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⁜ Episode 19. A Victory That Left Only Wounds
“Truly, you go too far, Lady Pythia. All those years of taking bread and soup weren’t enough for you, were they? Now you send a child forward to wring out a whole fortune?”
What the—this man?
I flared up, but Pythia, startled, hurriedly called out, “Damien, Damien, Damien,” trying to hold him back.
Damien had stretched out a hand as if to summon that same spear—or something similar—that had slain the monster.
Surely, he wasn’t about to kill someone here?
I stared at him, and he suddenly cleared his throat and whispered to me,
“They looked like bad people, so I just wanted to scare them a little.”
Oh. I see.
For a moment, I thought he was a full-on psychopath.
I couldn’t exactly tell Damien, “Your stats say you’ve got an S in Assassination, so you really should keep yourself in check.” So I just nodded and turned my eyes back on the head priest of Demia Temple.
Yes, Damien might be a little too beautiful—almost dangerously so—but he wasn’t bad. Just earlier, he had cast all sorts of protective spells on me, and when Pythia was cold, he’d wrapped her in his robe, choosing to stand there shivering without a coat.
If that’s what a psychopath looks like, then what does that make me—the greatest villain in the world?
“Head Priest, your words contain contradictions. First, I, Arian Danior, am twelve years old. In three years, I will have my coming-of-age ceremony. Hardly a mere ‘child,’ but an age that knows the ways of the world.”
The head priest’s eyes widened. He must have suspected I was of noble birth, but thought me of a fallen house or some distant branch. That I was Danior—that clearly hadn’t crossed his mind.
His face all but spelled out: It couldn’t be that Danior, could it?
Of course it was.
I smiled sweetly and continued.
“Second, you must know how greatly the prestige of this temple has risen since our Head Priest took residence here in the Grand Hall. She is the one and only ‘Saint.’ The offerings you’ve received by virtue of her presence surely outweigh any bread or soup you might have given.”
What draws more attention—a place famed only in myth, or a living legend in the flesh? Even peasants would have flocked to glimpse the “Princess” of Gerca Temple, even if only from afar. The head priest couldn’t not know this.
“Third, I must ask: if our Head Priest were to starve to death here in this Grand Hall, could any of you truly claim safety? That bread and soup were never merely for her alone. Were they?”
And lastly, I wanted to add, mind your tongue—those bruised violet eyes belong to Damien Hamilcar, but I held back. Damien might not want his identity revealed.
The head priest’s face went red, then pale. Furious, but I wasn’t worried. I was only afraid he might glare at Pythia—but thanks to Damien’s little scare earlier, his wrath was aimed solely at me.
And honestly, what was that to me? My brother David, champion of jousts and an overbearing big brother, had given me enough training. If I could spar with him, a puffed-up head priest wasn’t frightening.
So I raised my voice.
“I, the only daughter of the Steward of House Danior, speak with a true heart to the Daughter of God. Our Saint bears blood as royal as a king’s. If aught were to happen to her, could you swear that any soul here in this Grand Hall would remain safe? Therefore, I beg you—share with us the bounty of the Earth God’s embrace.”
“And furthermore, Head Priest, you must apologize. Under your watch, a novice priest turned out to be a monster. That creature threatened our Head Priest, the mistress of the Grand Hall of Gerca, beloved daughter of the Light, a pure soul bound to the divine. Out of her nobility, our Head Priest has chosen not to demand responsibility—but surely, at the very least, an apology is required.”
The head priest sighed deeply and looked up at the ceiling. He bit his lip, restrained his anger, then looked first at me, and then at Pythia.
“The Saint merely sits there smiling sweetly—I fail to see how she was so gravely threatened… but one thing is clear. The Steward has raised a most impertinent daughter.”
“…”
“Fine, so be it. It is regrettable that you’ve had such an unpleasant experience at Demia Temple. To redress it, we shall share food with you. Black bread and soup.”
“Black bread and soup? Do you mean to pay for a royal life with black bread and soup? You would need a mountain of them, as high as the Mountain of Light, to even begin.”
“She didn’t die, did she!”
The head priest roared. Had he been a dragon, fire would have burst from his mouth.
But I only smiled. Losers always shout the loudest just before conceding.
“Please understand, our Head Priest is not a bad man.”
The head priest left, muttering about needing to take to bed. Really? A grown man saying that to a twelve-year-old after losing an argument?
I stayed silent, but gentle Pythia replied,
“Oh, of course. I know.”
What nonsense. They lived in such luxury here, yet all they had offered Pythia—a Saint, a royal—was black bread and soup, and even boasted about it? And I’m supposed to think they’re kind? Hmph.
“This is our food storage.”
At last!
The food storehouse of the temple of the Earth and Plenty itself.
I felt a thrill—no more worrying about ingredients for a while! I could cook a real feast tonight, something worthy after all our hardships…
But inside, only two compartments near the entrance were in use. The rest stood empty.
One space was filled with nothing but black bread. The other, with a few neatly arranged supplies.
Not an empty-bread scam—an empty storehouse scam.
I stared blankly, then turned to the senior priest.
“This isn’t everything, right?”
“This is all. We must endure until autumn with this. Summer eases things a little, but even so, food is scarce…”
I considered whether they might have moved the food while I was on my way here. But no—the stock was carefully arranged, clearly cherished. And the compartments in use showed more wear than the rest.
I turned to Pythia. She gave me a bitter smile.
Only then did I realize why she had clung so desperately to that bread and soup. She already knew of this scarcity.
At least, in our temple, we had fewer mouths to feed—and me. By this world’s standards, I was obsessed with food and hygiene, which was why our temple stayed clean and our meals tasty. I owned spices others rarely did.
Here, there were almost no spices. No flavorings. Only the barest staples.
“This temple is so large and splendid…”
The senior priest smiled.
“Many elders preserved this temple before us. We too must guard it, and pass it on to our descendants.”
Behind his head, I could almost see a halo. These were true clerics. Ascetics. I was no match for them.
I backed out of the storehouse the way a monster recoils from holy light.
Wait. Monsters do recoil from holy power.
Then why… why had a monster, living as a priest, been perfectly fine inside a temple?
