The Saint’s Manual for Redemption - Chapter 41

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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 41
Even as the urge to tear at my own hair seized me, the administrator continued without pause, unfurling his tourist-guide spiel.
“There’s a theory that the bridge itself was named the Sierra-Valente Grand Bridge because of that incident.”
……Don’t you dare keep two broken lovers’ names plastered side by side for five hundred years.
“The story spread widely that the two became romantically involved, and now it’s become a famous spot that lovers deliberately visit.”
……Please, stop.
I opened my mouth almost reflexively.
“I think we’ve heard enough.”
At the same moment, Arden spoke as well.
“You needn’t continue.”
The two of us cut off the administrator with nearly identical expressions of distaste. He finally seemed to notice that we had no desire to hear more of this tale, and fell silent.
I simply did not want to hear any more about how my dark history with my ex was being recycled as a tourist attraction five hundred years later.
But then, it occurred to me that something was odd.
Why had Arden stopped him? My past romance was uncomfortable for me—but why would he have reason to object? There was no reason for him to interrupt.
Unless he was a fan of the hero, who happened to be his distant ancestor.
The moment that thought took shape, puzzle pieces that had been slightly misaligned all this time began to click slowly into place.
Arden belongs to the Hadelin Family. And Valente—that is, the hero—was the founding ancestor of that noble house, so the family’s oral history would naturally have centered on accounts far more favorable to the hero’s side.
Which meant the stories he’d heard since childhood were probably naturally constructed around the hero as the central figure.
The Third Saint, who had engaged in bitter conflict with him in his final years, might have been portrayed not as someone who realized an ideal but as someone who twisted it—while the hero was painted as a symbol struggling to restore that shaken order.
Thinking it through that way, Arden’s ambiguous attitude toward the Third Saint suddenly made sense.
So our Arden had simply been raised learning a skewed version of history!
If he understood the Third Saint’s achievements properly, he wouldn’t see her as such a flat figure—someone who merely opened the doors to corruption. That’s what had seemed so strange to me.
Having arrived at a plausible conclusion on my own, I nodded with a satisfied expression.
When I glanced to the side, Arden was looking at me with an expression suggesting he had no idea whatsoever why I’d reacted so strongly.
“Were you not a devoted follower of the Third Saint?”
I paused a moment before answering his question.
“I wouldn’t quite call it devotion—just to say I’m rather fond of her.”
It struck me as odd to claim I was a follower of myself, but saying I was fond of myself seemed reasonable enough, didn’t it? I had certainly mastered the art of loving myself better than anyone.
“Wouldn’t it stand to reason that learning the historical records relating to a figure you admire would be a good thing? Then why did you react so strongly?”
“I’m not that fond of the hero.”
A faint crack appeared in Arden’s expression. Rather like the version of myself from the past, who had once heard face-to-face that he had no particular feelings about the Third Saint, one way or another.
“For what reason?”
It was clearly the reaction of a wounded man.
Arden had, if not quite cursed his ancestor, certainly heard his ancestor criticized outright—so this response was understandable. Yes, I could sympathize.
“He seems too rigid and lacking in adaptability.”
Goodness—even Valente hadn’t made that face. I couldn’t fathom why Arden appeared more wounded by it. This was the first time I’d seen anyone treat a distant ancestor as a part of themselves.
Though I myself truly am one body with the Third Saint.
“He followed principle. To call that rigid and inflexible is to reduce the hero to something far too simplistic.”
“And isn’t it equally simplistic for you to view the Third Saint as merely opening the prelude to Temple Corruption?”
Our administrator guide interjected into our Third Saint versus hero quarrel.
“Still, if we judge by achievements alone, the Third Saint surpasses the hero, doesn’t she? She was the one who ushered in the Temple Golden Age, after all.”
My mouth twitched involuntarily. Oh, this man knows his material.
I chose to believe he was defending me out of genuine respect for the Third Saint, not because of the Wilson Junior I was holding.
“Golden Age…… that is pleasant to hear.”
I savored my victory as Arden muttered cynically, wholly unaffected by the bitter tone of a wounded man.
In any case, I resolved firmly that I would not leave this bridge having added yet another legend perfect for commercial tourism, and so we crossed the Sierra-Valente Grand Bridge toward Lebon Castle.
As we crossed the bridge, the dark chapter from five hundred years ago kept forcing its way back into my mind.
Now that I thought about it, it was right here that I’d grabbed that wretch by the collar and hauled him down…… No, stop thinking. Stop thinking about it.
The moment I deliberately lowered my gaze to the railing below, dark water in the canal came into view. What had been done to leave it in such a state?
My mind grew troubled in an entirely different way.
“The canal looks rather ominous.”
With fortunate timing, Arden had also been looking down over the railing at the same moment, and added his own comment.
The instant we crossed the castle gate of Lebon Castle, a distinct wrongness transmitted through the soles of my feet. The taint of Magical Energy in the ground was something one could feel the moment it was underfoot.
As we stepped into the interior of Lebon Castle, the cool air peculiar to ancient stone construction brushed against my skin. The castle appeared well-maintained on the surface, but the farther we walked along the corridor, the more faintly I could sense the lingering resonance of Magical Energy seeping into the walls and floors.
Following the administrator who had taken charge of our guide, we made our way to the reception room.
As we opened the doors and stepped through, the reception room of the House of Lebon revealed itself.
It was a space neither excessively ornate nor shabby. Heavy drapes hung low, the walls bore the coat of arms of an old lineage, and a sturdy table positioned at the center exerted a certain oppressive presence.
A man was already seated in one of the chairs. It was the Count of Lebon—an elderly man with deep wrinkles and a rather stern expression.
The Count did not hurry when he saw us enter. He raised his gaze slowly, examined Arden and me in turn, and only then did he rise from his seat.
In that movement there was vigilance rather than welcome, calculation rather than courtesy.
“You’ve come a long way.”
He spoke first. It was a formal greeting, but the temperature behind it was glacial. I stopped in my tracks, met his gaze directly, and nodded.
“A Saint dispatched from the Church—Ciela Nomendis.”
The Caritas Church was the only officially recognized sect in the nation as the state religion, so there was no need for me to specify which organization I belonged to. In its own way, it was a point of pride for the Church.
I didn’t much care for the descendants who were creating this ‘rotten’ world—the kind that would force upon people the understanding of that baker’s famous words: “What I wanted to bake wasn’t bread, but this rotten world itself”—but honestly, the current standing of the Church itself pleased me well enough.
The moment my introduction ended, the Count of Lebon raised an eyebrow.
“The Church dispatched a Saint?”
Muttering words that might have been directed at me or merely spoken aloud to himself, the Count of Lebon regarded us with an expression of deep suspicion.
This old man clearly knew how things were running in the Church these days. The faint undertone of resentment at having been slighted by the Church was unmistakable.
Had he known nothing, he would have welcomed us with open arms the moment he heard the word Saint, grateful for the Church’s blessing. After all, for a religion that had become the state faith, the significance of a Saint was considerable.
But showing displeasure like this meant he knew full well that a Saint was nothing but a figurehead with no real power.
Without a word, the Count of Lebon tossed something wrapped in a handkerchief at my feet. The cloth unraveled as it rolled across the floor, revealing a doll stained pitch-black with Magical Energy.
What made it all the more horrifying was that it was an utterly ordinary doll—the kind a child might have played with. To be corrupted by Magical Energy to this degree, it would have had to be thoroughly soaked in the tainted waters of the Canal I’d just seen.
“Purify it.”
Five hundred years ago, the Count of Lebon was at least a man who understood courtesy. Why was his descendant like this?
Could he not see Wilson Junior in my hands?

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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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