Emil Cathedral, the confessional.

The saintess, having just finished praying to the goddess, rose gracefully, pushed open the door, and was about to leave.

But when the candle flame in Abbess Lynn’s hands outside the door happened to illuminate her flawless, holy cheek, that perfectly traced smile suddenly froze for a heartbeat.

"What is it, Your Highness, Saintess?" Abbess Lynn asked.

"A child... has passed away."

The smile faded, replaced by a sadness she could not conceal.

"A child..."

Lynn was dazed for a moment before realizing that what the saintess meant were those tender, young candidates.

So a sacrifice has appeared after all?

The candlelight flickered, cupped in her palms, and Lynn bent respectfully at the waist:

"Please accept my condolences, Your Highness. Holy souls will, in the end, return to the embrace of the goddess."

"Don't worry, Lynn. I am not so fragile as that. I have long been prepared for this sort of thing."

The saintess turned her wrist, and a crystal appeared in her palm. The crystal that had once been limpid and flawless was now covered in cracks, as if it would shatter in the very next moment.

"So it was... Freya?"

Looking at the crystal, the saintess recalled that child whose bearing and smile were very close to her own as the saintess.

In the eyes of outsiders, her temperament seemed carved from the very same mold as her own; precisely because of this, many had thought highly of that girl before the ritual even began, believing she would, in all likelihood, be the next saintess.

Unfortunately, she was the first to depart.

"Freya... I recall that she was the one Your Highness the saintess liked a little less."

Lynn still remembered that when Freya arrived in the Holy City, Her Highness the saintess had refused the proposal to go greet her, clearly expressing her dislike for that girl.

"...It is not that I liked that child a little less."

The saintess said:

"She is the one I like the least—among all the children, I like her the least."

"Your Highness?"

Even the ever-cool Lynn was stunned for a moment. She had not expected the saintess to say such a thing at the very moment that child returned to the goddess's embrace.

So blunt, so ill-timed.

But the saintess merely looked into Lynn's eyes and continued:

"Do you know why I like her the least?"

"Forgive me, I cannot peer into Your Highness's mind, so I do not know."

"Because..."

In the candlelight, the saintess saw herself reflected in Lynn's pupils:

That holy, elegant, composed, gentle self—the saintess.

"A counterfeit like me, all wrapped up in a mask—upon meeting the real thing, of course she would feel ashamed, wouldn't she?" The saintess gave a self-mocking smile.

"...In other words, Your Highness believes that Miss Freya was actually the most qualified candidate to become the saintess?" Lynn asked in astonishment.

"No. Quite the opposite. In my eyes, she and Lea were the same—neither suited."

"Why?"

Lynn felt she could no longer follow Her Highness's train of thought at all.

"Because..."

The saintess turned her head and, through the window, gazed out at the world shrouded in night.

"They are both far too gentle..."

She raised her hand, as if to chase that dim and ethereal starlight:

"But the gentle find it very hard to look straight at the darkness of this world..."

...

...

"Miss Freya..."

Watching everything that happened on the other side through the mirror's image, the suppressed emotions spread between Lea and Moen.

"Miss Freya actually... did such a thing."

Lea's eyes grew slightly red. Anyone who saw that scene would not be able to help but feel moved and sympathetic toward that girl who forever smiled, was forever gentle, and forever pursued the one she loved.

"So I really... was only half right?"

Moen managed a bitter smile with difficulty, as if a great stone pressed upon his chest—so heavy he could scarcely breathe.

Freya's strangeness had long since led him to all kinds of guesses.

But he had not expected that the result would turn out to be... the third possibility, the one he had originally thought the least likely.

Freya was a good person.

A good person through and through.

She had never worshiped the dark god, nor had she ever truly harmed anyone.

She was only a girl in pursuit of love.

It was not a corrupted love, not a twisted love.

Rather, like the golden orchid she adored—subtle and delicate, yet fragrant, resilient—a true love.

Such a love would not be controlled by the god of love.

"Perhaps Miss Freya never truly made a bargain with the god of love at all."

Recalling the scenes that had just unfolded, Lea wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes and said softly:

"She merely tried to grasp at the last straw, but upon finding that the straw was only a false lie, she immediately chose the most tragically resolute path."

From the very beginning, Freya had drawn out her own soul and stored it in a dead object like a prisoner—she could not have failed to foresee this ending.

Yet she still went forward without hesitation.

"All right."

Moen patted Lea's shoulder and comforted her: "At least her soul and his can truly be together forever now, rather than being defiled by the dark god, right?"

"Mm."

"Then we need not grieve either. Now is not the time for sorrow."

Moen rose and turned to look at the pitch-black cavern.

"Freya has already told us where we should go. We need wander no longer. Let's go."

,

"Mm."

Lea sniffled with her delicate nose, nodded hard, and grasped the hand Moen extended to her.

Moen pulled Lea up, but Lea suddenly realized that the gentle force from before had abruptly intensified.

She was yanked toward Moen, uncontrolled, and collided into his arms.

"Eh? Moen?"

"Hold tight!"

Moen's voice was heavy. He yanked Lea fiercely into his embrace, and in an instant the world reeled. A gale rose at the same time; everything before their eyes turned into leaping light and shadow.

Lea, by instinct, wrapped her arms back around Moen. She felt the searing heat at Moen's back and... not far away, a violent fluctuation of magic power.

Blazing firelight lit up the sky, outshining the moon's radiance, and within temperatures hot enough to turn steel to liquid, it carried a chill intent to kill.

The platform where the two had landed was blown to pieces in an instant. In the dust flying everywhere, they avoided this ambush of magic at the last possible moment. Somewhat dusty and disheveled, Moen clung to the rock wall, his gaze grave as he stared into the distance.

"So it is as I thought—Freya knew we were watching her long ago, so some of her words were meant for us."

Upon a hill truly formed of soil and rock rather than twisted flesh, countless flowers bloomed in succession.

They were not golden orchids, but nameless blossoms—of many varieties, in a riot of colors, gorgeous to behold.

They spread out like a sea of flowers.

"You are the second cultist who was hiding, aren't you?" Moen said in a low voice.

Upon the near-vertical flower-grown rock face, a figure stood ramrod straight and walked forward with poise, as if gravity did not exist at all.

She was covered with brilliant flowers, her movements uncanny; only amid the blooming of countless blossoms did half of a beautiful, delicate face show.

Faye.

"No..."

Moen suddenly closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his chest heaving hard once.

When he opened his eyes again, his gaze passed directly over Faye and fell upon what stood behind her.

"The true cultist is you..."

Moen looked at that figure and, word by word, in an icy tone, said:

"Arag!"