Chapter 3
Burt swiftly set foot towards the Tower of Death, his hopes pinned on it. Had there been those with foresight, they wouldn’t have let her die.
So they clung to hope.
In that very moment, a light descended from the sky, lingering at the top of the tower.
And they saw it.
The newly appointed Saint, Irene, falling perilously from above!
The panicked kings swiftly moved towards her, each using their abilities, but it was already too late. Irene crashed to the ground.
Thud.
As her body collided with the marble floor, a loud noise echoed throughout.
The faces of the kings, witnessing the saint’s fall, turned pale.
If the saint were to die for any reason other than natural causes, a new saint wouldn’t appear for a hundred years. That meant the sound of hell unfolding for a century.
The climate would rage unpredictably, monsters would grow fiercer, plants wouldn’t thrive, and the land would dry up.
Without the saint, the world couldn’t be sustained. Yet, there she lay, powerless and dying.
Beneath the fallen body, crimson blood began to spread slowly, staining the marble.
‘Something’s wrong.’
It wasn’t just Burt who felt it; others surely did too.
He approached Irene, his senses sharpened. Her emaciated body bore streaks of dried blood like winter branches. These wounds weren’t from her fall from the tower.
With pursed lips, Burt cautiously took her thin wrist into his hand. Faint, but there was a pulse.
“She’s still alive.”
Despite falling from the lofty tower, Irene hadn’t yet perished.
“Summon the priest and the healers immediately!”
As the command was shouted, the eyelids, once clenched tight, trembled, revealing crimson pupils.
The moistened eyes glanced around before closing once more. And Irene didn’t open her eyes again.
Crimson eyes and black hair.
How much they all looked down on her for her lowly birth. Rumors circulated that she was chosen as a saint candidate because of her family’s connections.
“Not yet, she mustn’t die yet.”
Burt continued to speak calmly as he assessed Irene’s condition.
Then, among them, Garan, who had the most medical knowledge, approached her and knelt beside her.
“Let me examine her.”
His white robes were stained with red blood, but that wasn’t what mattered. It was the determination not to lose the saint here that drove Garan.
Only then did the other kings, who had been in a daze, begin to move.
The healers and priests rushed over, startled by the pitiful sight of the newly appointed saint.
As Garan and Burt stepped aside from staunching the bleeding, people rushed around, tending to Irene.
Surely, it should have been a day of joy, filled with blessings. Instead, all that remained was sticky worry clinging to it.
* * *
Wouldn’t everything end if she just died? The unbearable agony tormenting her mind and body would no longer be felt.
That’s what Irene had hoped for.
But it wasn’t so. The pain stubbornly clung to her as if it had become one with her body.
“Ughh.”
She groaned amidst the searing heat. It felt like she was being punished for all the wrongs she had done, as if the goddess was delivering her retribution.
In the end, even death couldn’t free her from everything.
It was so heartbreaking that Irene cried as if her eyes were melting.
“Sob, sniff.“
“…Milady…!”
A murmuring voice came from beside her, but her ears couldn’t function properly.
Only a few words could be discerned. Her body and mind were too exhausted to piece them together and understand the situation.
“Please stop crying.”
Amidst such a situation, only one voice could be heard clearly.
Though cold and devoid of humanity, it was the only voice that reached her properly, making her want to cling to it.
‘I’m in pain.’
She wanted to appeal for relief from the suffering, to receive comfort. But she knew it was just a dream.
Knowing the futility of it all, she couldn’t stop her tears. Even though she knew crying wouldn’t change anything, the tears kept flowing endlessly.
Cold flesh touched Irene’s tear-streaked cheeks. The cold hands cooled the burning eyes.
The chill was so comforting that she unconsciously leaned into it. Though she could hear something more, she couldn’t understand its meaning.
For a moment, she felt the hand twitch, but she didn’t want it to let go.
Irene grabbed onto the cold hand with trembling fingertips. Though the pain was still excruciating, and her body trembled, her heart felt a bit at ease.
Worried that the hand might flee again, Irene sighed in relief when it didn’t move.
Finally letting her guard down, Irene fell asleep right then and there.
As the newly appointed saint drifted back into slumber, Burt let out a quiet sigh of relief.
As potions to heal wounds were not used for the saint, the best healers from various countries were busy.
They tried all sorts of medicines to treat Irene, but even painkillers didn’t work well for her. That’s why she continued to cry and moan in pain.
She mustn’t die here. For the first time in his life, Burt felt a sense of anxiety.
Perhaps it was because of this that he reached out to the saint.
“You mustn’t die yet.”
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