Rattling wooden floorboards.
Iron shackles bound to my feet.
A sealed magic circuit.
The transport carriage, equipped with nurous elaborate chanisms, was ferrying criminals—or more precisely, the targets of a “witch hunt”.
“So… what’re you in for?”
The middle-aged man posing the question had a rather rough deanor.
His attire was anything but ordinary: a priest’s robe dyed in a deep crimson.
It was likely clothing from a sect of a pseudo-religion, often labeled heretical.
Not quite the Bloodstone Cult, but similar practitioners of blood magic.
At the very least, it seed Oscar Javert had captured a reasonably notable criminal.
Judging by how he was boasting about it, his sanity wasn’t entirely intact.
That widow in the corner, crouched in her black dress, looked utterly terrified—likely because of his deanor.
I couldn’t fathom why she had been dragged into a place like this. Though, considering her
disappearance later in the story, the reason now made sense. She was a victim of this “witch hunt”.
“I’m asking for the second ti—why were you caught? Don’t you understand the common tongue?”
The man revealed his true colors, his tone more aggressive.
A crimson aura of malice emanated from him. Judging by his skills, he was likely a notable figure with abilities nearing 4-Star ranking.
“… Eek!”
The widow’s short scream ca from behind , startled by the bloodlust.
But unfortunately for him, I was unaffected.
After all, I’d grown to the point where villains of this caliber were no longer a significant threat.
Still, hierarchy exists everywhere, and he seed intent on establishing one here and now.
I decided to turn the tables.
“What about you? Why were you caught?”
My voice was calm, almost chilling. Naturally so; he posed no threat to .
“… What the—?”
I didn’t miss the brief twitch of his eyebrows.
He quickly adjusted his deanor and growled out a response.
“I was setting up a ritual circle, using a few humans as sacrifices, when that damned inquisitor showed up. We fought fiercely, but…”
“I didn’t see any injuries.”
“What?”
“He was smiling, unscathed.”
He glared at .
And? What’s he going to do about it?
I stared back at him in silence.
He flinched, averting his gaze.
Then, hesitantly, he asked.
“So… what about you? Why were you caught?”
His voice had softened, his confidence slightly shaken.
I pondered briefly.
Should I state the reason I was caught or reveal my purpose?
In the end, it was my purpose that brought here.
“I ca to et the Pope.”
His jaw dropped, his eyes wide with disbelief. His face, now dumbfounded, made him look absurd.
“You got yourself caught to et the Pope? You lunatic…”
“What’s so crazy about it?”
“I an… well…”
“Isn’t this the fastest way? All the targets of a witch hunt are brought before the Pope. They say His Holiness can discern witches with his gaze.”
“That’s… wow. What in the…”
He muttered strings of nonsensical sounds like ‘Wow’ and ‘Ah’ repeatedly, then distanced himself from .
I offered him a small, reassuring smile to let him know he didn’t need to be so nervous.
For so reason, this made him avoid my gaze even more.
‘Finally, so peace.’
Satisfied with the improved atmosphere inside the carriage, I nodded to myself.
“Oh, by the way, sir.”
“… Yes?”
Was it my imagination, or did his voice tremble a bit?
I asked the man, who now looked at like I was insane.
“Do you know how long it’ll take to get to the Vatican at this pace? It feels like it’ll be a while.”
“What… You really are crazy.”
The man fully turned his back to , refusing further interaction.
Tsk.
The distance to Holy Constantine is quite far.
From the fact that they’re using a carriage, it’s clear they won’t be utilizing the portal checkpoints.
If that’s the case, this journey will take a long ti—probably several days at least.
“It won’t… take too long.”
A mature yet delicate voice resolved my concern. It ca from the woman huddled in the corner. She cautiously opened her mouth.
When our eyes t, she trembled slightly but seed to gather her courage as she moved a bit closer to .
“There’s… a shortcut. Roads where the speed of carriages increases, you could say. It’s called the Pilgrim’s Path. Only those in the know are aware of it.”
She revealed so highly exclusive information.
Even I had never heard of this before.
‘So that’s why the Vatican’s forces always moved unusually quickly during warti.’
This wasn’t sothing ntioned in the ga either, aning it must be classified to a significant degree.
“You seem to know quite a bit.”
“Th-that’s because…”
“Are you connected to the Vatican sohow?”
“N-not exactly…”
She hesitated noticeably.
Instead of pressuring her, I chose silence.
From observing Lipenstein before, I had learned that silence can sotis be the best form of coercion.
Sure enough, she spoke up.
“Actually… I have no mories from five years ago. But occasionally, fragnts of information like this co to .”
“I see.”
“I can’t explain it in detail… I don’t rember. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize.”
I studied her carefully.
Jet-black hair cascading in long strands. Porcelain-white skin.
If my mory serves correctly, she’s undoubtedly… a forr saint.
Her history, however, is shrouded in mystery.
A remarkably short tenure as a saint, followed by her abrupt disappearance from the records.
Her existence raises many questions, yet the fact she was once a saint alone makes her imnsely valuable.
For instance, she could serve as a temporary replacent for the saint’s position soon to be vacated by Aria’s fall.
‘The existence of a saint is essential to the story’s progression.’
The issue, however, is that she’s been captured as a witch-hunt target.
“Why were you brought in?”
“W-well…”
She stamred before responding.
“There were many injured people in my village, so I healed them… but apparently, they were all declared heretics.”
“How many did you save?”
“A-about a hundred.”
This confird a lot. Healing as many as a hundred people would require extraordinary divine power.
At that mont—
—Clunk!
The carriage suddenly shook violently.
“Eek!”
A small scream escaped from her lips.
Simultaneously, I felt a significant surge in acceleration.
My body, which had been slightly thrown forward, gradually returned to its original position.
Though the scenery outside was obscured, the increased speed was unmistakable.
The carriage pressed forward at an incredible pace.
◆
Her words proved accurate.
We arrived far quicker than expected—barely ten hours, by my estimation.
However, the so-called Vatican we reached wasn’t the grand front gates of a splendid structure, but a dark, hidden passage directly connected to an underground prison.
“Get out!”
Soon, I was escorted by paladins clad in plated armor.
Their treatnt of was noticeably stricter compared to the man and the woman. This was no coincidence.
A long black blindfold was placed over my face, obscuring my vision. Clearly, they didn’t want to discern the route. Yet, based on the faint glimpses beneath the blindfold and the sensations I picked up—
It was a cold, dark corridor made of damp stone.
The environnt was entirely opposite to the ornate and sacred atmosphere of the surface.
The cracks between the stones were thick with the stench of blood, so strong it almost felt tangible.
“You heretical scum! Move quickly!”
Hmm. As expected, this wasn’t exactly a welcoming environnt. The occasional screams echoing in the background didn’t help, either. Even I couldn’t help but swallow nervously.
I had witnessed a lot since ending up in this body, but… being tortured? That was new territory, and definitely not sothing I’d ever experienced firsthand.
I could only hope the one assigned to interrogate wasn’t Oscar Javert… though deep down, I had a bad feeling about this.
“Welco, Ian.”
Naturally, such hopes are rarely answered kindly.
The black blindfold was removed with a soft rustling sound. The first thing that greeted my eyes was a bright, almost cheerful smile. The kind of smile that looked as if it could drip grapefruit juice—sweet yet unnervingly sharp.
The owner of that smile? None other than Oscar Javert himself.
The fact that his grin seed even more radiant than usual was no coincidence.
The real problem was why he looked so happy.
It could be because of the various torture tools ticulously arranged behind him in all shapes and sizes: pliers, hamrs, morning stars, awls, whips, scissors, and more.
Or perhaps he simply found imnse satisfaction in the prospect of breaking down.
Either way, this situation was the worst.
“I’ve brought you to the best room for a more… aningful conversation, Ian.”
“… How considerate of you.”
“Weren’t you looking forward to this? You seed so confident earlier.”
A smirk spread across his face, his pearly white teeth glinting under the dim, reddish light. How annoyingly perfect his smile was.
“Looking forward to it” wasn’t exactly the term I’d use.
What I was truly worried about was which tool he’d decide to pick first.
“Did you know?”
“Know what?”
“The key to torture isn’t brute strength or heavy-handedness.”
“Then what is it?”
“Surprisingly, it’s all about delicacy. Can you guess why?”
“… Not really.”
— Step.
Oscar moved to the wall, where his fingers carefully selected an instrunt.
The tool he picked glead in the dim light—a scalpel, thin and razor-sharp, shining in silver.
“You can make more cuts when they’re thin.”
Ahaha—!
His laughter was brighter than anyone else’s, filled with a strange, chilling joy.
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