Faith.

That was something that gave people great strength.

No matter how bad a situation got, as long as people believed God—any higher power, for that matter—would save them, their hearts would not collapse, and they would be able to live another day.

Even in other worlds, in which the existence of gods was not confirmed by them directly intervening in the world, this part, at least, was acknowledged by many.

Yet at the same time, this had its limits.

Specifically, if it went too far.

If one had too much faith in God, if one believed too strongly that everything would always go according to His plan no matter what they individually did, that person might become reliant on faith to keep living, or even give up entirely and leave everything to God, and thus relinquish any and all autonomy.

They would become living corpses. Or they might end up actually dead.

Yet there was another option for those who had too much faith.

That was the path of the zealot.

One who believed their own faith was right, to the very end, with absolute conviction, and most importantly, one who could not accept anyone else who had a different faith. As long as a belief existed, surely there would be zealots who believed in it.

Surely, ‘til the world fell apart, Maliel would be a zealot.

***

“Ah, you poor people.”

With a voice clear like a serene bell, she spoke, addressing the poor old village she had stumbled upon.

She was exceedingly beautiful, not to mention those in nuns’ garbs were rare out here, so she immediately drew large amounts of attention. ‘Twas immediately akin to a congregation of believers.

Aye, believers. But there was one thing about her that stood out even more, something she carried on her back—

“Ah, you oppressed, poor people. Because of the demon king’s advent, you have been forced to offer sacrifice, just to avoid doom…”

Indeed, this was one of several villages which had sent tribute to Eskaria in hopes of appeasing the demon king and being spared his wrath. As such, it was located in one of the various nations that surrounded the miasma-infected wilderness.

“ ‘Tis truly tragic. Those who consort with demons will not be forgiven, will not be saved, will not be rewarded and will not be blessed.”

One could tell at a glance from her facial expression that she was truly pained. She felt for these people. They were forced into a course of action by external events, and were now being punished for it. It was beyond unreasonable.

“However, salvation is not yet beyond your reach.”

The crowd clamoured. They could be saved? Despite giving in to the demon king? They did not want to invoke the Goddess’s wrath—what would happen if they did? Fire? Burning light? Surely they would not survive.

An elderly man stumbled forth.

“What… What should we do, o Saint?”

His voice was feeble and weak, but from the Sister’s pure smile, anyone could tell his question reached her ears.

“That depends on what you wish for, o lost sheep.”

She spread her hands to the side, as though to envelop the entire crowd in her embrace. “Tell me,” she added, her smile still serene.

“We wish to be forgiven!”

“We wish to be saved!”

“We wish to be rewarded!”

“We wish to be blessed!”

No one could tell who said the individual lines. No one cared. The people were as one in their desires.

“In other words,” the Saint asked, canting her head a little to the side, “you wish to believe, yes?”

They wished to be forgiven, saved, rewarded and blessed—they wished to believe. So she would teach them.

She reached around to her back and grabbed her implement, settling it into her hands. Then, with a voice that reached everyone present, she started singing.

Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine:

et lux perpetua luceat eis.

A language that, in this world, meant nothing. The only ones who might know it were particularly knowledgeable Heroes… and, perhaps, the Great Sage.

Te decet hymnus, Deus, in Sion,

et tibi reddetur votum in Ierusalem:

But even Heroes who didn’t know the language would recognise it as Latin. A language often used by the church, back in their old world.

exaudi orationem meam,

ad te omnis caro veniet.

Those who had been faithful in their previous lives might even have recognised what, exactly, she was singing.

Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine:

et lux perpetua luceat eis.

Those Heroes might have recognised it as a requiem. A song to revere and honour the dead, and wish them a peaceful eternal rest. It was that kind of song.

The townsfolk did not—could not understand her words. Perhaps it was for the best. Regardless, they were swept up in joy. Some of them even wept tears of bliss.

With all their hearts, they believed.

Men and women, children and elderly, all who were gathered—all the townsfolk believed in their salvation.

They would be forgiven. They would be saved. They would be rewarded. They would be blessed.

“Then,” the Saint said, “you wish to be forgiven? Then repent.”

Where’s your apology?

The townsfolk dropped to their knees, shouting apologies to the heavens.

They believed. Aye, they believed.

Thus, it was decided.

Legal or illegal, moral or immoral, light or dark. All their acts were forgiven.

The flash of a blade, glinting under the sunlight. Spurts of blood. One after another, heads rolling on the ground, separated from the bodies they once belonged to, now falling to the ground.

Oh, you would complain about her methods?

They believed they would be saved—with just that, it was fine, wasn’t it? Their last moments were lived in bliss. Was that not the very meaning of a satisfactory life?

One after another, people repented and were saved.

But of course, proof of their repentance was necessary. What would they give up?

Whether ancient texts of dogmatic scripture or enigmatic theorems of the way the world worked, whether stone castles or wooden hovels, whether the tools of an adult or the toys of a child, before the flames of repentance, it all turned to ash and scattered.

With simply the words “Please, Sister” and the offering of one’s soul, she would make it as if this and that never existed in the first place. For the low, low price of one’s soul and a prayer, one could attain eternal bliss—was there a better deal?

Miracles for the flock of lost lambs. They had no more need of their mortal possessions, so they might as well give them up to prove their repentance. Their souls would be bathed in the light of purification.

Forever and ever, Maliel would continue her crusade, scythe in her hand, saving all those she could find. In the name of the Goddess, to bring peace and love to the world.

Now, let’s pray, for those who had yet to be saved, and for those who had already been saved, and even for those scant few who were beyond salvation.

For forgiveness.

For salvation.

For a reward.

For a blessing.

Maliel dropped to her knees, offering prayers and her eternal devotion to the Goddess, surrounded by the flames of purification.

From within the flames, hidden out of sight, a girl made of magic by something outside of this world observed, flicking her tail in a combination of fear and expectation.

***

Mana—

Also known as magic power or miasma, depending on the situation, it was a fundamental force that existed in nigh every world.

At its core, mana was nothing more than divine power, in such small quantities that mortal hands could wield it.

As such, the amount of mana in a world was proportional to the power of that world’s creator god. A more powerful creator god would create more mana, and thus more powerful mortals. Essentially, the entire power scale of the world would be higher.

There were also gods who would prevent mana from leaking into the mortal world, and instead use it for some other purpose. To construct an afterlife, for example. Such actions led to worlds that were, for all intents and purposes, without mana—the limitations this created often caused technology to arise faster than in magical worlds.

Mana was indeed a fundamental force.

Thus, it was essentially universal. Although the exact systems of magic differed per world, that was moreso by chance than by any great design—in essence, magical ability gained in one world carried over even if its possessor went to another. Of course, there were exceptions to this, like those who got their power not from knowledge on using mana, but from rights and privileges, but…

In general, the same principles applied to different worlds.

Thus, if there was a construct of living mana in one world, and its consciousness was brought over to another, it could reconstruct its body.

That was what ██████████████ had done.

It possessed a single consciousness which, though unwilling, was its ‘servant’. And that consciousness had been implanted into this world.

█████ was its name.

Nay, █████ was her name.

Fundamentally, she was something that was created outside of the world she resided in, so she never quite looked right. It manifested differently every time—sometimes, she had an odd number of eyes, or extra limbs, sometimes she was only half ‘there’. Sometimes she was not much more than a clump of flesh.

This time, it had gone rather well. If she had a choice, she would have liked to manifest with this body every time.

But, well, such a convenient choice would never be granted to her.

She had, once, in the past, struck a deal. A deal she would regret ‘til the end of time.

She would be granted no rest or repose. She would not be allowed to die, nor was she able to truly ‘live’. The two things she could do were follow orders, and ‘survive’. Anything else would not be forgiven.

Clutching her claws together, she offered her version of a prayer for the people she just witnessed get murdered.

That girl… She seemed to be a Saint of some kind, but then, why did she do something like this?

This world was no good either… Surely no one in a world like this could save █████ from her fate.

She closed her eyes and shed a tear.

***

In the end, because of an in-the-moment, impulsive decision, I had wasted a soul that could have become a valuable asset, one way or the other.

But, well, it becoming a part of Alpine’s flesh and blood was not a half-bad outcome, either. After all, it had helped her evolve into a 5th-grade Kobold of Eternal Frost.

Overdramatic name aside, the evolution had given her a fair few useful powers, in addition to a considerable amount of strength. Although this certainly was not an ideal outcome, it was by no means the worst.

Indeed, there was no way I was trying to convince myself I had not made a mistake. Nothing of the sort.

With a variety of thoughts bouncing around my head, I found myself unable to focus on my paperwork, instead staring blankly into space.

Even this was observed with great interest by Entropy—I could not imagine what was so interesting.

Half-distracted, I reached over and mussed her hair.

“Ah…”

A moment of apparent surprise, and then she drew nearer, pushing her head into my hand. Recently, she had gotten less shy about accepting my displays of affection, at least in private—something I was, of course, more than happy about.

Right when I was about to tug her into my lap, there was a knock at the door.

“... Come in,” I said, retracting my hand.

Nexu peeked his head in through the crack of the door.

“Miss Lilith is at the door, sir. She said she wanted to talk to you… Alone, if possible.”

“Ah… Let her in. And, hm… Nexu. Go get your sister and take Alpine for a walk. You can spar with her, too, if you like.”

Although Alpine was supposed to have been sleeping at my feet, she immediately jumped up at the prospect of a spar—she reminded me of a certain dragon, in that regard—and followed after Nexu as he left.

It was not long before Lilith appeared, looking uncharacteristically meek.

“No book with you today?” I asked, gesturing to the sofa.

“Ah… No.” She took a seat, as I indicated. “I figured I shouldn’t, considerin’... Anyway, uh, this might be a little rude ta ask, but…”

“I am used to more than my share of discourteousness from you. A little more will hurt no one.”

“Right. Uh… Could I, uh… Couldya sit next t’ me, Master? And, uh, I’d like it t’ be just us two…”

She sent a few awkward glances to Entropy.

Entropy tilted her head in puzzlement, but melted away into the darkness anyway. I, meanwhile, rose from my chair, stepped around my desk and, as requested, sat down next to Lilith.

“Will this suffice?”

“Ah… Yeah. Thanks.”

She seemed a little hesitant for a few moments, but then dropped her full weight onto my shoulder.

“So, I presume this is about what happened in Cy’s tower? I was aware that you are more sensitive than you let on, but I do not believe that that is to the point of crying at a kiss to the forehead.”

“I told ya, I wasn’t cryin’! But… Yeah… Yeah, it’s about that. Um…”

She hesitated for a few moments. Started several sentences she did not finish. But eventually, she seemed to settle on one.

“Uh… Remember what I said when I, y’know, came back from Gehenna? At the party.”

“Ah… As I recall, you stated your parents were glad to see you. Was that a lie, then?”

“No! No, I wouldn’t… Wouldn’t lie about that. But, uh… I guess I should explain somethin’ else first…”

And thus she proceeded to explain.

In Gehenna, it was rare for a shaman to stay with their village for long. Her father had settled down, but as a rule, there were fewer shamans than there were tribes. Thus, most shamans lived a solitary, nomadic life, travelling from village to village to offer their services.

Eventually, many would settle down somewhere and perhaps start a family… But that was often only after several thousand years.

Since their travelling patterns were often sporadic, there was no more joyous occasion for a tribe than the visit of a shaman. If the shaman said they would stay a while, a festival was not unheard of.

Indeed, the appearance of a shaman was a cause of great joy, especially if they were to decide to stay.

I was starting to see where this was going. It was not making me very happy, to put it lightly.

“So y’see? The appearance of an Arch-Devil, like I was at the time, would… Well, an Arch-Devil’s kinda like an upgraded shaman, so any village would be…”

“Aye.”

“So, uh, I guess what I’m saying is, uhm…”

A moment of silence, after which she lifted her head off my shoulder. And then she dropped it straight back on, face-down.

“My friends don’t… Even my own… Mom, ‘n pops, they don’t… They don’t…”

I felt a trail of liquid run down my arm.

“They don’t remember me at all! No one… None of them…”

Her voice died down, any further words getting stuck in her throat. The only other sound that left her were hoarse sobs.

I wrapped my arm around her and pulled her close.

For an understandably long time, she sat there, crying into my chest. Not another word from either party was spoken.

Except, when she finally left, a quiet “Thank you” left her mouth.