crowd.
“How shameless!”
“To lie before God of all things!”
Those who knew her sneered as if they had expected nothing less, while those who did not condemned her for daring to confess her sins yet immediately blaming others. Someone, angered, even hurled what they were holding toward her.
“How dare you do that to Lady Yuri!”
“It’s o-okay, Sol.”
What the man had thrown was an ear of corn, and fortunately it did not strike Yurian directly. She calmed Sol, who looked ready to draw his sword at any moment, and continued her confession in a steady voice.
“I was falsely accused. And I accepted it—willingly.”
Huh?
As if on cue, those who had been fueling one another’s anger fell silent. When the chapel returned to its earlier stillness, only Yurian’s quiet voice filled the vast space. No—correction. It had begun quietly, but as she spoke, her voice grew thick with emotion and caught in her throat.
“I hated my country, Latem. I hated it—so much, so very much. My family, my fiancé, and those who called themselves my friends were all bound by outdated customs, like primitive people I couldn’t reason with at all. Just facing them and exchanging words made me feel like I’d go mad. So when the opportunity came, I seized it. When they told me they would exile me, I thanked them and left.”
I hate Latem!
Gasping for breath, Yurian spat out her hatred—how much she loathed it, how unbearable it had been—like rapid-fire bullets. It wasn’t just Latem; the entire class-based society had been a shackle and a prison to her. Having been born there and lived twenty years in that land, the words she had never dared speak—words that had become nails driven into her heart—now poured out endlessly.
“After I left, I deliberately stopped thinking about it. What does it have to do with me now? I knew perfectly well how hopeless and rotten the people who would shoulder Latem’s future were. So what? What did it matter to me?”
Yurian snapped her head around, her eyes sharp as blades, glaring at Theorn, Angela, and Billode—who stood there utterly dumbfounded. The three looked as though they had been beaten senseless by words out of nowhere.
“I knew things would go wrong in the future, but because it had nothing to do with me anymore, I pretended not to see. Like watching a fire from across the river, I treated it as someone else’s problem. And in truth, it was someone else’s problem. In Latem, they don’t entrust the future to women—not even their own future.”
What was the point of being called the most noble of ladies? What did it matter that her father was a duke, or that her fiancé was the crown prince? No one listened to her opinions. No—perhaps they didn’t even recognize that she had opinions at all.
“I neglected them. I didn’t think it was wrong. It was easier that way for all of us. But that… was wrong.”
Wrong. Completely wrong. Their wrongdoing harmed countless people, and Yurian was the only one who recognized it as such. Even those committing the wrongs didn’t realize they were wrong.
Yurian alone could have stopped it—but she turned away. And in the end, those so-called illustrious ties from the past reappeared before her eyes as criminals.
“At that time, I should have fought. I should have persuaded them. If that didn’t work, I should have shouted. And if even that failed, I should have grabbed them by the collar and shaken them until they listened.”
She had a responsibility to do so.
“I believed my intellect belonged to me alone, but that was a mistake. The cost of the tender veal steaks I ate, the finest bedding I slept on, the silk pajamas I wore—the cost of everything I enjoyed in Latem included the responsibility to bear Latem’s future.”
The same was true of human relationships. The kindness she received as a matter of course, the love given without conditions—strictly speaking, such intangible feelings required no payment. But because she was human, because she possessed a heart, Yurian felt indebted to repay what she had received.
Yet she never paid that debt.
She judged that they were wrong, that they were mistaken, arrogantly deciding that only her own standards were correct. She tested them at will and abandoned those who failed. Knowing full well they were sinking into a swamp, she cheerfully let go of their hands.
Long before she was betrayed, despised, and abandoned, it was she who had abandoned them in her heart. Cowardly and cunning, she had blamed them all this time while turning away from her own faults.
“I saw evil—and remained silent. That is no different from siding with evil. My sin is sloth.”
“—Yuri Anderson. Is that the sin you confess?”
“I—I was wrong.”
Unlike her lengthy confession, her atonement was calm and concise. There were no excuses.
“I see.”
The High Priest passed no judgment and made no evaluation. A cleric who hears a confession only listens; all else belongs to God.
Even so, he could feel that every word of her confession was sincere. Like many confessions he had heard before, it was devoid of self-pity or a plea for sympathy. Even if God did not respond, he would still be glad if she had gained enlightenment through this moment.
As the confession ended, the High Priest closed the holy scripture to conclude the ritual. That was when it happened.
“W-what is this? The statue—it’s glowing!”
“This—this overwhelming presence—is definitely divine power?!”
Suddenly, a blinding radiance burst forth from the statue. Panicked, people squeezed their eyes shut and covered their faces with whatever they could grab. Criminals and believers alike—priests and holy knights included—were no exception.
Within that light, only one person could face it with open eyes: Yurian.
In fact, she couldn’t understand why the others were suffering. To her, the light felt warm and gentle, as if inviting her into an embrace.
—
Yuri Anderson.
—
That was when a voice rang out from within the silence-filled radiance.
—
Do you deeply reflect upon and repent your sins?
—
“H-huh? Ah—yes! Yes, I do repent!”
Wrapped in the benevolent light, Yurian had been momentarily drowsy, blinking lazily—until the sacred voice at her ear snapped her fully awake. The voice sounded like a woman’s, yet also like a man’s; like a child’s, yet also an adult’s. It seemed to whisper right beside her, yet also to pour down from a place impossibly far away—so profound and elusive that human language could scarcely describe it.
—
Do you swear never to repeat the same mistake again?
—
“I will do my utmost to try.”
In all honesty, Yurian couldn’t confidently promise that she would. She knew her own laziness too well to trust herself blindly. But her resolve to try was sincere.
She was filled with the will to make amends. Never again would her enemies be stoned by the crowd. If punishment was to be dealt, she would deal it herself. If insults were to be hurled, she would hurl them with her own mouth. That was the atonement she had chosen to repay her past debts.
Perhaps it was her blazing, resolute gaze that convinced it—or perhaps not—but after a brief silence, approval descended from the heavens.
—
Very well. I forgive your sins.
—
“Ah…”
The warm light that had filled the chapel slowly seeped into her. It was nothing like being struck by lightning—there was no pain, no malice. Instead, it felt gentle and kind. Like being held in her mother’s arms, safe and warm, Yurian finally felt it with her entire being:
She had truly been forgiven.
