Chapter 79
“Never again will I be taken in by you, Cecilia!”
“Even if the whole world and the gods try to stop me, I will surely be reborn!”
“Yes — for that, first of all…”
“From this moment the world will forget my name. It will lose the only means to kill me.”
Snap — Cecil woke from sleep.
He pressed one hand to his forehead against a faint headache and pushed himself upright. It seemed morning had already come; a bluish light and the chorus of birdsong slipped through the window.
Listening to the birds, he leaned his head against the wall.
“Today the branches aren’t filled with crows.”
Lately portents of ill fortune had been seen around the capital with some frequency. Mists that crept in eerily at dawn, piles of dead frogs appearing by the lake, a sacred tree dried up and dead overnight. People began whispering that devil worshipers were proclaiming the end of the world.
That was why Cecil, believed to be the reincarnation of Saint Cecilia, had become the focus of so much expectation. The only hope to save us. The belief that the saint who sealed the Great Demon a thousand years ago would be reborn to save the world again.
“Is that really so?”
Cecil still couldn’t quite grasp that his previous life had been Saint Cecilia’s. The only connection to her was the dream that visited him each night: the moment the saint killed the demon. A demon casting a hateful glare at him. A black silhouette flickering like hellfire. Burning red eyes staring as if they could tear everything apart with a glance.
“You will forget my name, too.”
Cecil closed his eyes for a moment. After watching Saint Cecilia kill the demon, he was always hit by a migraine. Staggering, he rose and washed his face with the water prepared for him. Even while enduring the pain, his movements while changing into his uniform were without excess.
After dressing to go out, Cecil knelt quietly before a small altar set up in the corner of the room and folded his hands in prayer.
“May that girl be safe today as well.”
The light outside, now brighter than before, gently stroked his hair. At last he straightened up. There was someone he needed to see.
The temple where quiet modesty was a virtue echoed only with the sound of footsteps. Cecil walked across the empty corridor toward the priest in white robes seated between columns on the stair.
“Long time no see.”
Golden hair bright as dawn, and red eyes beneath it. “Master,” Cecil said.
A middle-aged man who bore a strange likeness to Ian Brighton turned his head at Cecil’s greeting.
“It has been a while, Sir Cecil. I heard you became the vice-captain of the order.”
“I only have more duties.”
“Your humble manners haven’t changed.”
The man rose from his seat. Cecil’s gaze drifted to the black glove on the man’s left hand — more precisely, the fact that he wore a glove only on his left hand. The man noticed the look and spoke casually.
“Don’t worry about it. I no longer feel phantom pains from the scars on that left hand.”
“You’re leaving the capital soon, I heard.”
“Yes. The diocese I serve borders the frontier. What reason would an old, jaded man like me have to stay long in the city?”
“……”
“You wish me to stay?”
Cecil lowered his eyes for a moment, then said in a heavy voice: “Master.”
“Do you know how many years it’s been since I taught you? I only tutored you for a few months as a snot-nosed child — you still call me ‘teacher’? Stop it.”
“In that case, I’ll call you ‘priest.’”
“That’s fine. So, what do you want from me?”
“Have you met your niece?” Cecil asked.
“I have many nieces and nephews, you know. The one you mean is likely Ian. Yes — I met him when he arrived in the capital.”
“So that was all the reaction you had.”
Cecil swallowed. Months ago he had stood alone with the pope in a private chamber before the statue of the deity. He had gone to receive an oracle. It was said that the saint’s reincarnation, upon reaching maturity, would hear the voice of the deity. According to some prophecy of uncertain origin, Cecil had to listen to the mother-god’s voice. And what he heard was…
“If, in accordance with the oracle, you must bring ruin to the priest’s household…” The man looked at Cecil calmly.
Eod Brighton. He was the older brother of Ian Brighton but had left the family to follow the clerical path. Once an exorcist-priest active on the front lines, he had been grievously wounded in a battle with a demonic beast and retired. He had taken Cecil in when the boy was an orphan and taught him how to fight demons.
“Cecil. Your heart must be noisy,” Eod said.
Cecil could not answer. The ducal house’s retainer — the girl who served Ian, “Cici” — had always worried about the demon possessing her young master. Seeking how to protect her lord, she came to Cecil. She had genuine concern for the one she cherished; a pure desire to help. Even in the dark mansion, hearing countless whispering shadows, she had kindled a tiny flame of faith.
《 One household will fall and a new pillar will be raised. 》
《 The wails of childrenless parents will ring out. 》
《 You must cut down the source of all that tragedy. You who smashed a demon’s head. 》
Standing before the statue of the deity, Cecil had heard an otherworldly echo. Blasphemous as it was, he first entertained a question. Did the “household” mean the Brighton family? If so, would he be the one to destroy the Brighton house and kill Ian Brighton?
Then — ‘Cici…’
This was not a thought a clergyman should hold. The deity had shown him the path he must walk; he should accept the duty and walk forward in faith. But Cecil could not.
“Your eyes are full of torment,” Eod said, and he was right. A gentle confusion gnawed at Cecil.
He did not want to kill Ian. It was not that he had grown fond of the devil-possessed man. It was simply that Ian was someone Cici cherished. She had said without hesitation that Ian was precious to her. What is it like to cherish someone enough to throw everything away for them? Cecil, who was supposed to love all equally, would never know such a feeling.
Born as the reincarnation of a saint and given a saint’s name, devoting himself entirely to a single person was not permitted. But Cici was different. A common person, she would willingly do anything for the demon-possessed young master. That sight was strange to him. Perhaps he even found it pleasing.
“Hmm, that’s actually a good thing,” the deep voice brought Cecil back to himself. “You’ve been acting like a mindless wooden puppet all this time. When you visited the capital three years ago for another nephew’s debut ball, you were much the same — so I didn’t expect much. But time hasn’t been entirely wasted on you, it seems.”
The face of the priest — once his old mentor and a member of the Brighton house — remained serenely calm. Cecil grew even more bewildered. Even after hearing he might have to destroy that very house, the priest reacted like this?
“Most clergymen believe that when the deity gives suffering and hardship, there is a reason. But you seem ignorant of that. Then why not find out for yourself?” Eod suggested.
“You mean tell you why my heart is in such turmoil?” Cecil asked.
“Yes. In that sense, perhaps I can be of help this time.”
“You? Master?” Cecil looked puzzled.
Eod smiled faintly at the confused expression, then produced an invitation from his robes and handed it to Cecil.
Cecil took the invitation, bewildered. It bore the Brighton ducal seal. With Ian Brighton’s social debut ball right around the corner, the meaning of this invitation was obvious. Clerics ordinarily did not step foot into such luxurious gatherings. Why, then, would the priest hand it to him?
Perceiving the question in Cecil’s eyes, the priest smiled again.
“You won’t find the answer by worrying from outside. Go see for yourself. Judge whether this is the place you must bring down, or whether it is not.”
