Chapter 19

“You’re a Fraud, Aren’t You?”

Erfa looked surprised.

“Why would someone like that… live in such a shabby apartment?”

“I told you, didn’t I? He’s had terrible luck,” Orgen replied with a sigh, beginning his story.

“His misfortune was almost unbelievable. Jonathan was a distributor transporting goods between Tramarta Kingdom and the Arkhal Empire. One day, while transporting elixir, his vehicle suddenly exploded.”

Erfa’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

“It just… exploded?”

“Research later revealed that when large quantities of elixir gather, static electricity can sometimes form, albeit rarely. That static electricity caused the explosion. Of course, no one knew about this back then.”

“What happened afterward?”

“As a result, the explosion triggered a chain reaction among the elixir transport trucks in the convoy. Within moments, Jonathan’s company suffered massive losses, not to mention the lawsuits from residents near the blast site who were severely impacted by the explosion.”

“That’s… absurd.”

“It really happened. That incident was the reason a regulation was introduced requiring all elixir transport vehicles to install defensive magic circles against electrical discharges.”

Erfa was at a loss for words. This level of misfortune was almost incomprehensible. But Orgen wasn’t finished yet.

“That wasn’t the end of it. The Tramarta royal treasurer, who was supposed to pay Jonathan’s company, suddenly died of a heart attack. The royal family suspected poisoning, which led to a power struggle over the treasurer’s death. The payment, which was due within a month, was indefinitely delayed.”

“…”

“Later, it was confirmed that the treasurer’s death was indeed caused by acute heart failure from overwork, not an assassination.”

“What kind of… luck is that?”

“To make matters worse, Jonathan’s wife, Olivier, suffered complications during childbirth. She was a financial genius who could track massive cash flows as if reading the back of her hand.. With her incapacitated, Jonathan lost the person who managed the company’s entire cash flow.”

Erfa was speechless. This was beyond bad luck—it was like a curse.

Orgen sighed deeply.

“In the end, he had no choice but to close the company. Still, he’d saved up enough money to start over after his wife recovered and their child grew older. That’s when he founded a toy factory. It was incredibly popular. At one point, every child in the capital played with toys from Jonathan’s company.”

“Was it really that successful?”

“It was. But do you know what’s even scarier? His daughter, Cecilia. She inherited her mother’s intelligence and her father’s charisma. Even at just five years old, she helped her father make business decisions.”

Orgen laughed as he recalled the past.

“She even conducted market research and designed toys from a child’s perspective, leading to massive success. I’ve heard her business sense surpassed her father’s. She was a genius comparable to you, Erfa.”

“A child really worked alongside her father like that?”

“It’s no lie. By the time she was twelve, she was managing the entire factory. That’s the last I heard about them. After that, they went quiet, so I assumed they’d shut down the business again… and now I hear Cecilia had Rotting Disease. Their luck is truly abysmal.”

After hearing the whole story, Erfa couldn’t help but laugh incredulously.

“I thought he was just some ordinary man, but he’s truly extraordinary.”

A self-made legend in the distribution industry.

A financial genius who could track every cash flow.

A child prodigy who managed an entire factory by age twelve.

The abandoned factory’s elixir source and this perfectly capable family felt too conveniently aligned—like something out of a novel.

“Miracles are real, Orgen. That’s the only way to explain this,” Erfa said, her voice firm.

Orgen’s curiosity only deepened.

“Was this the work of the Saint of Healing?”

“Yes. He is at the center of all this. As a practitioner of magic, I know it’s unwise to attribute things to miracles or coincidences, but… there’s no other word to describe it. How else could the perfect people appear at the perfect time?”

Orgen looked as if he couldn’t hold back any longer.

“You said the Saint of Healing lives in the slums?”

“Yes.”

“I must visit him someday. I’m curious to see what a true saint looks like.”

For someone nearing the end of their life, to feel such a powerful surge of curiosity was rare. Orgen’s eyes shone with rare enthusiasm.

“I’ll introduce you,” Erfa offered with a smile. “You’ll be amazed when you meet him.”

“Let’s do that. I’m truly curious about him.”

Had the Saint overheard this conversation, he might have screamed, begging them not to come.
But whether it was fortune or misfortune, he wasn’t present.

Another chaotic day came and went.

The area around the abandoned factory, where I had settled, had now become a sanctuary for the impoverished.

They slept on warm stone floors that rivaled traditional underfloor heating. In the morning, they received free meals distributed by the priests of the Lilia Order.

And that wasn’t all.

“Put them to work. Pay them generous wages. That is the will of grace.”

For the Lilia Order Bankruptcy Project, as per my instructions, High Priest Alois paid the impoverished an absurdly generous daily wage of one saled per day in exchange for their labor.

In return, the poor cleaned the slums—picking up trash, scrubbing mud caked with filth and sewage, bringing the sick to me, and planting trees on the desolate city streets. They worked to purify the area and received food and meals in return.

Still, I couldn’t shake my unease.

It wasn’t just any resource pouring out in the middle of that abandoned factory district—it was elixir, the so-called “Blue Gold.” While I trusted in Jonathan Karma’s ability to mess things up, the small chance that it might actually succeed gnawed at me.

If I was going to bankrupt them, more extravagance was necessary.

“Build public restrooms. Diseases spread because waste is everywhere. No matter how much I treat them, if they remain in filth, they’ll get sick again. Appoint someone to maintain the facilities and clean them daily.”

“As you command, Saint!”

“Build bathhouses. A clean body receives proper blessings. Draw water from the main supply line and construct public bathhouses. People must wash thoroughly and eat well for grace to truly take hold. Spare no expense—make them as clean and luxurious as possible.”

“As you command, Saint!”

High Priest Yodel now looked like he’d gladly eat dung if I told him to.

His unyielding enthusiasm for everything I commanded offered me some comfort.

This wasn’t just pouring water into a bottomless pit. At this rate, even the Lilia Order’s funds would eventually run dry. On top of that, Jonathan Karma’s business capital also had to come from the Order. If things went according to plan, bankruptcy seemed achievable within a few months.

If they went bankrupt while helping people, they might curse me for being useless, but they wouldn’t go so far as to burn me at the stake.

They’d probably just say, The Saint was kind, but terribly incompetent. It was awful knowing you. Let’s not meet again, and leave.

As I treated the sick, fed them, housed them, put them to work, built bathhouses, organized cleanups, and erected restrooms, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

And then—

“Money? I don’t need it! The Saint healed my mother! I’ll build the restrooms for free!”

Public restrooms were built, multiple ones, and at no cost.

“Before I lost my hand, I was a skilled stonemason. Money? I can’t, as a human being, accept it. I’ll just do it.”

A stonemason I healed, who had been living as a disabled outcast, gathered people and started building bathhouses at lightning speed.

And that wasn’t the end of it.

“Repay the Saint’s grace!”

“Grace with grace!”

People worked late into the evening without asking for wages, cleaning streets, collecting garbage, sweeping, and scrubbing.

Within a week, the roads around the factory district, once muddy and filthy, were transformed into pristine, orderly brick streets.

“Humbly, I offer this donation.”

“This is from my heart. Please accept it.”

“I run a vegetable stand. If you’ll accept some produce, it’s yours.”

“I own a butcher shop. If older meat is acceptable, please take it.”

“You healed my son’s eyes. After a day’s sales, I’ll donate all the remaining bread to feed the poor.”

“I was once a renowned chef. Bring me ingredients, and I’ll cook for everyone.”

Donations of food poured endlessly into the free meal station. Cured individuals with culinary skills volunteered to prepare meals, feeding everyone in sight.

“Saint, we’ve saved an enormous amount of money. Donations alone are enough to fund Jonathan Karma’s initial business capital!”

Damn it!!

Why are you doing this to me?!

Why?!

I need you to fail! Please, just fail already!

Why is everything going so well?! Is my cursed fate determined to drive me to divine punishment and death?

This plan clearly wasn’t working. I needed another way. Bankruptcy wouldn’t let me escape.
How could I make these people leave me?

How could I…?

As I treated the sick early one morning, lost in my spiraling thoughts, a sudden commotion arose.

The crowd of impoverished people parted as if something extraordinary was happening. My thoughts and worries vanished in an instant.

From the distance, a group of people strode toward me with purposeful steps. At the front of the procession was a witch, a sharp smile on her face, wearing the uniform of the Magic Tower and a wide-brimmed witch’s hat.

“Saint of Healing?”

Covered in freckles, she clicked her heels confidently as she approached. I blinked, unsure of what was happening, as she chuckled and glanced back at the people following her.

“See? I told you. This man doesn’t use divine power when healing people.”

The people behind her were dressed entirely in black—black robes, black masks, black shoes, and black pants. The only white thing about them was the pure white eye-shaped emblem emblazoned on their chests.

The sight sent a chill through my entire body.

It was an emblem every citizen of the empire would recognize. The emblem of the Silent Order, worshippers of R’Nery, the god of darkness and secrets.

Though not famous or numerous, the Silent Order was notorious. Its reputation came from one thing: their Inquisitors. Tasked by the Pantheon of Twenty-Four Churches to root out heresy, they were feared across the empire.

“Divine power was not observed during healing, Lady Tuidel,” one of the Silent Order priests confirmed in a low voice.

The witch, Tuidel, burst into laughter, clearly pleased.

“Of course. My intuition is never wrong. Hey, Saint.”

She shoved her high-heeled boot between my legs and grinned menacingly.

“You’re a fraud pretending to be the Saint of Lilia, aren’t you?”

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