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⁜ Episode 20. Because She Shone the Brightest
Having lost all motivation, I left Demia Temple and holed myself up in the underground library.
Among the grand halls, this was the only place I felt at ease.
Monsters are weak to divine power.
That’s practically a law of the world.
So then—how could a monster pose as a son of God and live inside a divine sanctuary?
I spent days buried in the library searching for answers, but what I found only raised more questions.
No conclusion—just more confusion.
And the strangest thought of all was this:
My grandmother, Madeleine Confino, had been the Archmage a thousand years ago.
She was hailed as the genius of her age, and at twenty-four she became the first human to slay a dragon.
Dragons—creations of the gods, rulers over mankind.
They demanded sacrifices, razed villages to fire without warning, disasters wearing scales.
Madeleine killed one, and became a hero. She was ennobled, but vanished soon after, and the family line continued through her younger brother.
It’s told as a triumphant story—human victory over the gods’ creatures.
But if you flip it around…?
How are dragons any different from monsters?
Am I thinking this only because of my corrupt, modern brain?
Monsters and dragons aren’t creatures born of nature’s evolution. Both draw their life from supernatural power.
That evening, over reheated stew and black bread, I asked Damien,
“Hey, what’s the difference between dragons and monsters?”
“Arian!”
Before Damien could even answer, Pythia’s voice cracked in a scream.
The same Pythia who usually treated even my extortion like watering flowers.
Now she stood rigid, her face stern.
Yes—this had happened once before.
When I had joked that my type was “devilish,” she had scolded me,
“A disciple of the temple must not utter such things. Even in jest. You must discipline yourself more harshly.”
Her face now was just like then.
“To compare God’s creations with monsters—such words are unthinkable.”
Her harshness felt strange. As if she were acting.
“Yes, I apologize, Head Priest.”
I hadn’t even sat down yet—still holding plates, I pressed my hands together and bowed deeply. She flinched.
“Th-that’s fine. Just… don’t do it again. Let’s eat quickly.”
The whole thing felt off. Pythia, who never scolded me even when I swore like a sailor, suddenly turning severe?
I’ve never been good at “ladylike.” Even after twelve years in this world, I still hadn’t mastered it. At best, I could fake it.
Yet Pythia had always found me “lovely,” no matter what.
And now, she was hard as stone. Why?
I ate slowly, watching her. Something was weighing on her.
And then—damn it—the word “divorcée” flashed across my mind.
I’d tried to forget. What did it matter to me?
I couldn’t tattle to the king. I couldn’t castrate the bastard who’d abandoned her in this cold mountain.
“Arian.”
A large mushroom dropped into my bowl. Pythia’s hand.
For her, a lover of food, to give that up—she must have been bleeding inside.
“Eat plenty. You worked hard today.”
Her eyes were careful, tender.
The Head Priest of Demia Temple had gnashed his teeth, calling her an idiot.
But I—I could never hate Pythia.
Because she was the most purely good person I had ever met.
Around her, some of the poison in me seemed to drain away.
I didn’t believe in gods, but she truly deserved the title of Saint.
And then—a thought flickered through my mind. Too fast to catch, but it left behind the taste of wrongness.
I plucked the mushroom back out and set it in her bowl.
Then added all the rest of mine.
Each time, her eyes widened, flustered.
“Please eat plenty, Head Priest. I’m fine.”
Then I slipped out of the hut.
The night wind cut through me, bitter and freezing.
Normally, I would have run back inside. But tonight, I crouched beneath the eaves, lost in thought.
Pythia Morihen.
The pride of the late king.
Beautiful, brilliant Pythia.
Born for the throne, fated to shine.
But then—Gerca chose her as Saint.
And now she begged for black bread.
I burst back into the hut, standing before Gerca’s little statue.
I couldn’t hold the question back.
‘What is the standard for becoming a Saint?’
{If I like her, she becomes Saint.}
‘Why is there only one Saint at a time?’
{Because making a Saint consumes divine power. Better to use it for other things.}
‘Then why Pythia Morihen?’
{Naturally,} said Gerca, in his usual frivolous tone,
{Because the most valuable one in the world deserves the glory of serving as my vessel.}
As if it were obvious.
Pythia’s life was ruined—simply because she shone too brightly.
I stared at the tiny idol. For once, I was speechless.
Finally, I managed to whisper,
“…Truly, you are a god.”
A god of calamity.
The rest was impulse.
I ran to Demia Temple and demanded the doors be opened.
By now, everyone there knew me.
Ah, the troublemaker.
That’s what their eyes said.
I spotted the senior priest who had led me to the storeroom earlier.
“On behalf of our Head Priest, I must apologize for my rudeness toward yours. She commands me to seek forgiveness here at Demia Temple. Since I am her only disciple, it is more convenient for me to come at night. Would that be permitted?”
“You crazy—!”
A young acolyte nearly spat a curse, but the senior priest thundered,
“Silence! Never defile the Earth’s bosom with such words!”
The boy shrank. I kept my eyes fixed on the senior priest.
He sighed.
“It’s possible… but to enter the temple, you need the Head Priest’s permission. And as you know, he retired early to bed today…”
Collapsed, more like.
At first, I thought he’d lain down in rage at losing to a child. But after seeing the empty storeroom, I realized: no, he was sick with worry that his failure would mean famine for his people.
“The garden will suffice.”
He studied me, then smiled faintly.
“It will be cold.”
“I don’t mind. Before God, one must endure hardship.”
He only stared, then murmured,
“…You are serious.”
And gestured me toward the statue.
{Greetings, child of us all.}
Demia’s voice came, light and eager.
I walked forward slowly, steadying my thoughts.
I must not be fooled by the “characters” of gods.
Gerca seemed harmless, even endearing at times.
But he was the one who had destroyed Pythia’s life—just because she was the best.
Dragons were the same. History said they did nothing but harm. How many had died by their fire? How many treasures stolen? Entire kingdoms toppled.
And it was the gods who had created such beings.
So what were gods, really?
For whom did they exist?
Not for humans—that much was clear.
After all, look at me. I had only opened a garden gate—and they kidnapped me, bound my soul, dumped me here.
Threatened me with eternal slavery if I failed their “mission.”
‘Hello.’
I knelt in the snow, hood shadowing my face.
{So, you’ve decided to come to me?}
‘That’s impossible. You claimed my mother would understand, but that was a lie. So no, I cannot.’
{Then why have you come?}
Demia’s voice grew colder.
‘I cannot leave Gerca’s temple. But if you tell me what you desire, I will find a way to fulfill it.’
Gods always have aims.
{You are not speaking out of faith, child.}
‘Correct. I have no such faith. I am human, after all. And as you said, Gerca seems… rather powerless. Here, even a monster could masquerade as a priest. Ah, forgive me. “Monster” is too human-centric. How should I address that poor novice?’
{Call him a creation, child.}
Ah. Creation.
A creation of the gods.
Like a dragon.
