Chapter 26
The Saintess and the Woodcutter (4)
The suspiciously wealthy foreign benefactor who had come to the orphanage director’s office caused quite a commotion upon hearing that Ivan did not have a bedroom of his own. Only after that did they finally manage to get to the main subject.
The Saintess calmly listened to Ivan’s story—though Enrique did most of the talking—before taking a sip of tea.
There was at least one possessor at the university, and possibly as many as three.
“How strange.”
“Hm?”
“Enrique, have you never heard that only two or three of those who are ‘dragged here’ appear in an entire century?”
“Uh, yes?”
“How many have there been now?”
The Saintess set down her tea and quietly folded her hands.
Her eyes had grown deep, like those of a high-ranking priest.
“Maximilien, the Demon King, and Ivan. Three in total. There may be more elsewhere, but even then, there should only be one person I do not know about—two at most.”
“…Huh?”
“And all of that happened roughly twenty years ago.”
The period when the Demon King appeared, when Maximilien appeared, and when Ivan appeared.
All of it had happened about twenty years ago.
Not even a generation had passed, let alone a century.
“The stories of the Demon King and Maximilien have ended. I do not know what kind of story Brother Kirilts belongs to, but its conclusion cannot be far away. But what happens if more of them begin appearing now?”
“Hm? Is that a problem?”
“It is not normal. I once served Maximilien, who was one of those ‘dragged here.’ As a result, I have read every old cathedral record concerning them.”
Two or three in a century.
Whenever they appeared, they inevitably distinguished themselves somewhere.
As though each one were creating a story of their own, they moved with extraordinary fervor.
After bringing the tale of their era to an end and disappearing, time would pass, and another would be dragged in to turn the next page.
Which meant that now, after the Demon King’s death and with every nation finally settling down…
What possible reason could there be for new possessors to appear?
At most, the nations that had retained their military strength after the war against the Demon King and the localized conflicts arising from colonial expansion could be regarded as signs of danger.
But it was still far too soon.
The world had been devastated too thoroughly to face another war. No nation possessed enough remaining strength to dare wage an all-out conflict.
Even if the Demon King returned, would it truly be a problem?
Most of the Hero’s Party were still alive and well, and every nation had already finished preparing countermeasures against “powerful individuals.”
Furthermore, the demon race had been scattered as an entire species, either enslaved or driven out of civilization. Only remnants remained in faraway lands, and they no longer possessed the power to continue a war.
“How many did you say you suspected?”
“Three.”
“Their nationalities?”
“Two are from Krasilov. The other is from Calion.”
“One elf and two humans.”
The Saintess crossed her arms and sank into thought for a moment.
“You said all three were students?”
“Yes.”
“And none of them have been confirmed yet?”
“Mm.”
“Then we should verify them.”
The Saintess nodded far more readily than expected.
Nothing good had ever happened when a woman of faith used the word verify, so Ivan briefly wondered whether she intended to conduct an inquisition.
“Find out which of the suspicious students are truly among those who were ‘dragged here.’ Then determine what kind of story those children were dragged into. Once we know that, will we not also learn what story remains unfinished in our era?”
After the stories of the Demon King and Maximilien had ended, what kind of story could the possessors of this world still accomplish?
What sort of tale had drawn them here?
By piecing those fragments together, they could prepare for the future.
That was the Saintess’s plan.
Naturally, this world was not the plot of some game or novel.
Whatever stories they had experienced in “another world,” fictional creations could not directly influence the course of this one.
People, however, were different.
A person influenced by such a “story” was different.
What kind of beliefs did the possessor carry? What actions did they intend to take?
Those things would undoubtedly affect this world.
Just as the Demon King, the Hero, and the countless possessors before them had done, possessors would inevitably create incidents, conflicts, and history.
The Saintess nodded and leaned back against the sofa. After taking another sip of tea, she suddenly asked,
“So, Brother Kirilts. What was your story?”
“I do not know.”
“…What? No matter how long ago it was, surely there was something… Some powerful sense of purpose, or a feeling of destiny, or some kind of… story?”
There should have been at least one.
Most possessors usually had something like that.
Ivan hesitated at her question before opening his mouth gravely.
“There were too many.”
“…What?”
During his lifetime, Kim Sunwoo had left malicious comments on a total of eight games, eleven webtoons, and more than thirty web novels.
They were all from different genres.
If he liked something, the genre had not mattered.
Ivan carefully explained the situation, beginning with the superstition from his world that “if you insult an author, you can become possessed by their work.”
The immature Kim Sunwoo, who had wanted to be transported into another world, had followed that superstition and unleashed razor-sharp critiques on all manner of works…
In other words, the “5,700-character punch of gratitude.”
Immediately after hearing his calm recollection, Enrique averted her gaze, while the Saintess briefly lost the ability to speak.
“Let us repent, Brother.”
The Saintess tightly clasped Ivan’s hand and poured divine power into him.
It was warm.
Warm enough to make a corner of his conscience sting.
***
March.
The season when flowers bloomed and the spring breeze tickled the heart.
Yevgeny—Eugene—swept back his flowing black hair as he read the Bible.
The damned scripture-reading class was approaching.
The theology department’s main hall had been constructed as an exact replica of a cathedral. Beneath the green roadside trees, Eugene sat reading on a bench, creating a picturesque scene all by himself.
After having planted the seeds of corruption in the hearts of countless prospective nuns, Eugene suddenly stopped when he noticed a sparkling notification at the edge of his vision.
“Hm?”
[Warning!]
[Warning!]
[Warning!]
“Wh-what, what, what is it?! What is it this time?! Don’t pull any bullshit on me!”
He instinctively hunched over and looked around.
No one was there.
Again.
Again.
That damned status window was once again muttering about something only it understood without providing him with any explanation!
Just as that thought crossed his mind, the warning message burst open with a pop.
To his surprise, this time the thing actually began offering an “explanation of the situation.”
“What…?”
[Warning!]
[Survival Instinct Lv. 3]
[Stand up immediately and walk forward.]
[Do not look behind you.]
[Act naturally.]
[Even if someone calls out to you…]
Whatever was going on, he needed to leave this spot first.
The status window was so unhelpful that it was practically useless, but at the very least, it never lied.
Apparently, today’s theme was a rules horror story.
Clutching his forehead, he stood up and began walking as naturally as possible.
He was certain the work he had possessed was titled The Swordsmanship Genius Scoundrel of the Northern Grand Duke’s Family, but that title now seemed about as accurate as calling the Holy Roman Empire holy, Roman, or an empire.
There was no northern grand duke’s family.
He was not a swordsmanship genius.
And he had not even managed to act like a scoundrel!
He bit down hard on his lip.
This was closer to the SCP Foundation—or whatever kind of cosmic horror setting one could imagine.
At the very least, this damned status window…
No.
This fucking status window.
From now on, your name is the Fucking Status Window.
Eugene ground his teeth while desperately controlling his expression.
Ordinary.
Calm.
He naturally hid his trembling hands inside his sleeves.
Step by step, he walked forward.
“Eugene.”
Naturally.
Act naturally.
While muttering that to himself, Eugene instinctively turned his head when he heard his name called from behind.
He still needed to build a decent reputation at the academy, after all.
So he turned with a warm and devout smile.
“As expected. I was right. Yevgeny is Eugene. China, Japan, or Korea—which one are you from?”
“!!!!!”
A murderous Santa Claus was glaring at him from behind a tree.
Glancing at the warning window flashing madly, Eugene slowly—very carefully—turned his head back with an audible creak.
“Mmm-hmm. Ahh, what lovely weather.”
As though he had not turned because someone called him, but merely because he wanted to loosen up his neck…
He kept sneaking glances at the damned status window, checking whether there were any more warnings or whether it was attempting another narrative trick.
Thud.
A powerful hand landed on Eugene’s shoulder.
Ivan quietly studied his eyes.
His gaze was awkward.
It was not the behavior of someone who was merely startled or terrified.
He was clearly conscious of something.
Of course, there was nothing in the direction the boy kept looking.
In that case, the most reasonable conclusion was that there was “something only he could see.”
“Can you see something?”
Ivan did not know whether possessors received some kind of special privilege.
At the very least, he had never received anything like that.
Had Maximilien possessed some unique talent as well?
He had no way of knowing.
But supposing that were true…
If possessors truly did receive something special, then based on Kim Sunwoo’s “common knowledge,” several reasonable possibilities came to mind.
A status window.
A trait window.
Or something similar.
The thing that so frequently appeared in early game-possession stories.
A convenient blue augmented-reality display visible only to the protagonist.
Perhaps the very thing Ivan had once longed for so desperately was now visible to this boy.
Meanwhile, the moment Eugene heard Ivan’s words, he instinctively reached his own conclusion.
The monster standing before him was definitely another “possessor.”
Most likely Korean.
Damn it.
Dual protagonists…?
That was a shortcut to failure.
Wasn’t that style far too old-school?
Eugene tried to appear as ordinary as possible.
If this man was another possessor who had lived in this world far longer than him, was he more likely to be friendly or hostile?
At the very least, this man had thrown a rock filled with murderous intent the instant he noticed him.
In other words, he qualified as an aggressive monster that attacked on sight.
Eugene’s mind spun.
He recalled his first quest.
Kill Ivan Petrovich, conceal the information, or persuade him.
Failure would result in death.
“W-who… who are you…? D-do you know me…?”
“I intend to get to know you from now on.”
“If you do this, the department head won’t… won’t let it go…”
“Saintess Patricia has authorized it.”
With the sound of what little faith he possessed shattering into pieces, Eugene was dragged away by Ivan.
[Warning—Canceled—]
[Survival Instinct Lv. 3]
[Stand up immediately and walk forward.—Canceled—]
[Do not look behind you.—Canceled—]
[Act naturally.—Canceled—]
[Even if someone calls out to you, do not answer. He is not your ally.—Canceled—]
[Leave with the gardener. Do not resist. He is your ally.]
Didn’t messages like this usually mean you were about to die in a rules horror story?
Eugene stared blankly at the status window and thought.
It was March, and the warm spring breeze felt pleasant.
Looking down over the peaceful academy grounds, the Saintess quietly made the sign of the cross.
A possessor.
A possessor who had suffered alone for thirty years.
A possessor who did not know his own story and had lost sight of his purpose.
A possessor who had remained as someone else’s supporting character before quietly fading away.
She watched Ivan depart and prayed.
May that taciturn woodcutter finally find a purpose in life.
And at the end of it, may even a handful of happiness remain within his grasp.
“The student you said was needed for the ‘special class’… Oswald, a first-year student in the Faculty of Magic. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that was the name. Is there a problem?”
“Well… I would not exactly call it a problem. The boy himself is an extremely diligent and talented student, but…”
The head of the Faculty of Magic glanced uneasily at the Saintess with a peculiar expression.
He was an elf from the Calion Archipelago.
Until just before the semester began, he had been a renowned mage active in Calion.
Elves had a small population.
Compared to humans, their numbers were overwhelmingly limited.
As a result, descendants of prestigious families tended to know one another in detail.
In extraordinary detail.
He was no exception.
Any student wealthy and influential enough to travel such a vast distance to study abroad would inevitably come from a prominent family within the Calion Archipelago.
Thus, he could easily recall the personal details of the student the Saintess had mentioned.
Oswald Eastbelpen.
The legitimate heir of a prestigious Calion magical family and the son of a current privy councilor.
He was a diligent, intelligent, considerate, and immensely talented young nobleman.
He had a few minor problems, but overall, he was a promising young man.
And by “minor problems,” he meant…
“He has had a rather… unfortunate life.”
“Unfortunate in what way?”
“He was betrothed from the womb to the daughter of the chairman of the Privy Council, but the engagement was recently broken. However… Hmm.”
How was he supposed to explain this?
Ernbert, the head of the Faculty of Magic, wiped away his sweat and sighed.
Elves were, in most respects, a race approaching perfection.
But the gods, envious of their flawlessness, had left them with a single defect.
That defect was “obsession.”
Not arrogance.
For elves, arrogance was only natural.
Obsession with success.
Obsession with honor.
Obsession with knowledge.
It came in many different forms.
But in this particular case…
Evelyn Rustpitz, daughter of the chairman of the Privy Council, possessed an unnaturally intense obsession with Oswald.
The Genius Mage Obsessed Over by the Villainess was the worst novel I had ever read.
Damn it.
I meant that sincerely.
It was complete trash.
I had even dropped it after only thirty chapters without leaving a malicious comment or insulting it.
I had simply walked away.
The author probably did not even know that a reader like me had existed.
So why?
Oswald desperately ignored the razor-sharp gaze boring into the back of his head and looked up at the sky.
“My fucking life.”