The Nerd Next Door Turned Out To Be The Magic Tower Master - Chapter 92

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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 92
Among the clergy, there is a saying that rain falls when God comes to claim a beloved soul.
They say it is the tears of joy and sorrow that God sheds.
Snow had scattered during Cecilia’s Coronation Ceremony, which became her last, and on this ceremony day, a fine drizzle fell.
Did God truly shed tears, as the priests believed? If so, whose tears were these?
Cecilia, who had been quietly tracing the drops sliding down the windowpane, dressed herself in the prepared vestments.
The silk garment wrapped softly around her shoulders and arms. The long pure-white cloth fell below her ankles, while leaf and vine embroidery adorned the sleeves and collar, and golden stitching depicting aureoles densely covered her shoulders.
She draped a translucent silver cloak over it and placed a Crown adorned with flowers instead of jewels upon her head.
Once she had become the sort of figure God could not help but cherish, the Archbishop extended his arm.
“Shall we go together?”
Even on a day like this, he still wore his black priestly vestments.
Cecilia placed her hand upon the stiff, cold fabric and proceeded outdoors with him.
Despite the overcast sky and falling rain, the area below the Altar was filled with people.
“Are you nervous?”
Kiar asked as he had before. She placed her hand over her heart. Her heartbeat seemed faster than usual, thudding against her palm.
“There is nothing to worry about. If you are the Saint, God will surely watch over you no matter what trial lies ahead.”
Words of comfort that had not changed at all—words she had once let drift past her ears—she finally accepted.
“Thank you.”
Cecilia walked away from the man who deserved God’s love and toward the man who deserved God’s hatred.
Upon the Altar stood the Pope, adorned in golden ceremonial robes and wearing a geometric-patterned tiara, waiting for her.
She approached him, the train of her elaborate gown dragging behind her.
The Pope began a prayer seeking blessing and peace.
Meanwhile, the rain grew heavier. Yet she quietly observed the faces of the faithful shining with belief and their sincere prayers.
What is faith?
She pondered the question she had considered the previous day in the Prayer Room.
That which allows one person’s life to be trampled and crushed underfoot. And yet, that which can simultaneously grant meaning to one’s existence.
Just as guns and swords themselves contain neither evil nor good, perhaps faith is much the same.
Behind her vague conclusion, the Pope, having finished the prayer, solemnly called upon the Saint.
“Saint, come forward.”
Before the Pope, on a small table, sat a Holy Chalice with a hollow center.
The Pope lifted the chalice in which red Fruit Wine sloshed and brought it to his lips, swallowing it, then the Saint drew the cup to her lips in turn.
With this, only one ceremony remained.
All that was left was to receive the sacred flame from the Pope and place it in the candelabrum at the center of the Lake.
The Pope handed her the brightly burning Torch and spoke in a voice only she could hear.
“I think it would be best if you made a final farewell here.”
Cecilia gazed in turn at the Lake’s surface wavering in the rain, the believers whose eyes would not leave God’s representative, and the man whose faith still burned bright.
And she answered.
“Yes. There is something I want to say one last time as well.”
Speaking no longer as Saint or Heir, but simply as a stranger, she asked.
“You’ve been waiting all this time—why haven’t you asked how I know about the Record of God?”
…….
“Well, I’ll just tell you. It’s simple. I came from the future.”
The Pope wore a peculiar expression, as if hearing something unexpected.
But the shocking revelation had scarcely begun.
Cecilia twisted one corner of her mouth into a smile.
“Want a prophecy? You will repeat this charade dozens of times, but never once will you succeed. You will fail again and again. And soon, even those countless attempts will cease to exist.”
‘Because I’m going to erase that means right now.’
Cecilia drew a bundle of old parchment from her garment. The moment the Pope spotted the Record of God in her hands, his eyes widened.
Before he could react, she set it ablaze with the Torch she held.
As she tossed the burning parchment to the ground, the Pope frantically patted his own garments.
Apparently verifying whether the Record of God he possessed was still there.
“For your information, this one is genuine.”
The day she had infiltrated the Pope’s Chamber, Cecilia had actually switched it—she had taken away a counterfeit while leaving behind the authentic Record of God.
Though she’d had to hide in a wardrobe when the Pope arrived before she could complete the switch, she had hidden the genuine article within her garment and walked out clutching the fake.
For a moment when she might be discovered.
There was one reason why she had needed to steal the Sacred Object.
The Pope could be omniscient enough that even Lien, who possessed memories of Regression, could not catch him off guard—precisely because the Pope likewise carried all the experiences of his past life.
And it was this Record of God that made that possible.
When she saw the Flower of God with a different petal count, she realized it: the Gifts of God were unaffected by Regression.
Then, if Lien, who underwent Regression using God’s Breath, remembers every cycle, could it not be that the Pope is recovering his memories using the Record of God in much the same way?
The fact that Cecilia hadn’t committed suicide every time was an important clue. The Fruit of God only bloomed on a hundred-year cycle; it wasn’t reborn with each Regression, so she couldn’t have used it in every round.
Therefore, the solution was simple.
Permanently destroy the Record of God. Since the Record of God was unaffected by Regression, it wouldn’t simply reappear—it would vanish from the world entirely.
Even if life repeated again, a Pope without memory could never overcome Lien, who held it. And he could never harm Cecilia again.
“You know, I really wanted to understand why I had to endure all this. But now I’m starting to see.”
……
“I guess God chose me to make you suffer a little.”
The Pope, whose eyes had burned with fury, moved his body toward the Sacred Object as it burned away.
But that was all. He didn’t stretch out his hand, didn’t bend at the waist. Or rather—he couldn’t.
The Pope, belatedly aware of his body stiffening rigid, spoke harshly.
“What have you done to me?”
“The poison’s kicking in, it seems. Frustrated that your body won’t obey you?”
She knew it well, having experienced it herself. Just how vile that feeling was.
‘So I’m returning everything you gave me.’
“It’s truly impressive that the Mage Tower’s Master is an accomplice. To think it was actually possible to paralyze a Pope.”
She didn’t possess anything grand like the Fruit of God, but she had the Master of the Mage Tower instead.
The night before, she had asked Lien to mix the Paralyzing Poison into the Fruit Wine.
Cecilia laughed with genuine delight upon confirming the Pope, utterly helpless as a worm, was paralyzed.
It was far more pleasant than she had imagined.
In stark contrast, the Pope finally lost what little composure remained and twisted his face in rage.
His chest heaved roughly, veins standing out on his neck.
“Free me at once!”
No longer gentle, no longer holy, the Pope commanded with Divine Power infused in his voice.
But Cecilia made no move.
“How……”
Unable to accept the situation, the Pope listened as Cecilia explained it to him directly.
“Oh, I already neutralized that cursed fruit.”
The Record of God stated that the only means to resist the Fruit of God was the Tears of God.
So she had asked again.
[What are the Tears of God? Where can I find them?]
<Remember the tears shed for you before death.>
Cecilia recalled the tears shed for her.
Lien? Her family? No—that would be closer to “after death” than “before death.”
In that instant, the one who flashed through her mind was Sena.
The headache she’d felt when Sena’s tears touched her. And that sense of liberation.
What if Sena’s tears were the Tears of God itself? What if, since she had only touched them rather than drunk them, the neutralization had been incomplete? What if that’s why, despite consuming the Fruit of God, she could still pierce the Pope?
The Divine Power she’d displayed while healing her had been no ordinary thing—was Sena perhaps the “true” Saint whom God had chosen?
Uncertain though she was, Cecilia asked Sena for her tears.
And her intuition proved correct. The moment she swallowed a single drop of tears from the glass vial, the unpleasant sensation that had bound her limbs vanished as if it had never been.
‘The child the Pope brought himself was the answer.’
What else could this be but divine providence?
Cecilia placed the torch back into the stiffened Pope’s hands, then returned to her role as a saint, her smile tender and compassionate.
“Now I suppose it’s time for a proper farewell.”
The Pope’s mouth moved soundlessly; the paralysis had crept up to his throat, and no voice emerged.
Cecilia personally escorted him to the Boat and helped him aboard.
“Let’s see whether God truly supports your plan, whether that faith of yours holds true.”
The Boat, carrying the Pope instead of a saint, drifted toward the center of the Lake without oars. And just as she had experienced, it began to sink slowly.
If God did not betray his faith, the Pope would be saved.
But he sank beneath the surface. Past his chest, to the crown of his head.
Confirming the Lake’s long silence, Cecilia turned away.
The onlookers who had been watching the Ceremony began to murmur, and whether Holy Knight or priest, they all leaped into the Lake to save the Pope.
In the chaos, she slipped gracefully away from the Altar.
Had he survived, she’d planned to release evidence about the heretics and the existence of the Sage—proof that the Sage was in fact the Pope in disguise. But that likely wouldn’t be necessary.
Because far off, Charles was approaching her, his necklace jingling.
Charles walked softly to her feet and made a small sound.
Thank you for your hard work.
The moment that cry transformed into a child’s voice.
She finally understood: her role was complete.
As if sinking into sleep, her consciousness grew hazy. Soon the world darkened a second time.

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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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