How many years' worth of reports had she let pile up?! If she were to fill them all in one by one, Mostima wouldn't have enough time even if she used the powers of "Black Lock" and "White Key" to manipulate the flow of time.
Why did such a "bad civilization" as "reports" even exist in this world? It felt like an even worse civilization when it was forced upon the freedom-loving people of Laterano.
"Since you clearly have something else to discuss, why don't you just say it? Is it fun to make jokes like this at a time like this?"
Mostima was now certain that this woman had just been messing with her. The sheer volume of work presented was impossible for a normal person—or even a Sankta—to complete. The only logical explanation was Velliv's twisted sense of humor; she just wanted to see the look of panic on Mostima's face.
Despite her constant smile that made her eyes disappear, Velliv was secretly the most black-hearted person around. Having sparred with her briefly in the past, Mostima knew better than to be misled by that pleasant facade.
Velliv's expression didn't change at Mostima's call-out, though her tone became slightly more serious.
"Quite sharp, aren't you? Fine, let's leave the reports for now. Once these things are filed away, almost no one ever looks at them anyway. And if they do, they're looking at Fiammetta's."
Velliv casually tossed the small stack of reports aside. She had only been testing to see if Mostima could see through the bluff. Had it been a more earnest subordinate who actually tried to finish them, she wouldn't have stopped them—but then again, "earnest" types weren't usually assigned to her.
"Now that the small talk is over, let's get down to business. Why did you bring the two of us here?" Mostima asked. She knew there had to be a reason Velliv sought them out personally rather than just sending a message.
Velliv's aura shifted, shedding the persona of a typical overworked manager. The change was sharp enough to make Mostima feel a bit uneasy.
"Fiammetta, come over here as well. I have something to ask both of you."
Velliv called over the Dawn Destroyer, who had been watching from the sidelines.
"I want you both to tell me your honest opinion of the Saintess after spending this time with her."
The purple-haired Cardinal's gaze became incredibly deep, giving them the sensation that she could peer directly into their thoughts. If they were three Sankta sitting there, this wouldn't be strange—they could use "Empathy" to sense each other's feelings. But here they were: a Sankta, a Fallen, and a Liberi. There shouldn't be a shred of Empathy between them.
Yet, that's exactly how it felt. The two exchanged a glance and entered a state of serious reflection. They knew their answer was vital; their words could influence a major decision or lead to a catastrophic miscalculation.
After a moment of silence, Mostima was the first to speak...
"No matter what you say, I need a moment. The design of this statue is just... it's a bit too much for my brain to process."
Jeanne and Lemuen stood before a shop window, where Jeanne had been staring at a peculiar sculpture for several minutes. It was a statue of a Sankta, clearly meant to commemorate someone significant in Laterano's history.
It seemed popular, too—Jeanne had seen several similar ones on their way here. But there was one problem: instead of a Bible or a cross, the statue was wielding a shotgun.
Jeanne was baffled. A Bible would symbolize piety, but what was a gun supposed to represent? If you don't believe in the faith, I'll use this gun to send you to God so he can talk to you himself?
She simply couldn't comprehend the bizarre logic of the Sankta. Was there any limit to what these people would do? This place was almost too free. Even their attitude toward faith was... unique.
As they walked, Jeanne's previous impressions of the Sankta were being completely formatted and overwritten. She had thought Lemuen and her sister were the optimistic outliers of an otherwise solemn, devout race. Instead, she realized Lemuen was the standard! Most Sankta they encountered were incredibly upbeat.
"So, what do you think of the gift you gave us? The Pope put a lot of effort into finding the perfect spot for it."
They had arrived at a park that was surprisingly crowded. To Jeanne, it looked like a concert venue full of fans waving glowsticks. With so many Sankta gathered, she felt that even from the moon, one could see the collective glare of their halos. It was so bright that the security guards actually had to wear sunglasses to maintain order.
At the center of the crowd was the gift Jeanne had brought: the massive stone slab where the Ten Commandments had mysteriously appeared.
She watched as the Sankta gazed at the stone with profound piety. It was a stark contrast to their usual behavior.
"It was quite a coincidence," Lemuen remarked, her own gaze full of reverence. "They were originally going to put a statue of a Pope here, but you sent this stone before construction even began."
It was said that locals visited this park almost every day, to the point where they could recite the inscriptions in their sleep. Jeanne noted that if anyone charged even a single LMD for entry, they'd be set for life.
They didn't stay long, as they had a tea invitation to honor. When they reached the Basilica, the magnificent architecture finally caught Jeanne's eye. Everywhere she looked was pure white marble; it felt like walking into a world of pristine light.
The Basilica sat at the very heart of Laterano, built upon the site where the original Saints once gathered. According to history, the remains of every Pope and great sage were buried here, alongside countless treasures of civilization collected over a millennium.
Just then, Jeanne heard it again—that mechanical thrumming. She looked around, but there was nothing there. The sound vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Was she really starting to have auditory hallucinations?
"Welcome. The afternoon tea is ready. Let's sit and enjoy this beautiful afternoon."
A white-bearded man in white robes—the Pope—stepped out to greet them, looking to be in an excellent mood.