Chapter 92

Chapter 92

The governance of the Rosário rests in the hands of eight cardinals.

With the pope seldom emerging from the temple’s highest confessional barring matters of great import, it is these cardinals who steer the organization. They are split into three principal groups:

The first, headed by Cardinal Mirania, is known as the Pureblood Faction.

A second, led by Cardinal Gumanian, is the Political Faction.

The last group falls under the leadership of Cardinal Yutia.

Neither the Pureblood Faction of Cardinal Mirania nor the Political Faction of Cardinal Gumanian held any particular fondness for Yutia.

Backed by the devotion of innumerable faithful, Yutia Bludia had rapidly assimilated neighboring influences, forging a powerful bloc even though it contained only two cardinals.

Yet that was not the entirety of it.

While Yutia’s faction was unmistakably the most minor of the three in sheer size, the other cardinals could not afford to dismiss her.

The reason? She appeared to possess, for unknown reasons, considerable hold over the other cardinals—vulnerabilities that, while not grave enough to cost them their titles, were potent enough to cripple their authority.

Consequently, the factions within the Rosário’s domain felt little warmth toward Yutia. Lately, the other two factions had started to conspire in secret, devising a strategy to eliminate her.

At least, that had been their aim until yesterday.

To their misfortune, that scheme disintegrated today during the title Investiture ceremony.

Why, you might wonder?

“The Saint!?”

“Why is the Saint here…!?”

The Saint’s entrance into the temple’s inner hall—the venue for the ceremony—together with Yutia, struck the four other attending cardinals with utter disbelief. (The remaining four were away on external business.)

Simply by appearing together so publicly, whether at an official Rosário function or an event as seemingly minor as a title Investiture, it signaled a clear alliance between them.

The weight of this realization was profound.

The cardinals in attendance grasped a crucial fact:

The Saint had no previous ties to Count Palatio.

By custom, it is priests who are already acquainted with the nobles receiving honors at an Investiture who accompany them.

And yet, the Saint was involved in the proceedings alongside Count Palatio—a man with no evident connection to her.

This drove the cardinals to one, inescapable deduction:

The Saint had thrown his support behind Yutia.

“If the Saint is on her side, we cannot proceed with our plans.”

“How on earth did she draw the Saint into her circle?”

“This has just become a monumental problem.”

As muted grumbles of irritation circulated among them…

Alon, who was also entering the hall for the Investiture, felt thoroughly bewildered.

‘…What is this about? Should I even inquire?’

He wavered, looking at Yuman beside him, then shifted his gaze to Yutia.

“?”

Her face mirrored his own confusion, which only served to heighten Alon’s curiosity.

***

“The Investiture ceremony is now concluded.”

The drawn-out and monotonous ceremony had at last reached its end.

“Congratulations, Count Palatio—though I should now address you as Marquis.”

“My thanks.”

Anderde extended his hand with a polished smile, which Alon accepted with a brief nod, all the while thinking:

‘That was excruciatingly lengthy.’
While Sergius had warned him such ceremonies were protracted, he hadn’t expected it to consume a full four hours. He let out a soft, frustrated sigh.

“Until we have the opportunity to meet again.”

Anderde gave a slight bow of his head, marking the event’s official close. The people in the hall started to depart in small groups.

Observing them go, Alon heard voices near him.

“Congratulations, my Lord. You have attained the rank of marquis.”

“Indeed. I will have to take care not to mistakenly call you ‘Count’ from now on,” Evan added.

Acknowledging their words, Alon responded, “Yes, thank you both.”

“With all matters concluded here, what are your intentions now?”

Alon considered for a moment before replying.

“My business here is finished. I will be returning.”

To his comfortable, tranquil home—an ideal place for roasting sweet potatoes.

“Is that so? You will not remain for the Birthday Festival?”

“Birthday Festival?”

“Yes, today marks Sironia’s Birthday Festival,” Yutia clarified.

Alon stood still for a second, his eyes blinking in surprise.

“The festival is today?”

“It is.”

“Strange, I didn’t observe any decorations around the temple.”

He shared his recollection of the area over the past few days.

Yutia answered, “That is because the festival truly commences on the night of the full moon. The pope proclaims the festival’s start, and only then do the preparations intensify.”

“Although, since the pope is typically engaged in prayer within the Holy Land, the Chief Cardinal, Lord Anderde, will probably be the one to announce it,” she added, her tone lightly playful.

Alon nodded, considering this.

‘The Birthday Festival, is it…?’
The Birthday Festival of Sironia.

In Psychedelia, this was an event players encountered during their initial trips to Rosário. However, Alon had seldom taken part in the festival within the game.

Rather than joining the event, it was far more advantageous—for gaining experience and leveling up—to venture into the various dungeons or farm levels in Lartania.

That said, while he frequently bypassed the event, Alon was fully aware of the exclusive items available only during the festival.

‘I am already here, so I may as well acquire a few of those while I have the chance.’
With this in mind, Alon spoke.

“In that case, I suppose I could stay and experience the festival for a day or two.”

“Truly? Is that your decision, Count—forgive me, Marquis?”

“Yes.”

Evan and Yutia nodded, their expressions showing clear approval of Alon’s choice.

‘Well, if I can obtain those items, a day or two is not a poor trade.’
As Alon was making this assessment, a familiar voice addressed him from behind.

“Marquis Palatio.”

Turning, Alon saw Yuman approaching.

“Saint.”

“My congratulations.”

The abrupt well-wishing caught Alon off guard for a second, but he recovered swiftly.

“…? Ah, thank you.”

Unlike their last encounter, when Yuman had cautioned him against Yutia, his tone now held an almost unrecognizable warmth. He was utterly inscrutable.

Whether Yuman noticed Alon’s puzzlement or not, he offered a contented smile before turning his attention to Yutia.

His demeanor changed instantly—becoming cold and overtly antagonistic.

For a long moment, he held her gaze.

Then, as if imparting a grave warning, he stated, “I will take my leave now. I also trust you have pondered my words deeply.”

With a blazing, fervent stare that seemed to overflow with intensity, Yuman walked away.

As Alon watched his retreating form, somewhat dazed, Evan spoke up.

“Marquis.”

“Yes?”

“I realize this may sound deeply improper, but… does the Saint not strike you as somewhat… unstable?”

“In what way?”

“Well… like he has a split personality.”

Evan’s plausible suspicion left Alon momentarily speechless as he mentally reviewed Yuman’s conduct—shifting from anger, to solemnity, to smiles with every meeting.

Finally, Alon gave a slow, deliberate nod.

“That… could very well be the case.”

It was a judgment free from bias.

Unaware, however, Yuman remained completely ignorant of such critiques.

‘I must save the Silver Saint from the wicked clutches of Cardinal Yutia!’
Yuman, brimming with fervor and resolve, continued to blaze with determination.

***

That night.

“This is truly an incredible sight!”

“It is.”

At Evan’s exclamation, full of wonder, Alon looked out from the room. His face was stoic, but he too felt a stir of admiration.

‘This surpasses even the game’s depiction.’
A blue moon dominated the sky, while the enormous temple below was encircled not by red torches, but by luminous blue ones that set the entire scene aglow.

At the heart of the vast temple, a great multitude of priests had assembled, praying in unison as they awaited the commencement of the Birthday Festival.

The spectacle was genuinely awe-inspiring, and Alon found himself momentarily captivated by the view.

“It is beginning,” Yutia said, directing his attention to the platform.

Soon, Anderde ascended, initiating the festival.

Not long after, Alon observed Yuman joining Anderde on the platform and reflected:

‘I was concerned about our strained relations, but since it has resolved favorably, I suppose it no longer matters.’
While Alon knew that Yuman—being no heretic—was unlikely to cause him physical or political harm despite any disagreements, he still preferred to avoid conflict.

More significantly, in the original narrative of Psychedelia, Yuman eventually becomes one of the allies who defends this world alongside the protagonist, Eliban.

In short, a poor relationship with Yuman would only spell future difficulties.

With that concern eased from his mind, Alon watched the festival events with a sense of relief.

At that moment, Yuman stood on the platform, ready to deliver the customary sermon alongside the Chief Cardinal for the assembled faithful.

Suddenly,

“…?”

Yuman sensed something was wrong.

The person before him was unmistakably Anderde, yet there was a subtle, indefinable difference.

If pressed to describe it, Yuman would have been at a loss.

But the feeling of disquiet was undeniable.

Just then, the Chief Cardinal, his benevolent smile still in place, spoke.

“As anticipated, you can perceive it, can you not, Saint?”

“…Pardon?” Yuman asked, startled.

Anderde, however, disregarded the question, watching Yuman as he went on.

“I envy you, Saint.”

His voice held an odd quality, straying from the ceremony’s script.

A ripple of confusion began to show in Yuman’s eyes.

“By your mere existence, you are blessed.”

The words that followed caused visible disquiet among the cardinals and bishops seated on the platform.

“Priests who have spent decades in prayer, children who endure days of hunger, devotees who suffer to enact the divine will—all of them, but not you.”

“……”

“I consider it… unjust.”

By now, even the faithful, who had been immersed in prayer moments before, sensed that something was wrong. They looked up at the platform, faces clouded with uncertainty.

And then, Yuman witnessed it.

The Chief Cardinal, his benevolent smile still fixed, spoke again:

“And thus, here, before a new god, I ask you, the very ‘symbol’ of this injustice, to perish.”

*Crack!*

In a flash, Anderde’s arm, which had seemed normal moments before, began to swell horribly, morphing into something monstrous.

A gigantic limb, like hundreds of tree trunks fused together, swung down with crushing force, intent on wiping out the cardinals and Yuman on the platform.

It occurred in an instant.

Simultaneously, Yuman’s perception warped, and the world around him seemed to decelerate.

He saw the cardinals and bishops on the platform, their faces locked in shock as they tried to stand.

He saw the Paladins, their swords drawn a moment too late.

He saw the horrified expressions of countless priests, flooding his vision as if in slow motion.

Under ordinary conditions, no one on the platform would have survived Anderde’s ambush.

Holy power requires time to manifest.

No matter how deep one’s faith or how great one’s power, invoking the divine demands prayer.

This was an unchangeable law.

Yet, there was one individual present unbound by this restriction.

The Saint, Yuman.

Chosen directly by the divine, Yuman could channel holy power without any prayer.

*Crack! Crack! Crack!*

In that splinter of time, Yuman summoned holy power to intercept the blow.

“Ugh!”

Even as he poured a vast quantity of holy power into his shield, the sheer force of the impact forced a pained grunt from him.

Still, the barrier he formed with his exceptional power managed to halt Anderde’s surprise assault, just as he had expected.

But—

Anderde’s deformed arm slid along the periphery of Yuman’s shield and continued its arc, speeding downward toward the priests below the platform.

“No!”

Unthinkingly, Yuman shouted and stretched his shield to cover a wider space.

Yet, despite his haste, Anderde’s monstrous arm was already descending upon a cluster of young priests, children too small to have reached adulthood.

In that moment, Yuman saw them.

The children, shaking with fear, their eyes wide with terror, looked toward him with a faint spark of hope.

But those hopeful eyes only magnified Yuman’s despair. He instinctively squeezed his eyes shut, as if to erase the image.

And then—

“Thunder God’s Wrath.”

A low voice echoed throughout the temple.

When Yuman opened his eyes, he saw it.

Amid the terrified children, a figure in a dark coat moved with blinding speed.

“…!”

The moment Yuman understood, an icy dread seeped into his very core.

What he saw next was the coat’s hem snapping violently in the air, alive with blue lightning.

Finally, Yuman witnessed Anderde’s grotesque arm, which had been sweeping to crush everyone on the platform, vanish as if it had detonated.

And then, every eye, including Yuman’s, turned to the man—or rather, the form of the Silver Saint, silhouetted against the blue moon.

“What is the meaning of this?”

The man’s voice rang out, composed yet edged with command.