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chapter 30
When the explosive light faded, people began to open their eyes one by one. Then, the first person to regain their senses stretched out a finger and pointed toward the sky.
From the ceiling of the chapel—whose roof had been firmly sealed—something was descending very slowly, defying gravity, accompanied by an eerie light.
“Th-that… what is that?”
“T-The god is sending something down!”
“A holy relic! A holy relic has descended from the heavens!”
“The god has answered us! We’ve been forgiven!”
A holy relic descending from the sky—an utterly sacred sight one might see only once in a lifetime, if ever, no matter how much money one had. The zealots grew frenzied, shouting at the top of their lungs. As if they felt no pain, they dropped to their knees with a loud thud and worshiped with tear-filled, overwhelmed expressions.
—
And thus, to the one who repents first, an opportunity is given. With the Sacred Staff of Repentance, make the remaining sinners repent as you have.
—
Yulian caught the holy relic descending into her grasp with both hands. At once, priests and holy knights rushed in, surrounding her.
The Grand Temple did possess several holy relics passed down through generations—but they were all ancient, worn objects from hundreds of years ago, relics of history long past. This, however, was happening in the present!
The overwhelming thought that they might become part of history itself made some people dizzy enough to faint. How many in this world could say they had clearly witnessed the existence of a god and the manifestation of the god’s will with their own eyes? This was a glorious, moving tale to be told to one’s children, and their children in turn, for generations.
“Ohhh, this is—!”
“This is it!”
“A holy relic! It’s a holy relic!”
And yet, the very person who had received the holy relic from the god—Yulian—found herself wondering if this was really right.
Because this holy relic—this object as long as an adult’s forearm, with pronounced segments and a long vertical groove split down its length—no matter how she looked at it, was unmistakably that.
—Isn’t this a bamboo clapper?
—
〈Ba-bam!〉
! : Yulian has obtained the Sacred Staff of Repentance [Jukbi (Lv. 99)]!
—
4. The Inextinguishable Flame, I’ll Put It Out (1)
From a very young age, an inextinguishable flame burned in the chest of Billrod Baf.
Usually, it was no more than a feeble match flame. But when he grew angry, it swelled uncontrollably, spreading the fires of destruction in all directions.
Yet he never learned how to control that fire.
“Eeeek! Young Master, please don’t do that!”
When anger seized him, screaming and shrieking were everyday occurrences. Until his agitation subsided, he would grab and hurl whatever he could get his hands on. And if even that failed to extinguish the raging inferno inside him, he would tear at his own hair. Sometimes he even slammed his head against the wall hard enough to make it shake.
“Young Master, you’ll hurt yourself!”
“What are you doing?! Hurry and restrain the Young Master!”
The servants threw themselves in his way, terrified that the young heir of House Baf might injure his forehead. Billrod thrashed wildly, flailing his limbs in resistance, and as a result, there was never a day without bruises on the bodies of those who served him.
“Aaah! Aaah!! Aaaaah!! Let go of me!!”
“My baby, my baby… Don’t do this. Please, don’t.”
Watching his son like that, the father’s heart burned away. The boy was a precious child he had gained with great difficulty from his frail wife. How could parents stand by and watch as such a child lost control of his temper, foaming at the mouth and convulsing?
The duke made relentless efforts to correct his son’s behavior.
“Why do you hurt yourself like this? Don’t you ever think about how much it pains your father to see this?”
“F-Father…”
But summoning a physician for an examination risked branding the sole heir of the ducal house with the stigma of madness, damaging his reputation. The Duke of Baf, born into a prestigious family, raised along an elite path, and risen to the ducal seat, wanted his son to walk the same flawless road, treading upon soft carpets and living an unblemished life. He believed that was a father’s love.
Yet scolding, cajoling, and punishing were only ever temporary measures. The duke knew nothing about childrearing. Raising and caring for children was considered women’s work. But after giving birth to Billrod’s younger sister, the duchess—already in poor health—grew rapidly worse. There was no way such a frail woman could restrain a still-young but fiercely resisting boy with all her strength.
“I don’t know, Father. When I get angry, it’s like everything in front of my eyes is burning. I can’t see anything, I can’t hear anything—I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“My poor child.”
On top of that, Billrod wasn’t being stubborn on purpose. The one who suffered most from the fits of rage that struck like seizures was the child himself. The duke pitied his son deeply and felt a father’s responsibility to protect him from further harm.
After long and repeated deliberation, one day he went into the city and bought a gift for his son.
“Take this.”
“What is it? Huh—this is a riding crop, isn’t it?”
Why something like this…? The duke gently stroked his son’s head, the boy wearing a puzzled expression, and said,
“From now on, when you’re angry, strike the inferiors with this. Do so until the fire burning in your chest goes out. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“W-What? But hitting people with something like this—”
“It’s fine. I’ll take care of the aftermath. Always remember that you are the sole heir and future of the venerable House Baf. It’s better for lowly people to be beaten to death than for your precious body to be harmed.”
The duke spoke kindly and affectionately to his son, as always—even as he presented a stiff leather riding crop in a ribboned box.
“Ah.”
Waking from a long-forgotten childhood dream, Billrod opened his eyes with a frown, his head throbbing. He lay there blankly for a moment, blinking.
What in the world had happened? He had awakened on a cheap bed with an unpleasant feel, provided by the Grand Temple, yet for some reason he had no memory of going to sleep.
“Are you all right, Brother Billrod? Have you come to?”
The one who pulled him back to reality was Angela, sitting by his bedside with a worried expression. Seeing a lone chair nearby, it seemed she had been nursing him here. When a white cloth plopped down onto his forehead, Billrod grew even more confused.
“What… what happened to me?”
“Ah, well… don’t you remember? Yesterday, when you rushed at Yulian—”
“Ugh!”
The moment he touched his damp forehead, yesterday’s events flashed vividly through his mind.
“That’s impossible! Yulian, you’re lying, aren’t you?! This is a scam!”
Billrod, who had watched the miraculous scene of divine forgiveness with a dazed expression, regained his reason too late—and shouted at Yulian.
If it were anyone else, perhaps he could accept it. But Billrod knew Yulian well. She had been forgiven by the god? That was impossible. If the god had any sense at all, such a thing should never have happened. Yes—never.
“Framed? Betraying Rathem of your own accord? Does that make any sense?! The daughter of a ducal house with power second only to the emperor—yeah right! That relic, that relic is definitely a fake too!”
Billrod shoved past the priests surrounding Yulian, glaring at the shabby wooden stick they revered, and advanced toward her. Among the crowd were elderly men with neatly groomed white beards and even children, but in his agitated state, the concept of restraint did not exist for him.
When he reached her and grabbed her wrist, Yulian—who had been just as shocked and bewildered as everyone else—noticed him belatedly. Still, despite being blood relatives, the moment she saw his face, her expression crumpled as if she had seen something unbearable.
“Let go.”
“How dare you be forgiven?! Give that to me! What, that thing’s a holy relic? Don’t make me laugh—something like that—!”
“I said, let go.”
Despite her murderous warning, Billrod failed to grasp how serious the situation had become and instead raised his voice even louder, stubbornly shouting, “I won’t let go!”
What was she going to do if she glared at him like that? Bartholomew was far away, separated by the crowd. With arms as thin as skewers, what resistance could she possibly offer—maybe just a slap at best. Of course, he had no intention of taking it lying down.
—
