{And the doubtful came before the Prophet and asked,

“O Prophet, must we extend Grace even to the wicked? If so, for how long?”

And they asked not out of wisdom, but to test him.

The Prophet answered:

“The Goddess of Grace has granted humanity the ability to discern good from evil. Therefore, extend patience and compassion to those who strive toward righteousness.

However, to those whose hearts the Goddess has abandoned—spare not the rod.

For these are the slanderers, the greedy, the malicious, the envious, the murderers, and the sowers of discord.

They are those who show no mercy to widows or orphans.

Those who hoard the bounty meant for the hungry.

Those who swallow their tears yet know no shame.

These the Goddess despises and curses, declaring that they shall perish—not only in body, but in soul.“}

—Book of Grace, Chapter 13, Verses 11

The factory owner lay sprawled on the ground, staring at me with pure shock.

“Y-you can’t do this! This is assault!”

Oh?

Yeah, buddy.

You’re damn right it is.

And you deserve every second of it.

“You just crossed the line!!”

I lunged at him again.

My belt sliced through the air like a whip, making a sharp, ear-splitting crack.

His expensive, tailored suit ripped apart in an instant—

Leaving his flabby, disgusting body completely exposed.

He collapsed in a pose that could be the cover image of some tragic, low-budget exploitation film titled:

“Disgraced and Stripped Bare: Humiliation in Broad Daylight.”

Go ahead.

Scream.

Cry.

“Gyaaaaaaah!! S-someone! Help me!! HELP!!”

The factory owner flailed like a dying fish, waving at the police and his bodyguards—but none of them dared to step forward.

“Uh… Should we shoot?”

“Are you crazy?! That’s a Saint. A real one, recognized by the Grand Temple for the first time in 300 years. If a single bullet hits him, we’re all dead.”

The officers didn’t even try to interfere.

Even the bodyguards, hired to protect this bastard, were hesitating.

Meanwhile—

I was having the time of my life beating the absolute SHIT out of him.

“GYAAAAAAAAHHH!!! AAAAAH!!”

“Oh? It hurts? It hurts?”

I brought my belt down again.

CRACK!

“How about the workers who BURNED ALIVE in your factory?!”

Another strike.

CRACK!

“Did you EVER think about how much THEY hurt?!”

The factory owner foamed at the mouth and passed out cold.

I finally stopped.

Not out of mercy.

Just to catch my breath.

At that moment, the police hesitantly approached.

Their faces showed an expression that was a mix of concern and deep satisfaction.

“S-Saint sir… that should be enough, don’t you think?”

Hah.

Enough?

Oh, hell no.

I pressed my hand against the bastard’s face.

I’m a Saint of Healing, right?

Might as well live up to the title.

The factory owner’s swollen cheeks and the teeth he spat out began to regrow instantly.

The bruises vanished, and his puffed-up, beaten face smoothed out as if he had never been hit at all.

I wasn’t going to kill him.

Oh, no.

I was going to keep him alive.

So I could beat him even more.

“W-wait! Wait! P-please! Let’s talk about th—GYAAAAAAH!!”

The whipping resumed.

The sharp sound of flesh being struck echoed through the air.

The onlookers began to cheer.

“BEAT HIS ASS!!”

“HIT HIM AGAIN!!”

“That SACK OF SHIT was paying people one Leon per day (about $1) for 20 hours of work!!

Even street dogs are treated better than that!!”

The entire crowd was now cheering me on.

Every time the bastard passed out,

I healed him.

And then,

I beat his ass again.

Over.

And over.

And over.

“HELP ME! POLICE!! SOMEONE!!”

By the third healing session, he was crawling toward the police, desperately clutching their pant legs.

But the officers?

They just smirked and stepped back.

One even snorted.

“Oh, we’d love to help, Mr. Factory Owner. But legally speaking, if we interfere with a Saint, we could be punished by divine retribution. And, uh… none of us wanna end up like you.”

“YOU PIECES OF SHI GYAAAAAH!!”

By the fifth healing session, he finally turned to his own bodyguards.

He clutched at their suits, screaming through swollen lips:

“MONEY!! I’LL PAY YOU!! HELP ME, YOU F*CKERS!!”

But his bodyguards, normally ruthless thugs-for-hire, didn’t budge.

One of them just sighed and said:

“Saint or not, if we so much as scratch him, the Grace Church and Goddess Lilia’s followers will hunt us down.”

Then, after a pause, he added:

“…Unless, of course, you’re willing to pay us ten times our current salary.”

The factory owner froze.

His swollen face turned even paler.

Because, of course,

He was too much of a cheap bastard to ever pay that much.

So in the end—

No one helped him.

And I just kept on beating his ass.

“I’ll Give You 20 Times More! Please, Just—!! GYAAAAAH!!”

The sound of flesh being whipped raw filled the air, and with every sharp crack, my stress melted away.

God, this felt good.

All the fear and anxiety I’d built up over going to hell—all of it washed away with each satisfying strike of my belt.

This piece of shit.

This absolute sack of filth.

I risked my damn life pulling some anime protagonist bullshit, jumping through the air to save someone—

And this asshole couldn’t even be bothered to install proper fire safety measures, leaving his workers to burn alive?

Oh, f*ck no.

This bastard dies today.

Seven times.

Eight times.

By the tenth healing session, the factory owner clung to my pant leg, sobbing.

“P-please!! I’ll do anything!! Just stop!! Please, I beg you!!”

I finally paused, my belt still dripping with his blood and shredded flesh.

“The factory… You said it’s owned by Leota Company, right?”

“Y-yes!! It’s part of Leota Company!!”

“Then call your boss.”

“…H-huh?”

“Your boss, motherf*cker. Get him here. NOW.”

“O-oh! Right away! I-I’ll take you to him! Just—just get in the car!! Please!!”

I smirked.

“Good choice. Now drive.”

I threw the quivering lump of human garbage into the car and climbed in after him.

“HE’S GOING AFTER THE LEOTA CEO!!”

“LET’S FOLLOW HIM! HE’LL BE AT BARON HANSON’S MANSION!!”

The crowd of factory workers who had been watching my public beatdown began chasing after my car.

I glanced at them before turning to the driver.

“You. Step on it.”

The driver, who had just witnessed a 30-minute torture session, was smart enough not to question me.

He slammed the gas pedal, and within three minutes, we arrived at the 10th District, home to the city’s wealthy elite.

A massive, luxurious mansion loomed before us.

“W-we’re here! This is Baron Hanson’s estate—GUAH!!”

I kicked the factory owner out of the car and stepped out myself.

A heavy iron gate blocked my path.

I turned to the groveling bastard.

“Open it.”

“Th-they won’t open it unless you’re authorized—uh, wait, wait—WAAAAH?!”

He screamed as I grabbed his fat ass and hurled him like a cannonball.

FAT PIG LAUNCH!

The factory owner’s massive body slammed into the gate with a thunderous crash—

And with the combined force of his weight and momentum,

The iron gate snapped open like a tin can.

He tumbled across the ground, rolling like a cartoon character, before coming to a stop with a pained groan.

I strolled over to him.

He looked up, weeping uncontrollably, and pressed his face against the dirt.

“P-please!! No more!! I won’t run!! I’ll stay right here!!”

I scoffed.

“Yeah. You better.”

I wasn’t going to kill these bastards.

If I did, it would just be my own private act of revenge—and that wouldn’t be enough.

I wanted the injured workers to see these men face public justice.

I wanted them to know that this world isn’t completely broken—that there was still some reason to hold on.

That even in this f*cked-up world,

Justice could still exist.

“Y-yes!! Yes, I’ll stay right he—GUAAAGH!!”

I whipped him across the face one last time.

His eyes rolled back, foam bubbling from his mouth, and his body went completely limp.

He even pissed himself.

Tch. Pathetic.

I’ll make sure this son of a bitch gets dragged before the Emperor, the Grand Temple, or the Grace Churchand sentenced properly.

But first—

I had another bastard to deal with.

Baron Hanson.

I clenched my bloodstained belt and strode toward the mansion.

As soon as I entered the grand hall, the maids and butlers gasped.

Honestly? I couldn’t blame them.

My once-pristine white robes were now filthy and tattered.

My hair was a mess, and my belt was soaked in blood and flesh.

I probably looked like a vengeful ghost straight out of a horror story.

I took a step forward and calmly asked,

“Where is Baron Hanson?”

One of the maids, trembling, immediately blurted out:

“H-he’s in the study!!”

Good.

I cracked my neck and marched forward.

Baron Hanson.

It’s time for your appointment.

With my belt.

“Lead the way.”

The maid silently pointed toward the study.

I marched toward it without hesitation.

Armed guards spotted me, but most stepped aside on their own.

The ones who didn’t?

“This is private property! No matter if you’re a Sai—GAAAH!!”

Their protests ended in high-pitched shrieks before they collapsed onto the floor.

Leaving behind a pile of bloodied teeth and swollen faces.

No one else dared to get in my way.

And soon, I was standing before Baron Hanson’s study.

The door was locked tight.

No problem.

I kicked it open and stormed inside.

A thin man in his fifties sat at his desk, looking over documents.

He jumped in terror the moment he saw me, his expression screaming ‘I just pissed myself’.

“W-who are you?! H-how did you get in—? …Wait. Saint?”

“You’re the CEO of Leota Company, right?”

“Y-yes, that’s correct…?”

“Did you know your factory caught fire?”

Hanson’s beady little eyes darted around nervously.

Then, he forced a slimy grin and stood up.

“Ha-ha! Of course, of course. I sent one of my employees to handle it. I’m sure it was dealt with… appropriately. Is there some sort of… problem?”

I smiled sweetly and cast Absolute Hypnosis.

“Tell me the truth. How do you usually deal with injured or dead workers? No lies. Only the truth.”

His smile widened as he spilled everything.

“We pay them one salad as compensation.”

“But, of course, that’s just for show. There are plenty of ways to get the money back.”

“Sometimes we send thugs to threaten them. Sometimes we force them to work unpaid for four months—since they already got four months’ worth of wages, you see.”

“The filthy beggars are more afraid of losing their jobs than anything else, so they always cough up the money when we push them a little.”

And then, he laughed.

I stood there, frozen.

Not because of what he said.

Not even because he admitted everything so casually.

No.

It was the fact that he felt no guilt at all.

No shame.

Not even a hint of remorse.

He didn’t even seem to realize he was saying something horrible.

He genuinely believed this was normal.

“Of course,” Hanson continued, grinning, “I’m actually one of the nicer factory owners. Some of them don’t even bother with compensation.”

“Honestly, I don’t understand why you’re so upset. Surely, you’re not here because a few burnt beggars have—GYAAAAAAAAAH!!”

CRACK!

“YOU MOTHERF*CKING SON OF A BITCH!! YOU CALL YOURSELF HUMAN?!!”

The snap of my belt echoed through the room.

Hanson flew like an elegant white swan across the study.

And I?

I flew right after him.

And then, I beat the absolute shit out of him.

“GYYYYAAAAH!! W-WAIT!! STOP!! THIS IS ILLEGAL—GYAAAAAH!!”

CRACK. CRACK.

I answered with my belt.

Even as he was pummeled into the floor, Hanson kept blabbering.

“This is against the law!! Y-you—!! Even if you’re a Saint, you can’t just assault civilians like this!!”

“If you keep this up, you’ll be arrested!!”

“THE SUPREME COURT WILL COME FOR YOU!! DO YOU WANT TO GO TO PRISON?!!”

I paused.

And then… I laughed.

Prison?

That’s hilarious.

I’d seriously considered getting myself thrown in jail just to quit being a Saint.

“You think I’m scared of prison?”

“Go ahead. Arrest me.”

“PLEASE.”

Hanson’s eyes widened.

“Y-you crazy bastard—!! GYYYYAAAH!!”

“YEAH, I’M CRAZY!!”

I kept swinging.

Tears streamed down my face.

Not because I was hurt.

Not even because I was angry.

But because…

How?

How could a person feel no guilt?

No shame?

How could they be so f*cking rotten that they didn’t even register their own cruelty?

People burned to death in his factory.

And yet he and the factory owner outside—the ones truly responsible—felt nothing.

Nothing.

“I’M THE ONLY F*CKING LUNATIC IN THIS TEMPLE!!”

“YOU’RE NOT GETTING AWAY WITH THIS!!”

Even if I had to go to jail, even if I had to burn every bridge,

I would drag this bastard down.

“Y-you bastard!! DIE!!”

Desperate, Hanson lifted his trembling hand, conjuring a dark mist—

And hurled it at me.

…Wait.

Did he just throw a curse at me?

My body froze.

The black mist engulfed me.

Hanson gasped in horror.

I blinked.

“…Huh?”

Nothing happened.

The mist swirled around me—

And then dissipated.

Like it was never there.

Hanson’s jaw dropped.

I looked at my hands.

“Wait… why didn’t that work?”

We stared at each other.

Both of us completely dumbfounded.

“…You’re a Cultist, aren’t you?”

I grinned, wiping my tears away.

Hanson panicked.

“I—”

He opened his mouth—

And Absolute Hypnosis did the rest.

“I am a Cultist of the Evil Gods.”

“I worked with the Collector to harvest resentment and souls.”

Silence.

Pure, absolute silence.

He blinked.

I blinked.

Oh, you’re so f*cked.