This Isn’t an E*otic Game?

The combat priests and holy knights of the White Order, along with investigators from the Imperial Intelligence Agency known as the Black Fortress, arrived on the scene less than ten minutes after I beat the Collector to death with my belt.

“It was all for my personal gain! I was just an illegitimate son from a minor barony! They asked if I’d consider worshiping the Evil God, promising that I’d have power and wealth if I did. What did I have to lose? So I agreed! Then one morning, my father and older brother mysteriously died! That’s how I inherited the barony!”
“You’re spilling everything so easily! Good! Keep talking! Every word adds more wood to the pile beneath your feet!”
“Ughhh! Please spare me! Spare me! I knew this would happen if I got caught, but I couldn’t stop myself! Who would reject getting everything they wanted? The factory workers who burned to death? They weren’t my concern! Those beggars could burn for all I care! …Waaaahhh!!”

“The Silent Order of the Pantheon and the Black Fortress investigators will treat you with great care. You’ll wish you’d never been born!”
“Aaaagh! Please! Please!”
Baron Hanson screamed his last desperate pleas as he was dragged away.

Trailing behind him was the overweight factory manager.
“N-No! I didn’t know anything! Hanson was a devil worshiper? I didn’t know! I swear I didn’t know! Have mercy!”
“If there’d been even a single report of you clashing with Hanson or complaining about him over drinks, we might’ve believed you. But after a ten-minute investigation, we found countless testimonies that you passionately supported him. If you weren’t a devil worshiper, then we must question your mental state.”

“Nooo! Please! Please! Saint, help me!!”
The factory manager reached out to me, pleading desperately.
I smiled brightly in response.

“Even if you’re not a devil worshiper, your mental state is just as bad. Be sure to burn him at the stake next to the baron.”
“N-No!! Please! Mercy!! Mercy!!”
There’s no mercy for you, you bastard.

With their shrill screams echoing behind them, Baron Hanson and the factory manager were dragged away, and only then did I allow myself to relax.
I was exhausted. I’d used too much mental energy.
What a night.

I just wanted to go back and rest—
“Saint Amayel.”
“Healing Saint.”
“Amayel, Saint Amayel.”

Before I knew it, an enormous crowd of people had gathered, filling the entrance to Baron Hanson’s mansion.
Their eyes were filled with awe, shock, and tears.
Some had even fallen to their knees.

“Thank you.”
Among them was one of the victims’ family members, a woman who had been crying over a charred corpse at the factory earlier.
She approached me, carefully took my hand, and bowed her head.

I could feel her tears dripping onto the ground.
She wasn’t the only one.
Dozens of impoverished, sickly people came forward, reaching out to touch me.

They grabbed my legs, hands, arms, shoulders, waist—clinging to me as if trying to draw some miraculous energy from my presence.
It didn’t feel unpleasant.
“What are you doing?! Step away from the Saint!”

The police rushed in to restrain the crowd, but I raised my hand to stop them.
After all, I wouldn’t be here much longer.
I had to help these people as much as I could while I was still around.

As I raised my hand to heal the sick, a voice cried out.
“Why is life so hard?!”
It was the grieving mother, clutching my hand, her voice tearing through the air in anguish.

“Why did my daughter have to die at the hands of such wicked people? Is this the Goddess’s will? If so, it’s too cruel. Why doesn’t the suffering ever end? Saint…”
She collapsed to the ground, wailing in a way that even a beast couldn’t match, as if her very soul was pouring out through her cries.
The crowd fell silent.

They all looked at me, their gazes filled with expectation, as if I held the answer to all their suffering.
I looked around.
Malnourished bodies.
Exhausted faces.
Damaged, flaky skin marred by wounds.
Hollow eyes that still held a spark of hope, looking at me as if I were their savior.

I couldn’t reject their gazes.
What did it matter if I was a fake?
If I could bring a little comfort to these people, what harm was there in that?

This wretched world.
If I could give them even a moment of solace in this hellish existence…
The Goddess of Grace already hates me. I can pretend to be a saint for a little longer.

Jesus.
I’m sorry.
I’m borrowing your words again.

I climbed onto the roof of the car that had brought me here.
Naturally, all eyes turned to me.
I raised my hand.

And then I spoke.
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
*****

An era where children worked.
A time when three-year-olds, instead of playing joyfully, were used as tools to generate wealth for capitalists and industrialists.
“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.”

An era where the fingers of workers were severed, their limbs twisted, their bodies damaged and discarded, only to be replaced by new ones.
“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.”
An era where young girls, their faces disfigured by burns and chemical poisoning, hung from rotting ropes as they tried to sleep.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see the grace of the Goddess.”
An era where industrialists toured slums, casually thinking, How could those creatures be so crude and stupid? Are they even the same species as us, apart from appearance?
I spoke of blessings for the most anguished and pained among them.

“Blessed are those weary of a purposeless life, for they shall find a reason to live. Humans cannot grant such a gift. Only the Goddess can. The greatest grace She can bestow upon you is peace of mind.”
I sold the Goddess.
Why not? I’m going back to Korea soon anyway.

I sold Her freely, without restraint.
“Today, a tragic event occurred. Some of you may have lost someone, endured misery, and felt despair and hopelessness. Yet, even so, you are still alive. Those who have passed are no longer by your side. They are no longer human—they have been guided by the hands of the Goddess.”
I looked at the mother who had lost her child.

“What was your daughter’s name?”
“Ellie. Her name was Ellie, Saint.”
“Think of Ellie. Remember her—the way she dressed, the way she spoke, everything she did.”

The woman began to cry again.
“I can see her, Saint. I see her clearly... so vividly.”
“Now imagine her at peace, resting in the arms of the Goddess. Picture her smiling, free from all pain and suffering, having found peace.”

The sounds of weeping echoed all around.
“Did Ellie go to heaven? Did the Goddess of Grace pity her?”
The mother, tears streaming down her face, asked desperately.

I didn’t know.
How could I possibly know?
I had never exchanged a single word with the Goddess.

So, I lied.
“She surely has. The Goddess never abandons those who are hurt, burdened, and sorrowful.”
I was trying to tell these people to keep living.

But explaining why they should carry on to those drowning in grief would take too long, and it would be too difficult to ease their pain with reason alone.
That’s where religion came in.
Religion offered solace only religion could provide.

“Ellie is resting in the arms of the Goddess. All those who perished today are with her, in a place free from pain and sadness. So, please, do not grieve anymore.”
The mother collapsed.
I stepped down from the roof of the car and approached her.

I held her in my arms.
“Ellie is at peace now. So focus on finding peace for yourself. Cry when you’re sad. Laugh when you’re happy. Eat well, sleep well, and try to find happiness. Live your life. That’s what you must do now.”
“Saint!!”

I let the woman sob in my arms, helping her pour out her emotions.
The countless others who saw her tears began to cry as well.
“Damn it. Dust... must’ve gotten in my eyes.”

Even some of the policemen controlling the scene removed their hats to wipe away their tears.
I let them cry.
And then I did what I could.

I healed the injured among the people who had gathered before me.
“Yodel.”
“Yes, Saint.”

The old archbishop, Yodel, who had stood silently by my side before I began my sermon, listened attentively.
“Provide compensation to all the families who lost loved ones in today’s factory fire. Make it generous enough to bring them some comfort. Material wealth won’t fully erase their sorrow, but it can help ease the burden. Do so in the name of Grace.”
“I understand. I’ll speak with Jonathan Karma immediately.”

Yodel’s eyes glistened with tears as he bowed deeply.
I gave him a bitter smile.
I’m sorry, old man.

I’m a fraud.
Soon, I’ll be cursed and return to Korea.
But please, don’t forget my words.

These people deserve help.
If you have the ability to help, you should.
Dragging my exhausted body, I began heading back to the temple of the Tower of Magic.

Behind me, the factory workers who had heard my sermon began to follow.
It was as if they were pilgrims.
When I glanced back, I saw all of them walking in silence, tears streaming down their faces, following me.

It looked like they were trying to let go of their sorrow, to release their emotions and bid farewell to the departed.
This was a funeral procession.
How could I tell them to stop and leave?

So, with them behind me, I kept walking.
Until we reached the temple of the Tower of Magic.
They followed me, step by step, all the way there.

*****
The title of Saint carried immense weight.
Jonathan Karma didn’t stop at simply providing compensation.

“There are two options. One: improve the treatment of your workers to match the standards of District 3’s impoverished zone and receive discounted factory supplies from Karma Company. Or two: face long and grueling trials in the Pantheon for abusing workers to supply grudges for the Evil God. Which will it be?”
When Jonathan Karma met with the industrialists running the factories on the outskirts of the capital, he reportedly smiled.
But the faces of the priests and holy knights standing at his sides were said to be twisted like the wrathful specters of the underworld.

As a result, every factory on the outskirts of the capital accepted Jonathan Karma’s conditions.
“A devil worshiper from a noble family? Such disgrace!”
Even the Emperor was furious.

As a result, Baron Hanson was swiftly stripped of his title and publicly burned at the stake.
All the workers in the capital reportedly felt immense satisfaction as they heard his screams.
*****

“The Collector is dead.”
“Dead?”
“She was one of the strongest in the cult, aside from the Chosen One. How could she die so easily?”

“They say the Healing Saint discovered her hidden lair and killed her with his own hands.”
The room fell silent.
It was fear.

The Collector’s hideout had been thoroughly protected by the miracle of concealment.
How had he found it?
He must possess the ability to see through the miracle of concealment.

There was no other explanation.
Naturally, one conclusion dawned on everyone.
“The Chosen One is in danger.”

“The One with a Thousand Faces is also at high risk of being discovered soon.”
“As long as the Saint frequents Princess Iomene’s secluded palace, it’s only a matter of time before he uncovers the truth. He will realize everything.”
“We must take action.”

Various opinions were exchanged, but no viable solutions emerged.
The Healing Saint.
A colossal obstacle who had suddenly appeared and ruined all their plans.

He was unlike any adversary they had faced before.
With inexplicable abilities and an almost fraudulent detection power, he was clearly intent on destroying the cult of the Evil God.
How could they deal with him?

They knew nothing about him, yet he seemed to know everything about them. It was impossible to devise a countermeasure.
“We cannot risk the Chosen One being exposed further. Accelerate the plan. Awaken the Evil God’s Fragment implanted in Princess Iomene’s body.”
“If we do that, the fragment’s abilities will be significantly weaker than originally planned.”

“Not to mention, the fragment will become dangerously unstable. It could shatter from even a minor shock.”
“Even so, this is our best option. We must prevent the Chosen One from coming into direct conflict with the Saint.”
A voice of dissent arose.

“The Chosen One is blessed by the Evil God with multiple lives. Even if they die, they will not truly perish.”
“Your point?”
“I believe we should continue having the Chosen One support the growth of the fragment as they have been, even if it risks them encountering the Saint. Consider how much we sacrificed to obtain the fragment. Awakening it prematurely and failing would be too great a loss.”

“The Grace Church’s Saint is an unknown entity. We have no idea what miracles he can perform.”
The Evil God cult was familiar with the abilities of Saints and Saints from most churches—the White Order’s Saint, the Sun Church’s Saintess, the Silent Order’s Saint, and so on.
But the Saint of the Grace Church was different.

He was the first of his kind.
There was no information about him.
“What if the Healing Saint can destroy all of the Chosen One’s multiple lives simultaneously? And according to the Chosen One’s reports, he seems intent on transferring the Evil God’s Fragment into his own body. Doesn’t that suggest he has a way to deal with the fragment?”

If they weren’t careful, they could lose both the Chosen One and the Evil God’s Fragment.
With this realization, no one raised further objections.
The conclusion was inevitable.

“Accelerating the plan will leave the fragment severely unstable, and its abilities much weaker than intended. But we have no choice.”
The room fell silent.
It was unanimous.

“For the Blood Drinker...”
After the weak chant, the candle was extinguished.