Chapter 383: Chapter 383 – That Devil!! That Beast..

The execution platform had grown so quiet that even the faint rustling of robes could be heard.

Thousands of eyes were fixed on the two figures standing at its center.

The Saintess.

And the broken old healer.

For a moment, the old woman did not react.

Then—

Her body suddenly jerked.

The moment the Saintess’ hands wrapped around hers, the healer recoiled instinctively, her frail shoulders tightening as fear shot through her like lightning.

“N-no—!”

Her voice came out hoarse and raw, as though her throat had long forgotten how to speak.

Her hands trembled violently in the Saintess’ grasp as she tried to pull them back.

Years of suffering had carved that reaction into her bones.

Touch meant pain.

Questions meant punishment.

And kindness—

Kindness had never existed in the darkness where she had been imprisoned.

“Please—!” the old woman gasped weakly, panic trembling in every word. “I didn’t say anything—!”

Her sightless eyes darted wildly as if trying to escape the unseen presence before her.

“I swear I didn’t—”

Then she heard it, as saintess said again..

The word.

“Grandma.”

Her entire body froze.

The healer’s trembling grew worse, confusion now mixing with fear.

“G-grandma…?”

The word came out as a fragile whisper.

But the Saintess did not release her hands.

Instead—

Her grip tightened.

Not forcefully.

But firmly.

As though refusing to let the old woman retreat back into darkness.

Then—

The air changed.

A warm golden light began to bloom around the Saintess.

At first it was soft.

Barely visible.

But then it grew.

The divine aura surrounding her expanded outward in slow, gentle waves, flowing from her body like sunlight pouring from the sky.

The golden radiance wrapped around the old healer.

Like a protective cocoon.

The old woman gasped.

Her fragile body began to tremble.

Not from fear this time—

But from something far stranger.

The light seeped into her skin.

Into the bruises.

Into the scars.

The twisted wounds that had been carved into her body over years of torture slowly began to change.

Dark bruises faded.

Swollen flesh softened.

Broken veins and torn muscles quietly repaired themselves under the Saintess’ divine power.

The crowd watched in stunned silence.

“She’s healing her—”

“By the Goddess…”

“Look at her body—!”

Even the clergy could not hide their shock.

The golden aura shimmered brighter for a moment before slowly settling into a calm glow.

The old healer’s trembling slowly stopped.

Her breathing steadied.

Then—

Her eyelids fluttered.

The cloudy film over her eyes began to fade.

Light returned.

Weak.

But real.

The old woman blinked suddenly.

Then shut her eyes tightly.

“Ah—!”

She turned her head away instinctively as the sunlight struck her vision for the first time in what might have been years.

The brightness overwhelmed her.

Her hands instinctively clutched the Saintess’ sleeves.

Slowly…

Very slowly…

She opened her eyes again.

This time more carefully.

Adjusting to the light.

Blinking repeatedly as the blurred shapes before her gradually sharpened.

The world returned.

Colors.

Movement.

Faces.

And directly in front of her—

A young woman with silver-lavender hair and glowing golden eyes.

The old healer stared at her.

Her breath caught.

Her lips parted slightly.

Recognition flickered slowly across her aged face.

Her voice trembled as she spoke.

“You…?”

For a long moment, the old healer simply stared.

Her hands trembled slightly in the Saintess’ grasp as her clouded eyes tried to make sense of the face before her. She leaned forward unconsciously, her frail fingers tightening around the young woman’s sleeves as though afraid the vision might disappear if she blinked.

Her gaze traveled slowly across the Saintess’ features.

The silver-lavender hair.

The calm golden light still faintly surrounding her.

The eyes.

Those familiar eyes.

Again.

And again.

And again she searched the face before her, as if confirming something impossible.

Then suddenly—

Her entire body trembled.

Her pupils widened.

Her breath hitched sharply in her throat.

“Y-you…?” she whispered, the word breaking halfway through.

The Saintess nodded slowly, her expression soft yet filled with a weight that words could not easily carry.

“Yes,” she said gently, her voice steady though her heart trembled within her chest. “I am the baby girl that you saved all those years ago.”

The words struck the old healer like a wave.

Her fragile frame shook violently as the truth settled into her heart.

For a moment she looked utterly stunned, as though her mind refused to believe what her eyes were seeing.

Then the tears came.

Not quietly.

Not gently.

They poured down her wrinkled cheeks in heavy streams as her trembling hands rose to the Saintess’ face. Her fingers brushed against her cheek, her forehead, her hair, as though confirming that this was real flesh and not some miracle illusion granted by a dying mind.

“Y-you are alive…” she whispered, her voice breaking into a strange mixture of laughter and sobbing. “Ah… haha… haha…”

Her shoulders shook as the emotions she had buried for so many years finally burst free.

“My suffering… it was worth it…”

She laughed weakly through her tears.

“I knew… I knew the Goddess would protect you…”

Her voice grew softer, filled with relief so deep that it seemed to wash away decades of pain.

“I always believed it…”

The Saintess could no longer hold herself back.

She stepped forward and gently wrapped her arms around the old healer, embracing the fragile woman carefully, as though afraid she might break.

“I am sorry,” she whispered.

Her voice trembled now.

“I am so sorry for everything you had to endure.”

Her arms tightened slightly around the healer as the weight of everything she had seen in the past pressed heavily upon her heart.

“For all the suffering you went through… for all the years you spent alone in darkness because of me… I truly am sorry.”

The old healer shook her head weakly, still crying as she clung to the Saintess like a grandmother finally reunited with a long-lost child.

But before either of them could say more—

A calm voice interrupted the moment.

“Ma’am.”

The voice was steady, measured, and carried the quiet authority of someone used to commanding an entire kingdom with a single word.

“If you are able…”

The Saintess slowly turned her head.

The Pope had risen slightly from his throne.

His gaze was fixed upon the old healer now, his expression grave, the earlier amusement completely gone.

“…would you please answer a few questions?”

For a few moments, the Pope simply watched the two women.

The Saintess still held the old healer gently, supporting her fragile frame as though she feared the woman might collapse if left alone. The old healer’s tears had not yet stopped, but the trembling in her body had begun to ease beneath the warmth of the Saintess’ divine aura.

Then the Pope spoke again, his voice calm yet carrying effortlessly across the execution platform so that every soul in the square could hear.

“Please forgive the interruption,” he said, inclining his head slightly toward the healer in a gesture that carried far more respect than the clergy usually offered to someone of her station. “But there are matters here that the Holy Kingdom must understand.”

The old woman slowly turned toward him.

Her newly restored eyes adjusted to the sunlight again, blinking once or twice before focusing on the tall figure seated upon the elevated throne.

The Saintess kept a steady hand around her shoulders as if silently assuring her she would not face this moment alone.

The Pope continued.

“Ma’am,” he said carefully, his voice measured and serious, “were you captured by Bishop Truce and confined beneath his mansion in the underground chambers?”

The question hung heavily in the air.

The old healer’s body stiffened.

Her gaze shifted slowly.

Toward the man standing several paces away.

Bishop Truce.

The moment her eyes landed on him, the softness that had filled her face vanished.

Her expression twisted.

Anger—pure and burning—flashed through her gaze.

Her frail hands tightened instinctively around the Saintess’ robes.

“That man…” she said hoarsely, her voice trembling not with fear now, but fury. “That devil.”

Her finger lifted slowly and pointed directly at Bishop Truce.

“That beast.”

The square erupted into murmurs again.

But the old healer continued speaking, her voice gaining strength with every word as the memories she had buried clawed their way to the surface.

“Yes,” she said bitterly. “He captured me.”

Her lips trembled as she forced herself to continue.

Her breathing grew heavier.

“The underground chambers…” she whispered. “They are not chambers of the church.”

Her voice cracked.

“They are hell.”

Several people in the crowd gasped softly.

The old woman’s gaze remained fixed on Bishop Truce.

“You call yourself a servant of the Goddess,” she spat weakly, her eyes blazing despite the frailty of her body. “But the things you do beneath that house would make even demons turn away in disgust.”

Her voice trembled as the memories surfaced.

“They chained me to the walls… starved me… beat me whenever they felt like it… and when that was not enough…”

She stopped for a moment.

Her hands shook violently.

The Saintess tightened her hold around her shoulders.

“…they used knives,” the healer whispered.

“They burned my skin with heated irons… they shattered my bones and left them to heal crooked… they kept me blindfolded in darkness so long that my eyes forgot what sunlight looked like.”

A horrified silence spread through the plaza.

But she was not finished.

“And I was not the only one,” she said quietly.

Her voice dropped lower.

“They brought others there.”

Men.

Women.

Some alive when they arrived.

Most… not alive when they left.

“They conducted rituals in those chambers,” she continued, her voice shaking with revulsion. “Ugly things… things that had nothing to do with the Goddess.”

Her gaze drifted briefly toward the Pope.

“I heard names whispered in the darkness… words spoken in languages no priest of the church should know… prayers that were not meant for the Goddess.”

Her finger trembled as she pointed again at Bishop Truce.

“That man was there for all of it.”

The bishop’s face had grown pale as death.

The murmurs in the crowd had become louder now, filled with anger and disbelief.

But the Pope remained still.

Completely still.

He listened to every word without interrupting.

Finally, when the old healer’s breathing had grown heavy again from the strain of speaking, he asked his final question.

His voice was quieter now.

More deliberate.

“Ma’am,” he said slowly, “for what reason were you captured?”

The entire square seemed to lean forward.

Waiting for her answer.

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