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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Mod7
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The situation resolved quickly after that.
“Everyone, stop!”
“…!”
The black-robed figures, who had been reveling in their attack, laughing maniacally as they slaughtered the priests, froze at the Pope’s commanding voice.
He must have recovered his strength while I was dealing with Greed. His presence radiated an undeniable power, and no one dared to defy him.
“Hey, priest, if you shout like that, we’ll—”
“Ugh… aaargh!”
“H-His head…?”
One fool, failing to grasp the situation, stepped forward, only to be instantly silenced.
With the remaining black-robed figures subdued, the Pope began assessing the damage.
The situation was grim.
The church was in ruins. Finding an undamaged section would be a challenge.
Many priests and knights had lost their lives. Most of the surviving nuns had been violated.
I could feel the Pope’s rage radiating beside me as he looked upon the dead eyes of the survivors.
The remaining knights and priests wept over the bodies of their fallen comrades. The violated nuns sat huddled together, their eyes vacant, like broken dolls.
There was no joy in victory, no relief in survival. Only grief for the lost lives, for the fallen friends.
But they had to accept reality. Denying death went against their faith.
All they could do was mourn, pray for the departed, and weep through the night.
Including the Saintess, Hildegarde.
I found her cradling a young child, a broken bottle clutched in her hand.
Three freshly dug graves lay before her. Two were already occupied.
“…Isn’t he cute? His little hands… and his dimples when he smiles.”
“…”
“He asked me for just one piece of candy with these little hands. His expression then… I still remember it clearly.”
“…”
“Father Hern always had a flask with him. I kept telling him to stop drinking, hehe.”
“…Are you alright?”
“Alright…?”
She finally looked at me, her face devoid of expression, but her voice trembled, thick with unshed tears.
It wasn’t a drizzle. Not a passing shower. Not even a sunshower, deceiving with its fleeting brightness.
Dark clouds gathered in her eyes, a storm raged within her heart, a tempest with no eye, no calm center.
“I’m not alright…”
“…”
“I… I thought I was used to death. I’ve seen people die during healing rituals before…”
“…”
“But… I wasn’t.”
The storm clouds in her eyes darkened.
“It hurts, knowing my friends are dead.”
“That’s normal.”
“It hurts, knowing I’ll never see them again…”
“That’s also normal.”
“And… and… I hate them so much…”
Finally, the dam broke. Tears streamed down her face, tears of pain, tears of unbearable hatred.
“What did my people do wrong…?”
“…”
“They spread the word of the Goddess, healed the sick…”
“…”
“They lived lives dedicated to others, putting aside their own desires… and most of them died like this.”
Her voice choked, and she pointed towards a hill in the distance.
A hill formed not of earth, but of red and black.
It sounds strange, but it was true. The hill was a pyre, built from the countless bodies of the fallen church members.
They’d wanted to give each person a proper burial, to mourn them individually, but there hadn’t been time.
Mass cremation was the only option.
It was a gruesome sight.
The pure white of the church, stained red with blood. The mountain of corpses, a black monument to the massacre.
Hands reached out from the pyre, as if grasping for escape. Eyes remained open in death, forever fixed on the world they’d left behind.
We stood there, Saintess and I, watching the pyre in silence.
Did I, who had almost abandoned them, have the right to mourn them?
As I pondered this, a priest approached us.
“…Saintess, it’s time.”
“I… understand…”
I recognized him. He’d been watching me earlier, when I’d first arrived to see the Saintess.
He gestured for her to follow, then turned to me.
“Saint, you should come too.”
“…Where?”
“…To the cremation ceremony. To pray for their souls.”
I almost asked why I should attend, but the somber atmosphere, the grief etched on his face, silenced me.
I followed him, the sounds of weeping growing louder as we approached. The cries of those who’d lost family, friends, loved ones in the attack filled the air, each sob a heavy weight on my heart.
“Saintess, this way.”
“…Yes.”
“Saint, please come this way.”
“Understood.”
We parted ways, the Saintess moving towards the pyre, while I joined the other mourners gathered nearby.
She stopped before the mountain of corpses and clasped her hands together.
Her pure white holy power enveloped the pyre, a stark contrast to the black robes she wore, yet strangely fitting, almost sacred.
As if on cue, the other church members released their own holy power.
Nuns weeping for their lost friends. Knights standing stoically, their faces grim. Priests clutching rosaries, chanting prayers.
Every single one of them contributed, their combined holy power creating a breathtaking spectacle of light.
Then, the Saintess began to speak, her voice clear and strong, yet filled with sorrow.
“Your hair will become ash, enriching this land. Your calloused hands and feet are proof of your service to others. The wrinkles etched upon your bodies are symbols of a life lived with diligence. Our Mother awaits you. She may scold you at first. You were Her creations, human, flawed. It is natural, unavoidable. But in the end, She will forgive you. She will comfort you. She will show you what you protected. She will tell you that your sacrifices were not in vain. And finally, She will embrace you, telling you ‘Well done.’ Rest now. It is alright to weep. We will carry on your hope, your will.”
Her voice broke, and she paused, wiping away a tear with the back of her white sleeve.
But the tears continued to fall, her voice choked with emotion as she continued.
“Wait for us, just a little longer, and we will join you. On behalf of everyone, I ask just one small favor… When that time comes, when we meet again, when we can finally embrace… Please greet us with a simple ‘welcome back’…”
Her final words, Rest in peace, remained unspoken.
She collapsed, overcome by grief, her sobs echoing through the silent crowd.
Tears flowed freely now, not just from her, but from everyone present. Even the stoic knights shed silent tears, their faces glistening in the firelight.
The Pope approached, holding a torch aloft.
“The final farewell… Saintess, I believe it should be you.”
“I… I…”
“It’s alright. They would want it this way.”
She hesitated, then took the torch, its golden flame ignited by holy power.
She touched the flame to the pyre.
The pyre erupted in a brilliant golden light, illuminating the surroundings.
It was beautiful, breathtakingly so.
But no one smiled.
They knew the truth behind the light, the immense sorrow it represented.
No one rejoiced.
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This hurts