Author: Sasaki Ichiro	Original Source: Syosetu
Translator: Mab	English Source: Re:Library
Editor(s): Silva

Project GB is an official initiative by Re:Library.

The room was wrapped in dimness and silence.

There were no windows. The space was nearly completely sealed off, supported by arched pillars at intervals, each with a brightly burning lantern affixed. But given the vastness of the chamber, such light sources weren’t nearly enough to illuminate it fully.

A rough glance told me the room was about thirty mertes wide, forty mertes deep, and—though I could only guess since the ceiling lay beyond the reach of the light—about twenty mertes tall. It felt less like a room and more like a gathering hall, or perhaps even a chapel.

(Feels like a courtroom…)

As soon as we were shown in, the most eye-catching feature directly ahead was a massive wooden wall that loomed like a cliff face. On its right hung a large tapestry bearing the symbol of the Saintess Church, while on the left, a flag emblazoned with the national crest of the Eunice Theocracy had been placed. Dominating the space between the two, however—commanding the entire wall with overwhelming presence—was a gleaming silver relief of Saintess Snow, nearly five by three mertes in size. It shimmered brilliantly. (Could it possibly be real silver?)

“…Hey, Coppelia. It doesn’t really look like her, but is that supposed to be Saintess Snow?”

“Probably meant to be, yeah. If you look closely, it actually resembles the face engraved on the gold and silver coins of this country… In fact, I bet this is the original they used as a mold.”

While gazing at the unavoidable relief, I whispered in secret to Coppelia, who stood beside me.

I hadn’t noticed until she pointed it out, but now that I thought about it, the coins of this country did indeed feature a woman’s face. I had always ignored it since it was so small, but pulling a silver coin from my pocket to check, I saw that it was unmistakably a shrunken version of the same face. It didn’t click right away since the coin’s surface had worn smooth from use, but the resemblance was clear.

“Ah… now that you mention it, you’re right.” I tilt my head slightly. “But doesn’t the statue we saw in the underground lab at Lake Quartz look completely different? Face, body, age—everything?”

For the record, the saintess depicted here is a graceful young woman, around eighteen to twenty years old, with a serene, benevolent expression and an excellent figure.

In contrast, the sealing statue from Coppelia’s—no, Victor’s—lab shared almost nothing in common with it, other than being female. That one had the innocent look of a girl around twelve or thirteen, and its overall vibe was much more… aggressive—ahem, energetic.

And first of all, the chest was completely flat, with what looked like padding. Could it be that she’s grown since then? A growth timeline, perhaps? But honestly, the difference is so dramatic, it’s like saying a wolf pup grew up to become… a manatee. That level of before-and-after.

“Since you’ve actually met the saintess, Coppelia, which one do you think is the accurate version?”
“What are you even saying? There’s no way someone like me would be acquainted with a shady, sideshow act like that ‘saintess,’ Lady Clara.”

Coppelia waved her hand in front of her face like she was batting the idea away.

“…Am I just misremembering, then? Back when we met her in the dungeon, I distinctly recall you saying things like, ‘She’s a monstrous abomination,’ or ‘A demon hiding behind the name of a saint.’ Pretty much insulting her from start to finish.”
“I have no memory of that whatsoever. I mean, thanks to that idiot Igoronak, some of my memory sectors are malfunctioning, so I get a lot of errors around that area. But no worries! My advanced fuzzy memory system helps me recover just fine.”

…That doesn’t sound like a fuzzy system. That sounds like you’re just winging it.

“Is that… safe?”
“Totally safe. I can make fuzzy judgments too, so there’s no problem at all. Like, if I run into trouble, I can instantly go: ‘Hmm, was it like that? Maybe? Possibly? Whatever, let’s go roast some pork instead!’ See? It’s a judgment system so unmatched, no one else can compete! Amazing, right? I’m the type who thrives on praise, so please don’t hold back, Lady Clara!”

Her brain is definitely not built on zeroes and ones. Honestly, I’d be more convinced if someone told me it ran entirely on random number generation.

“…Victor really did leave behind something quite terrific, didn’t he?”
“He sure did.”

As we wrapped up our slightly off-topic whispering and turned our eyes away from the relief, we noticed what lay beneath it: a raised dais two or three steps high, large enough to seat several people. In front of that, one step lower, sat the clerks’ and scribes’ desks, and to the left and right of those were curved, single-step platforms set with observer seats for a handful of others.

Behind all that was a gallery for spectators—but since this was an ultra-confidential meeting with no outside presence allowed, the oval-shaped room, nearly the size of a small auditorium, now held only a dozen or so individuals affiliated with the Church.

And at the exact center of the front of the room, a single accused figure stood in the spotlight.

Unlike the warm, dim light of the lanterns, this piercing radiance was clearly not of natural origin.

In this world, light sources were typically candles or lanterns fueled by animal fat (including fish oil) or plant oils. At best, these would produce a glow perhaps one-fiftieth—or at most, one-tenth—of what a 60-watt incandescent bulb would emit.

So when night falls, people generally go to bed. However, a few privileged elites or wielders of “light”-type magic or sorcery enjoy the luxury of lighting comparable to modern incandescent bulbs or even LEDs. That said, unlike the modern world, there are no businesses open at night (even the Adventurers’ Guild closes its doors after dark), so such lighting is more of a status symbol than a practical convenience.

As for this spotlight, it was likely created by some kind of magical device or spell. (Given the stable mana vibrations, it was probably a magical item.) And this wasn’t just a flashy showpiece—it served a very practical purpose.

From all directions, stark white beams shone precisely on the person at the center. The contrast with the surrounding dimness made it impossible for the one under the lights to see anything around them. Conversely, everyone outside the light could see every detail of the person in the center—their slightest movements, facial expressions, even the sweat on their brow.

In an otherwise open space, this was effectively a prison of light—a kind of isolation chamber carved out with illumination.

Squinting against the brightness, I swallowed hard.

“Kinda feels like a lynching, doesn’t it? Or like being strung up for public shaming.”

Coppelia gave her assessment in her usual unbothered tone, as if she didn’t quite grasp—or, inversely, perhaps perfectly grasped—the gravity of the situation.

No, anyone could see this for what it was: a courtroom, yes, but not one defined by democracy or fairness. This was a religious tribunal, a witch trial in all but name. Thank you very much, truly.

In that heavy silence thick with tension, I once again looked around.

Aside from the templar knights present for security, the ones lined up here—the judges, the condemners, the higher-ups of the Church—all wore expressions as if they’d just bitten into something incredibly bitter, staring daggers our way.

Among them were a few familiar faces—like Lady Teressa, my direct superior, or Father Lawrence, the monastic priest who’d accompanied us during the Maria Lou incident. (Though from the way he was positioned, it looked like he was more of a gofer, sticking close to the towering, boulder-like figure known as Archbishop Georgios—who stood well over two mertes tall.) Then there was that one cardinal with the Afro hair and wiry build, slouched with his feet propped on the seat in front of him, swinging his legs like he had nothing better to do.

The rest, however, were mostly unfamiliar. And yet, just from the atmosphere, it was obvious: every last one of them was a major figure from some division of the Church.

I’d heard whispers about them—members of the so-called Council of Sages, a tiny circle of clergy wielding real power and influence within the Church.

They didn’t openly exercise authority, but in truth, this group governed not only the Holy Eunice Theocracy but effectively dominated the northern nations as well. And now, almost all of them were here… their brows furrowed, their faces twisted in bitter, displeased grimaces.

⇐ Previous

Next ⇒

⌈ Index ⌋