The Nerd Next Door Turned Out To Be The Magic Tower Master - Chapter 77

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 77
Cecilia thought the Pope might run her through with it on the spot.
Wasn’t that how it always unfolded—after revealing every last secret?
If she was going to die anyway.
“Why? Just… why?”
Part of her wanted to hurl obscenities, to spit out vulgarities.
Instead she managed only that much, her voice strangled and thin.
Why did she always end up deceived by people she wanted to trust? Did some fool’s blood run through her veins?
“What possible gain is there in harming a Saint?”
“An amusing question. But you’re not a Saint, are you? You’re nothing.”
The fact that he knew she wasn’t the real Cecilia no longer surprised her.
She glared at him with cold venom and shot back immediately.
“But you tried to kill the real Cecilia too.”
Beyond shock and fear, now she was genuinely curious.
Why would someone in his position—someone who had cared for Cecilia so deeply—do such a thing?
Why kill her again and again, when she was innocent?
“Cecilia, I do feel remorse toward that child. But this is the cause I bear.”
“A cause?”
“How to explain… I have been waiting for someone who can recognize this diary at a glance. For that, Cecilia had to die.”
Someone who could recognize God’s Diary at a glance.
Aside from the Pope who manages the Record of God, there was only one such person.
God himself—the author of that diary.
Waiting for God? What kind of madness was that? And what did waiting for God have to do with killing Cecilia?
She wanted to demand answers, but the Pope silenced her with a single gesture.
“At first I believed you were that person and waited… but sadly, you were not.”
……
“Still, it was genuine—my desire not to cause you unnecessary pain. I meant to let you die knowing nothing, but since you’ve managed to survive yet again and brought this with you… well, there’s no helping it now.”
She couldn’t scream. Couldn’t thrash. Like a pinned insect, she was suffocating on her own helplessness. Her teeth ground down on her own lips until the taste of copper filled her mouth.
The Pope regarded the blood at her mouth with a tenderness that made her skin crawl, then stepped closer. He raised his hand.
‘Is he going to strike me?’
Let him try. She hurled contempt at him with her eyes, but instead he simply brushed her hair back with a gentleness that made her want to vomit.
Then, as casually as if asking what she wanted for dinner, he commanded her:
“At the Coronation Ceremony, place this dagger in the Crown Princess’s hands. After that…”
……
“Take your own life. Make it appear as though she stabbed you.”
‘What?’
“Of course, this remains a secret from everyone else. I trust you won’t do anything foolish.”
While Cecilia’s mind reeled, the Pope finished in a low murmur.
That seemed to be all he came for. He pressed the Ritual Dagger back into her hands with tender care.
She watched his back retreat with the Record of God, her eyes burning with murderous intent.
Her head went white with betrayal and rage—fear was nothing beside it.
Had it been possible, she would have driven the blade into his throat a hundred times.
When the constraints on her body finally released, Cecilia collapsed where she stood.
Whether from the force of her anger, or because her betrayer was the Pope himself, or because none of this felt real—she couldn’t say.
But she couldn’t sit here seething forever. Cecilia forced herself to think clearly.
‘The entire Grand Temple can’t be following the Pope’s will.’
She tried to call for the Archbishop, who should be somewhere nearby. But no sound came. Her body had gone rigid.
If she tried to call for help, her voice would fail. If she tried to write, her hands would freeze. If she tried to run, her feet would hold.
Quite a formidable Fruit.
Cecilia stared at her unresponsive hand as though it belonged to a stranger, then gripped the dagger.
Even if she ended up following the Pope’s command to the letter, she wouldn’t go down like this—hollow and powerless.
She turned the problem over in her mind again and again, searching for a loophole.
‘Perhaps actions that comply with the Pope’s command are still possible.’
For instance—going to meet the Crown Princess, who was connected to the order. Or laying the blade against her own body.
Without hesitation, Cecilia drew the dagger across her forearm.
Blood welled from the jagged wound, bright red and flowing.
That was when it happened.
Crash!
Something shattered. She spun around to see Sena standing there, trembling, though Cecilia had no idea how she’d gotten inside.
“Saint!”
“…….”
“I, the Coronation Ceremony is about to begin, so the Pope said to bring the Saint, and I, that is, but that wound, how…….”
‘The Pope sent her directly? So he means to toy with me to the bitter end.’
The child spilled words in a disjointed rush.
Glass fragments lay strewn thick beneath the child’s faltering footsteps.
“Sena, stay there for now—it’s dangerous.”
Stopping the child apparently didn’t count as ‘foolishness,’ for her voice came out.
Yet the child’s condition could not be called fortunate, not even in jest.
“I don’t want to.”
Pallid as death, the child shook her head roughly.
Crunch, crunch.
She tramped over sharp fragments to reach Cecilia’s feet.
Sena grasped Cecilia’s wrist with trembling hands so pitiful to witness.
Divine Power poured from beneath those small hands, and the wounds began to close as if by deception.
Speed that matched Miguel’s, or perhaps surpassed it.
Shock gave way to something else—hot drops fell onto her forearm.
Sena’s tears.
What sight had she shown this child? Cecilia reached toward the weeping girl without a sound.
But the moment she meant to wipe away those tears, a terrible headache crashed down upon her.
As if someone had thrust a hand into her skull and was churning it—her back arched in agony.
“Your, Your Holiness?”
Cecilia drove her head to the floor and inhaled sharply. Her lower lip, bitten to suppress a moan, had gone numb from the constant pressure.
“Where, where does it hurt? Should I fetch the Priest, or the Pope?”
Cecilia forced her head up at the child’s tear-stricken voice.
“No, I’m fine. I’m sorry. You were frightened, weren’t you? I stumbled by accident and didn’t realize the Ritual Dagger was so sharp.”
As she babbled out this nonsense, the pain—severe enough to make her lose consciousness—seemed to be fading.
“Your, your body doesn’t look well. You should rest at once instead of the Coronation Ceremony……!”
“I’m fine. I suspect that won’t be permitted anyway.”
That accursed order.
She didn’t want to die unconscious.
Cecilia forced her eyes open with fierce determination and hauled herself to her feet.
“Then, then let me at least support you.”
Sena rubbed her eyes furiously with her knuckles and clung to Cecilia’s side.
“……Thank you.”
Cecilia grasped the small, tear-dampened hand and began to walk, unsteady and uncertain.
It might have been an illusion, but she felt as though a few threads binding her limbs had snapped.
Perhaps—perhaps she would finally witness that hateful face contort.
* * *
The sky had been overcast since yesterday, and now it seemed snow would fall.
In the afternoon when the first snow drifted gently down, the Coronation Ceremony of the Saint began.
To celebrate Cecilia’s formal ascension to Saint, countless people from the domain and priests from distant lands gathered in one place.
On a platform simpler than the Relief Festival yet far from shabby, the Saint smiled with grace, her golden hair rippling.
She recited passages from scripture before all, and swore an oath to live dispensing the love she had received from God.
At the ceremony’s end, she brought her lips to the golden Chalice. Cold liquid flowed down her throat behind the cool touch of metal.
Her lips felt frozen, as did everything deeper still, yet with each breath her breath misted pale in the air.
She gazed blankly at that vivid proof of life still in her, then lowered her gaze to the platform below.
Not far away stood Nox, the Marquis, and the Holy Knights including Miguel.
And…….
Today her eyes met Lien’s, dressed in white robes. At the sight of him smiling with eyes narrowed, her carefully gathered composure shattered in an instant.
She wanted to cry out to him. To be held by him. Yet the order forbade both.
Instead of pursuing futile effort, Cecilia painfully turned her head away.
Only a few steps distant. And there, in robes holier and more noble than ever, the Pope stood towering.
Watching that face smile gently upon her made her wonder: ‘Was all of that just a dream?’
But on the Altar lay the Ritual Dagger, wiped clean of her blood.
No. Neither nightmare nor imagination.
[Take your own life.]
That whispered voice was reality.
In the grip of unspeakable revulsion, Cecilia suddenly grasped a single truth.
‘Cecilia used to die by her own hand often. Perhaps she had been murdered by the Pope all along.’
Did the Cecilia of those times feel this way? Outraged, disgusted, at a loss? Or perhaps, loving the Pope more than herself, she simply accepted death in sorrow and complied quietly.
Yet in this moment, she was neither drowning in sorrow nor consumed by rage.
Like livestock led to slaughter, she neither screamed nor surrendered to despair—only waited for the curtain to rise.
And at last, the moment had come.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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