Chapter : 23
Serious? He looks so rough and careless, like a thug—what makes you say he’s serious? Jelly swaggered over and stopped behind Évangeline. Then he spotted Daisy, who had been talking with Évangeline, and his eyes widened.
“Oh? And you are?”
Daisy, seemingly recognizing Jelly as well, went even paler.
“I-I… I should be going.”
Uneasy, Daisy stepped back and eventually started to run. Raphaella, flustered by her sudden flight, called after her.
“Sister! You should come with us!”
“It’s fine! The carriages are right up ahead!”
The line of waiting carriages was just ahead. Raphaella didn’t stop Daisy; walking with her wouldn’t likely reveal any important information.
“She’s gone.”
She then guided Évangeline Rohanson, making some distance so they could converse more comfortably. Her attention, however, remained on the rear.
“Who was that? Oh, that guy from before? Hmm… just someone you exchanged a little help with?”
“No. Actually, he helped. He got her out and ran away with her.”
“He even cleaned up afterward.”
Once again, Évangeline’s words were lost on her. Though the conversation was incomplete, Raphaella found a clue in what she had heard.
The answer she had just sought from Uriel had come from that man.
He had a hand in Daisy escaping the convent. And he was disguised as Évangeline’s guard.
Évangeline didn’t know about Daisy. Meanwhile, Daisy already knew about both Évangeline and the magical formation. That was how she had realized that Father Berga had used magic. Yet, the one who helped Daisy escape was Évangeline Rohanson’s guard, who hadn’t known Daisy.
Was it an act of unilateral goodwill? But why was that man in the convent? Why then? How could an outsider even be there?
Raphaella’s mind started spinning, reasoning and analyzing to find the most plausible answer.
Just as her thoughts grew more tangled, a loud commotion erupted behind her. Raphaella, focusing on Évangeline’s conversation, was the first to notice the murmurs.
“Fire! There’s a fire!”
“Sir Knight! Someone come here, quick!”
“No!”
The screams were unbefitting the calm and sacred main hall. Uriel ran out first without hesitation. Raphaella started to follow but stopped when she saw Évangeline and Jelly. What should she do with them? She couldn’t leave them behind.
“Let’s go quickly.”
Évangeline spoke as if noticing Raphaella’s worry. Raphaella nodded and ran past them. Fire? Fire? Something about it felt oddly familiar.
Following the sounds, Raphaella ran frantically and only realized later that the place felt extremely familiar.
People were screaming in agony. No one was actually hurt, yet shrill cries—sharp as if from a blade—pierced the air intermittently. Everyone’s gaze was fixed on a single point. Raphaella joined their line of sight.
It was a blaze. The painting “Donau Blue” by Jim Nopedi, depicting the aftermath of the flames, was itself on fire again.
The juxtaposition of the relief that no one was injured and the horrifying sight of people seemingly merging with the burning painting sent shivers down her spine. Uriel, who had run ahead, seemed equally bewildered. He watched them, hollow-eyed.
Then, the entangled, suffering crowd noticed Raphaella. They crawled on their knees, staggered on two feet, and shuffled on the floor toward her.
“Sir Knight, please put out the fire.”
“Sir Knight, the painting, the fire, the fire.”
Each voiced their plea, yet Raphaella understood every word. They wanted the fire on the painting extinguished. That was all they wanted.
‘Do I really have to?’
Should she really put it out? If the painting burned completely, wouldn’t these people return to normal?
This hypothesis gripped Raphaella. Uriel was not much different. While they hesitated, a presence approached from behind.
Évangeline Rohanson? Raphaella briefly thought so—but then her eyes filled with long, golden hair.
“Michel?”
“Crazy… why is he here? We locked him in the room!”
She tried to grab Michel, but the people clinging to her, begging for the fire to be put out, blocked her.
Seeing Michel in the knightly uniform, they all echoed the same request:
“Sir Knight, save the painting!”
Raphaella instinctively knew Michel would heed the plea. He tried to pull the burning painting away with his bare hands. The flames licked his hands, yet he didn’t stop—was he crazy? Not even hurt by the heat?
Raphaella shoved away the clinging people with her arms and feet. She didn’t want to strike anyone, but she couldn’t let Michel continue his madness.
“Michel! Snap out of it! Let go of that!”
The painting continued to burn; less than half remained. Michel’s skin was reddened, and sparks had caught on his clothing. At this rate, he might burn alive with it. Raphaella dragged the clinging crowd along with her.
“What is going on?”
Then a piercingly clear voice rang out from behind. The corpse whispered in her ears. The heat faded, replaced by a chill. Something enormous seemed to watch Raphaella intently from behind.
Évangeline Rohanson calmly strode across the inferno. The people clinging to Raphaella stared at her, utterly transfixed. Their groans, their agonized screams—all fell silent as if they had never existed.
With everyone immobilized, captivated entirely by Évangeline, she reached Michel without any obstruction.
Michel looked up at Évangeline, holding the painting. In that instant, Raphaella witnessed another fanatic being born.
A pale figure, eyes blazing red like fire on the painting—the only color existing. What did Michel see in Évangeline’s eyes? Desire, awe, terror, reverence, elation—no adjective could capture his emotions fully.
Évangeline flicked her fingers, and Jelly, reading the intention perfectly, brought the holy water. Évangeline opened the bottle and poured it over Michel.
One bottle, two bottles—continued until the flames were out.
The fire, which seemed ready to consume Michel, extinguished easily. In the silent aftermath, the sound of water falling was pronounced. Michel looked like a drenched mouse, droplets falling from her hair to the floor.
Sopping wet and blinking, Michel soon collapsed from exhaustion.
“Sir Michel!”
Uriel rushed to catch him. Even unconscious, he looked unnaturally peaceful.
Évangeline took the fragment of the painting Michel had clutched until that moment. Nearly all of it had burned, leaving only the magical formation.
She tossed the soggy paper to Jelly.
“Here.”
Watching Jelly catch it deftly, the scene felt surreal.
Everyone else remained dazed. If they had cried or shouted in response like before, it wouldn’t have felt so unreal.
“Since we poured holy water, no additional treatment is necessary.”
Évangeline stood calmly, her words graceful yet firm.
Wow… do the nobles of this fantasy world even have morals or ethics? My body feels drained just thinking about it.
Suddenly, Uriel ran off, and Raphaella, eager to follow, gave him a pleading look. He sprinted at full speed.
Uriel and Raphaella ran so fast that Jelly had to guide me on foot in the direction he indicated. Even werewolves, apparently, have a keen sense of smell.
After walking with all my remaining strength, a ridiculous scene unfolded.
Why was everyone just staring instead of taking action while a person burned? It felt like watching people filming a disaster on social media instead of reporting it. They didn’t even have phones!
Even when the Donau household burned before, people just stood and gawked. And now, even with someone on fire, they just watched? No sense of ethics!
“What is going on?”
Seriously, what is happening? A fire! And it’s spreading to a person! Where’s the fire extinguisher? Wait, maybe there isn’t one here?
Then water—where’s water? I remember a fountain outside the temple. Looking around, I spotted Jelly holding a water bottle. Eureka.
I quickly gestured for the bottle. I opened the cap and poured. Not quite a torrent, but enough. When I gestured again, Jelly handed me another opened bottle.
After pouring about six bottles of holy water, the flames finally died. Fortunately, it wasn’t ordinary water; its magical effect helped suppress the fire.
Wow… I almost died. Tension drained. The person who had been engulfed in flames looked soaked and miserable. Wait… soaked? A drowned mouse? Wet, but somehow pitiful. Sorry! But it’s better than burning alive, right?
“Sir Michel!”
No, Uriel caught him as he fainted. Raphaella gave me a glare like I had done something reckless. Even Jelly looked hurt, so I quietly avoided eye contact.
Unfair. I did nothing wrong, yet I’m treated like a culprit—might as well brag shamelessly. Do they think I just poured water? No, this is holy water!
“Since we poured holy water, no additional treatment is necessary.”
