The Saint’s Manual for Redemption - Chapter 58

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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 58
These fools had arranged the parade route identically to the Coronation.
The path leading to the Main Temple, passing by the bell tower in question. The spire, visible from a distance, had been cleanly repaired and gleamed in the sunlight.
Hmm, was this intentional? Did they hope that the sight of the spire would trigger my trauma, causing me to have a breakdown in the middle of the parade? Their scheming was certainly earnest.
As we drew nearer to the spire, Arden, escorting us at the front of the carriage, glanced back at me several times. He said nothing outwardly, but his expression had stiffened noticeably.
It seemed he harbored the same thoughts. Still, it would take more than one such incident to give me trauma, considering everything I’d endured across both lives.
Just as I was commending myself for having lived such a tumultuous existence, I suddenly realized something: I wasn’t the only one who had witnessed that spire’s collapse firsthand.
I leaned forward slightly and whispered softly to Arden.
“Are you worried you might develop trauma? Should I cast a Blessing for you?”
A moment of bewilderment flickered across his face before a low voice returned.
“That’s precisely what I wished to ask you, Saint.”
In the end, we were both perfectly fine, uselessly fretting over each other.
Fortunately, nothing happened as we passed the spire. It seemed even these descendants retained enough sense not to use the same trick twice.
As the carriage entered the Main Temple, the procession behind us gradually dispersed.
As I descended from the carriage with Arden’s assistance and glanced back, the woman serving as the Third Saint Substitute still wore a vacant expression.
In the past, raw eggs would have been flying her way for not looking the part. Today, nothing of the sort occurred. I had drawn all eyes and attention to myself.
Thanks to that, she managed to descend from the carriage safely. Honestly, she owes me her gratitude.
Of course, she would have preferred to draw the attention herself, making an impression as the next Saint.
The evening banquet arranged in the Grand Hall of the Main Temple was said to be a recreation of foods my previous self had enjoyed.
There was some explanation about it being prepared to honor the record showing that in my past life, I had dined together with all the priests, numbering roughly twenty in the congregation.
But when we all dined together back then, it was at the Small Temple, so with only some twenty members of the Temple staff, it was possible! If all these people gathered to eat together now, this becomes a Hogwarts banquet hall, not a Temple!
Still, being told this was the final event of the day and the closing ceremony of the Saint Sierra Festival lent the atmosphere a certain credibility.
The problem came next. The moment I looked down at the food on my plate, an inexplicable rage began to simmer within me.
I liked this?
Wait, no. Leaving aside whether I liked it or not, why are you people reshaping my favorite diet without permission?
Meat sprinkled with gold leaf, gleaming sauce, unnecessary ornaments that only enlarged the plate itself.
I thoroughly dislike this kind of gauchely opulent and extravagant food.
It was the same in my past life and it remains true now. A simple meal sufficient to fill the belly was all I needed—who decided one should offer prayers while eating such things?
In the end, this was neither tribute nor recreation. They were simply packaging the menu they wanted to eat under the name “the diet the Third Saint enjoyed,” and consuming it.
There are limits to deception. If you were going to eat under my name, the least you could do is read some of the records I left behind.
I deliberately set down my spoon with an audible click, swept my gaze across the assembly, and spoke in the calmest tone I could manage.
“From next year onward, prepare the evening banquet according to the records left by the Third Saint.”
Whether out of reluctance to forgo such luxury, the air in the hall suddenly grew tense.
I swallowed a sigh. This too would be on the list of things I needed to set right—starting with how they were profiting off my past self, one matter at a time.
***
Only after all the scheduled events concluded could I return to my quarters. I collapsed onto the bed and buried my face.
Today was a festival, but it was also the anniversary of my death in my previous life.
Though it was packaged under the name Saint Sierra Festival, to me it was merely the day I died, arriving once more with its meaning inverted.
Well, it was a good death in its way, so I wasn’t sad about it. I had lived life fully and passed away without regrets—if that’s not a good death, what is?
Because my past self had loved Blue Roses, they became my symbol. Among them, I loved the pale sky-blue variety most of all.
The problem was that my room now showed almost no Blue Roses, instead filled in all corners with Lilies—flowers not to my taste at all.
Looking at the sight of pure white blossoms packed so densely they were suffocating, I pondered quite seriously.
Should I sneak away five or so roses from the flower basket at the base of the statue?
After all, they were offerings dedicated to me, so this wouldn’t be theft but a justified reclamation, wouldn’t it?
Then, suddenly, a thought struck me: I seemed to recall seeing a murder trick that involved a sealed room full of an enormous number of Lilies.
Ah, surely not. If this turned out to be an assassination attempt rather than room decoration, that would be far too half-hearted. But given this Temple’s track record for such elaborate schemes, I couldn’t simply laugh it off.
A memory surfaced from my time at the Orphanage, when I had often handled the cleanup after such festivals.
Even a week after the Saint Sierra Festival ended, they would leave the flower baskets untouched. They didn’t replace them as they withered, didn’t change them as the fragrance rotted.
Back then I was taught that was how one maintained sanctity, but now I suspect these fools were simply too lazy to maintain them.
In the end, I resolved to take at least one rose, and moved my steps toward my statue.
At that moment, I sensed a presence—something subtly different.
Someone was already standing ahead of me. I instinctively slowed my steps and concealed myself behind a column. Only then did I see.
It was Arden.
He was carefully placing a single Blue Rose before the Third Saint’s statue.
The way his hand moved as he set down the flower was so careful, as though handling something precious.
For a moment, an irrelevant thought flashed through my mind. Could his saying he disliked the Third Saint have been a period of Fan Conversion denial? Had I inadvertently caused Arden to convert to his devotion for my past self?
I completely stilled my presence and watched from behind another statue.
For some reason, I didn’t want to interrupt. If I acknowledged his presence now, it might rob Arden of his chance to fully commit to his conversion.
That single Blue Rose he had offered, placed beside the gaudy flower basket, seemed to be the only thing that had found its rightful place in this space.
In truth, that one Blue Rose Arden had offered easily outweighed the elaborate bouquets and baskets these descendants had presented. That Arden grasped my tastes so perfectly—these later generations had grown so distant from them while splurging their wealth.
Arden, having offered the Blue Rose, stood gazing up at the Saint’s Statue in silence for a time. Then he traced the Sign of the Cross and murmured softly.
“Is there peace in God’s Embrace?”
I couldn’t speak to God’s Embrace, but the moment I opened my eyes, the world spun like a top—hardly peaceful, Arden.
Under the watchful eyes of both my past self and my present one, Arden opened his mouth again.
“I… I believe you…”
But the rest never came.
Arden simply closed his lips and remained standing before the Saint’s Statue a moment longer.
Believe me what? There are two ways to infuriate a person, and one of them is to leave your sentence unfinished.
I was unconsciously tapping my chest in frustration when his demeanor shifted in an instant—whether he’d caught that faint sound or had simply never let his awareness slip from his surroundings.
His gaze, which had been fixed on the Saint’s Statue, took on the sharp edge of alertness. Almost by reflex, his hand moved to the hilt of his sword.
“Who’s there?”
His voice, low and measured, rang through the corridor with a chill.
Holding my breath behind the Saint’s Statue, I cursed inwardly. This man’s senses were far too keen. As a bodyguard, it would be reassuring—but in this situation, it was decidedly inconvenient.
The soft sound of footsteps on the floor drew steadily closer. I swallowed hard, my throat dry.

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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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