This Isn’t an E*otic Game?

The expression on Erfa's face clearly expressed shock.

"How could someone like that… live in such a shabby apartment?"

"I told you, didn’t I? His luck was unbelievably bad," Jorgen replied with a sigh before beginning his story.

"It was a series of catastrophes, all piling on at once, almost as if the universe had it out for him. Jonathan was a distributor who traded various goods between the Tramarta Kingdom and the Arkhal Empire. One day, while transporting elixir, the transport vehicle suddenly exploded."

Erfa’s mouth dropped open in disbelief.

"It exploded suddenly?"

"Later research revealed that when large quantities of elixir are stored together, static electricity can occasionally be induced under rare conditions. That static caused the explosion. Of course, this was knowledge we didn’t have back then."

"What happened after that?"

"The explosion triggered a chain reaction among the elixir transport trucks lined up nearby. Jonathan’s company suffered massive losses, and on top of that, nearby residents who were severely affected by the elixir explosion filed claims for compensation."

"That’s… absurd."

"It’s a true story. That incident led to the regulation requiring all elixir transport methods to be equipped with mandatory static-defense magic circles."

Erfa was at a loss for words, stunned by the sheer misfortune. But Jorgen wasn’t done.

"And that wasn’t the end of it. The financial minister of the Tramarta royal family, who was supposed to pay Jonathan’s company, suddenly died of a heart attack. The royal family suspected poison, which led to a power struggle within the royal court over the minister’s death. The payment, which was supposed to be made within a month, was delayed indefinitely."

"…"

"Later, it was revealed he hadn’t been assassinated—it was simply an acute heart attack caused by overwork."

"What kind of…?"

"And to top it off, Jonathan’s wife, Oliviera, experienced a difficult childbirth and her health took a severe turn for the worse. Oliviera was a genius with numbers, the kind of woman who could keep track of enormous cash flows like reading the palm of her hand. She had been the one managing all of Jonathan’s company’s finances, and suddenly, she was bedridden."

Erfa was speechless.

It was impossible for things to go this badly unless someone was outright cursed.

Jorgen let out a heavy sigh.

"In the end, he had no choice but to shut down the company. Even so, he had saved up quite a bit of money, and when his wife recovered and their child grew older, he used that to start a new business. It was a toy factory. Hugely popular. At one point, every child in the capital was playing with toys made by Jonathan’s company."

"That successful?"

"Yes, that successful. And do you know what’s even more impressive? His daughter, Cecilia. She inherited her mother’s brains and her father’s charisma. They say that even as a five-year-old, she was helping her father make business decisions."

Jorgen chuckled at the memory.

"Apparently, she even conducted market research and designed toys herself, which became massive hits. They said her business sense surpassed her father’s. Out of all the people I’ve ever met, only you, Erfa, could compare to her as a genius."

"A little child really helped her father run a business?"

"It’s no lie. By the time she was twelve, she was overseeing the entire factory. That’s the last I heard of them. Things went quiet after that, so I assumed he closed the business again. But to think his daughter Cecilia had rotting disease… his bad luck truly knows no bounds."

After hearing the full story, Erfa could only laugh in disbelief.

"I thought he was just some nobody. I had no idea he was someone so extraordinary."

A self-made legend in the distribution industry.

A woman who could track massive cash flows as easily as reading her palm.

And a child prodigy who ran an entire factory at twelve.

The elixir spring in the abandoned factory and the person they had chosen to handle it all—everything lined up so perfectly that it felt unreal.

This chain of events could have been written as fiction and ridiculed for being too contrived.

"Miracles really do exist, Tower Master. There’s no other way to interpret this," Erfa said.

Jorgen’s curiosity deepened.

"This was the work of the Healing Saint, wasn’t it?"

"Yes. He’s at the center of all this. As someone who walks the path of magic, I know it’s improper to use terms like miracles or divine intervention… but there’s no other way to describe this. How else could such perfectly timed events and people appear just when they were needed?"

Jorgen looked as if he could no longer hold back his excitement.

"You said this Healing Saint is in the slums?"

"Yes."@@novelbin@@

"I must visit him someday. I’m curious. What does a true saint look like?"

To think that, so late in his life, something could ignite such a burning curiosity within him.

Jorgen spoke with an unusually passionate gleam in his eyes.

Erfa smiled.

"I’ll introduce you. You’ll be amazed when you meet him."

"Good. Let’s see what kind of person he really is."

If the Healing Saint had overheard this conversation, he likely would have screamed, begging them not to come.

Fortunately—or unfortunately—he wasn’t there to hear it.

*****

Another hectic day passed in a blur.

The abandoned factory I had claimed as my base had turned into a veritable holy site for the slum dwellers.

They slept on the stone floors, warm enough to rival underfloor heating, and woke up to free meals provided by the priests of the Lilia Church.

And that wasn’t all.

"Put them to work. Pay them generously. That is the will of Grace."

Following my instructions as part of the Lilia Church Bankruptcy Project, High Priest Aloys paid the slum dwellers a staggering daily wage of one Saléd—an amount so generous it bordered on absurd.

In return, the slum dwellers cleaned the area.

They picked up trash, scrubbed away the mud soaked in filth and sewage, brought the sick to me, and planted trees along the bleak urban streets.

They were mobilized to purify the surroundings, earning food and meals in return for their labor.

And yet, I couldn’t shake the unease.

After all, the so-called "Blue Gold," elixir, was gushing out in the middle of the abandoned factory district.

I trusted Jonathan Karma to ruin everything, but the nagging thought remained: What if he somehow succeeded?

If I wanted to ensure bankruptcy, I needed to spend more recklessly.

"Build public restrooms. Disease spreads because feces and urine are scattered on the streets. No matter how much I heal them, if they live in filth, they’ll just fall sick again. Hire people to manage the restrooms and keep them clean every day."

"As you command, Saint!"

"Build a public bathhouse. Grace rests upon a clean body. Bring water from the mains and build a communal bathhouse for the people. Cleanliness and proper meals—that is Grace. Spare no expense. Build the most magnificent, spotless bathhouse possible."

"As you command, Saint!"

High Priest Yodel looked as if he’d happily eat excrement if I ordered him to.

His enthusiastic "OK" to every command brought me some relief.

This wasn’t just pouring water into a bottomless jar.

If we kept spending like this, even the Lilia Church’s coffers would run dry.

Moreover, Jonathan Karma’s business capital would also have to come from the church.

If everything went according to plan, I could bankrupt them within a few months.

People might curse me for helping others only to drive them into ruin, but at least they wouldn’t burn me at the stake.

They’d probably just call me an incompetent Saint and leave, muttering, "Good riddance, let’s never see him again."

As I healed the sick, fed them, housed them, employed them, built bathhouses, and cleaned the streets, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t working as planned.

"We don’t need money! Saint, you healed my mother! Let me build this as a donation of gratitude!"

The public restrooms were built for free. In multiple locations, no less.

"Before I lost my hand, I was a renowned stonemason. Money? I’d be ashamed to take it. This is my gift to you."

It turned out one of the beggars I healed was a famous stonemason. He quickly gathered people and started building a bathhouse.

And that wasn’t all.

"Let’s repay the Saint for his grace!"

"Grace for Grace!"

People worked tirelessly, cleaning the area, sweeping, and tidying up even after their workday ended, without pay.

In less than a week, the filthy, mud-covered streets were unrecognizable, replaced by clean, polished brick roads.

"Here’s a donation."

"This is from my heart. Please accept it."

"I run a vegetable stall. Please take some produce if it helps."

"I’m a butcher. If old meat is okay, please take it."

"You healed my son’s eyes. I’ll donate all leftover bread from my bakery every day. Share it with those in need."

"I used to be a renowned chef. Give me ingredients, and I’ll cook meals to share with everyone."

The free meal station was constantly stocked with donated ingredients. People I healed cooked meals and distributed them voluntarily.

"Saint, we’ve saved a tremendous amount of money. The donations alone are enough to cover Jonathan Karma’s startup costs!"

Damn it!!

Why?!

Why is this happening?!

I want them to fail!

Please, let them fail!

Why is everything going so well?!

My cursed fate seemed determined to ensure I’d be struck down by divine punishment.

Bankruptcy wasn’t going to free me.

I needed a new plan.

How could I make these people leave me?

How could I—

While I treated the morning’s crowd of sick slum dwellers, my thoughts were interrupted.

The crowd suddenly parted, and my train of thought scattered.

A group of people was walking toward me, cutting through the throng.

At their head was a witch, her sharp smile framed by her large, brimmed witch’s hat and the official uniform of the Mage Tower.

"Healing Saint?"

The freckled woman clicked her heels as she approached me, a sly grin on her face.

Confused, I blinked as she glanced back at the people following her and chuckled.

"See? I told you. This guy doesn’t use divine power when he heals."

The figures behind her were dressed entirely in black—black clothes, black masks, black shoes, and black trousers.

The only white was a single emblem: a white eye symbol on their chests.

The sight of that emblem made my blood run cold.

It was a symbol no Imperial citizen could fail to recognize.

The Silent Order, worshippers of the god of darkness and secrets, Le-Neril.

It wasn’t a large or famous church, nor did it have many followers. They were known for their strict selection process, resulting in a small but elite membership.

But their infamy came from their role as the Empire’s inquisitors, sanctioned by the Pantheon to root out heresy.

"There’s no evidence of divine power being used, Tuidel," one of the Silent Order priests murmured in a low voice.

The witch, Tuidel, let out a gleeful laugh.

"I knew it. My instincts are never wrong. Hey, Healing Saint," she said, sliding her high-heeled boot between my legs and grinning ominously.

"You’re a fraud, claiming to be the Saint of the Saint of Lilia, aren’t you?"