Chapter 92

The Rosário is governed by a total of eight cardinals.

In place of the pope, who rarely leaves the confessional atop the temple unless for significant reasons, the cardinals lead the Rosário. They are divided into three main factions:

One faction, led by Cardinal Mirania, is the Pureblood Faction.

Another, led by Cardinal Gumanian, is the Political Faction.

And the final faction is led by Cardinal Yutia.

However, the Pureblood Faction under Cardinal Mirania and the Political Faction under Cardinal Gumanian were not particularly fond of Yutia.

Yutia Bludia, backed by the support of countless devout followers, had swiftly absorbed surrounding powers and formed a formidable faction despite having only two cardinals.

But that wasn’t all.

Although Yutia’s faction was undeniably the smallest among the three in terms of scale, the other cardinals couldn’t dare to underestimate her.

Why? Because, inexplicably, she seemed to hold significant leverage over the other cardinals—weaknesses that, while not severe enough to strip them of their cardinal titles, were capable of significantly undermining their influence.

For this reason, the factions within Rosário’s sphere of influence bore little affection for Yutia. Recently, the two other factions had begun secretly collaborating on a plan to remove her.

At least, that was their intention as of yesterday.

Unfortunately for them, their plans crumbled today at the title Investiture ceremony.

Why, you ask?

“The Saint!?”

“Why is the Saint suddenly…!?”

The sight of the Saint entering the inner hall of the temple—where the ceremony was being held—alongside Yutia left the remaining four cardinals in attendance dumbfounded. (The other four were absent due to external duties.)

The mere act of appearing together in such a public setting, regardless of whether the event was an official Rosário ceremony or something as minor as a title Investiture, was enough to signify an alliance between the two.

The impact of this revelation was unshaken.

The cardinals present understood something critical:

The Saint had no prior connection to Count Palatio.

In principle, priests with prior acquaintance with the nobles being honored at the Investiture are the ones who accompany them.

And yet, here was the Saint, involved in the event, alongside Count Palatio—a figure with no apparent relation to her.

This led the cardinals to a single, undeniable conclusion:

The Saint had allied herself with Yutia.

“If the Saint has sided with her, our plans can’t move forward anymore.”

“How in the world did she manage to bring the Saint into this?”

“Ugh, this just became a massive headache.”

As quiet sighs of frustration spread among them…

Alon, who was also entering the hall for the Investiture ceremony, found himself perplexed.

‘…No, seriously, what is this? Should I even ask about it?’

He hesitated, glancing at Yuman walking beside him, then turned his gaze to Yutia.

“?”

Her expression was just as puzzled as his, which only deepened Alon’s curiosity.

***

“This concludes the Investiture ceremony.”

The long, tedious Investiture ceremony had finally come to an end.

“Congratulations, Count Palatio—oh, I suppose I should call you Marquis now.”

“Thank you.”

Anderde offered his hand with a practiced smile, which Alon accepted with a slight nod, thinking to himself:

‘That was painfully long.’

While Alon had heard from Sergius that these ceremonies tended to drag on, he hadn’t anticipated it would last a full four hours. He clicked his tongue in exasperation.

“Well then, let’s meet again when we have the chance.”

Anderde slightly bowed his head, signaling the end of the event. People in the hall began to disperse one by one.

Watching them leave, Alon heard voices from beside him.

“Congratulations, my Lord. You’re a marquis now.”

“Indeed. I suppose I’ll have to be mindful not to call you ‘Count’ anymore,” added Evan.

Nodding at their words, Alon replied, “Yes, thank you for the congratulations.”

“Now that everything’s done, what are your plans next?”

Alon pondered briefly before answering.

“Since the business here is finished, I’ll head back.”

To his cozy, peaceful home—perfect for roasting sweet potatoes.

“Is that so? You won’t stay to enjoy the Birthday Festival?”

“Birthday Festival?”

“Yes, today is Sironia’s Birthday Festival,” Yutia explained.

Alon froze for a moment, blinking.

“Today’s the festival?”

“Yes.”

“Funny, I didn’t notice any preparations around the temple.”

Recalling the scenery he’d observed the past couple of days, Alon shared his thoughts.

Yutia replied, “That’s because the festival truly begins on the night of the full moon. The pope announces the start of the festival, and from then on, the preparations get into full swing.”

“Although, since the pope is usually occupied with prayers in the Holy Land, the Chief Cardinal, Lord Anderde, will likely take charge of announcing it,” she added with a playful tone.

Alon nodded, pondering her words.

‘The Birthday Festival, huh…?’

The Birthday Festival of Sironia.

In Psychedelia, it was an event players would encounter during their early visits to Rosário. However, Alon rarely attended the festival in the game.

Instead of participating in the event, it was far more beneficial—both in terms of leveling up and gaining experience points—to explore the scattered dungeons or grind levels in Lartania.

That said, while he had often skipped the event, Alon was well aware of the unique items that could only be obtained during the festival.

‘Since I’m already here, I might as well grab a few of those while I can.’

Alon, with those thoughts in mind, spoke.

“Well, if that’s the case, I suppose I can stay and enjoy the festival for a day or two.”

“Oh, really? Is that true, Count—no, Marquis?”

“Yes.”

Evan and Yutia nodded in approval, clearly pleased with Alon’s decision.

‘Well, if I can secure those items, spending a day or two isn’t a bad investment.’

While Alon was making this calculation, a familiar voice called from behind him.

“Marquis Palatio.”

When Alon turned, he saw Yuman approaching.

“Saint.”

“Congratulations.”

The sudden congratulation left Alon momentarily taken aback, but he quickly responded.

“…? Ah, yes. Thank you.”

Unlike the last time, when Yuman had warned him to be wary of Yutia, his tone now carried an almost unfamiliar kindness. It was impossible to read him.

Whether or not Yuman noticed Alon’s confusion, he gave a satisfied smile before turning his gaze toward Yutia.

His expression instantly shifted—cold, and openly hostile.

For a moment, Yuman locked eyes with her.

Then, as if delivering some profound piece of advice, he said, “Well then, I’ll take my leave. Also, I hope you’ve given my words some serious thought.”

With a fiery, intense glare that seemed to brim with passion, Yuman departed.

As Alon stared blankly at his retreating figure, Evan called out to him.

“Marquis.”

“What is it?”

“I know this might sound terribly disrespectful, but… doesn’t the Saint seem a bit… off?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You know… bipolar disorder.”

Evan’s reasonable suspicion left Alon momentarily silent as he recalled Yuman’s behavior—alternating between anger, seriousness, and smiles every time they interacted.

Finally, Alon gave a slow nod.

“That… might be possible.”

It was an objective assessment.

Unbeknownst to him, however, Yuman was entirely oblivious to such evaluations.

‘I must rescue the Silver Saint from the clutches of Cardinal Yutia’s wicked grasp!’

Yuman, full of passion and determination, continued to burn with resolve.

***

That night.

“Wow, this is truly breathtaking!”

“It is.”

At Evan’s voice, filled with awe, Alon looked out at the view from the room. Though his expression remained stoic, he couldn’t help but feel impressed.

‘This is even more beautiful than in the game.’

A blue moon hung in the sky, while the vast temple below was surrounded not by red torches, but by glowing blue ones that lit up the entire scene.

At the center of the massive temple, an immense number of priests had gathered, offering prayers in unison as they awaited the beginning of the Birthday Festival.

The sight was truly magnificent, leaving Alon momentarily mesmerized as he gazed at the temple.

“It’s starting,” Yutia said, drawing his attention to the platform.

Soon, Anderde stepped up, signaling the start of the festival.

Not long after, Alon noticed Yuman joining Anderde on the platform and thought to himself:

‘Well, I did feel uneasy about falling out with him, but since things turned out well, I suppose it doesn’t matter.’

While Alon was aware that, despite any friction between them, Yuman—being no heretic—was unlikely to harm him physically or politically, he still disliked being at odds with anyone.

More importantly, Yuman, according to the original story of Psychedelia, eventually becomes one of the allies protecting this world alongside the protagonist, Eliban.

In other words, having a bad relationship with Yuman would only lead to trouble in the future.

With that burden lifted from his mind, Alon watched the festival proceedings with a lighter heart.

At that moment, Yuman stood on the platform, preparing to deliver the traditional sermon alongside the Chief Cardinal before the gathered faithful.

Suddenly,

“…?”

Yuman felt something was off.

The figure before him was undoubtedly Anderde, yet something about him seemed subtly different.

If asked to explain what it was, Yuman wouldn’t have been able to put it into words.

But the sense of unease was undeniable.

At that moment, the Chief Cardinal, still wearing his benevolent smile, spoke.

“As expected, the Saint can sense it, can’t you?”

“…Excuse me?” Yuman asked, startled.

Anderde, however, ignored the question, looking at Yuman as he continued.

“I envy you, Saint.”

His voice carried an unfamiliar tone, deviating from the planned ceremony.

A sense of confusion began to rise in Yuman’s eyes.

“Simply by existing, you are blessed.”

The words that followed caused visible confusion among the cardinals and bishops seated on the platform.

“Priests who have prayed for decades, children who starve for days, devotees who endure suffering to fulfill the will of the divine—all of them, yet not you.”

“……”

“I find it… unfair.”

By now, even the faithful, who had been deep in prayer just moments ago, realized that something was amiss. They looked up at the platform, their expressions filled with doubt.

And then, Yuman saw it.

The Chief Cardinal, still maintaining his benevolent smile, spoke again:

“And so, here, in the presence of a new god, I ask you, the very ‘symbol’ of this unfairness, to die.”

Crack!

In an instant, Anderde’s arm, which had seemed perfectly normal just moments ago, began to swell grotesquely, transforming into something monstrous.

A massive arm, resembling hundreds of tree trunks twisted together, swung down with overwhelming force, aiming to sweep away the cardinals and Yuman on the platform.

It all happened in an instant.

At the same time, Yuman’s perception seemed to slow, and everything around him appeared to move sluggishly.

He saw the cardinals and bishops on the platform, their faces frozen in shock as they tried to rise from their seats.

He saw the Paladins belatedly drawing their swords.

He saw the expressions of countless priests, etched with horror, filling his vision in slow motion.

Under normal circumstances, no one on the platform would have survived Anderde’s surprise attack.

Holy power requires time to wield.

No matter how devout or powerful a person’s faith, invoking holy power necessitates prayer to the divine.

That was an immutable rule.

However, there was one person present who was free from this limitation.

The Saint, Yuman.

Chosen directly by the divine, Yuman could wield holy power without the need for prayer.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

In that split second, Yuman summoned holy power to block the attack.

“Ugh!”

Despite pouring an immense amount of holy power into his shield, the sheer impact of the blow made Yuman grimace involuntarily.

Still, the barrier he conjured with his extraordinary holy power successfully stopped Anderde’s surprise attack, just as he had anticipated.

But—

Anderde’s grotesque arm slid along the outer edge of Yuman’s shield and continued its swing, hurtling downward toward the priests below the platform.

“No!”

Without realizing it, Yuman cried out and expanded his shield to cover a larger area.

However, despite his efforts, Anderde’s monstrous arm was already descending on a group of young priests, too small to have yet reached adulthood.

At that moment, Yuman saw them.

The children, trembling in fear, their wide eyes filled with terror, looked toward him with a glimmer of hope.

But those hopeful eyes only deepened Yuman’s sense of despair. He instinctively shut his eyes tightly as if to block out the sight.

And then—

“Thunder God’s Wrath.”

A low voice resonated across the temple.

When Yuman opened his eyes, he saw it.

Amidst the terrified children, a figure clad in a dark coat moved swiftly.

“…!”

The instant Yuman realized what was happening, an icy chill spread through his core.

The next thing he saw was the hem of the coat whipping violently in the air, crackling with blue lightning.

Finally, Yuman beheld the sight of Anderde’s grotesque arm, which had been swinging to crush everyone on the platform, suddenly vanishing as if it had exploded.

And then, all eyes, including Yuman’s, turned toward the man—no, the figure of the Silver Saint, standing against the backdrop of the blue moon.

“What is the meaning of this?”

The man’s voice rang out, calm but laced with authority.