Kunkan's Gift
Someone once said that mana is like the wind.
Roberta agreed with that statement. As she and Fritz peered inside the house, she felt the wind. Standing by the window, she sensed the flow of mana blowing from inside to outside, like air through a vent.
That wind was mana coming from those whose names had been written in Kunkan's register—monsters… no, people. As soon as their names were erased from the register, the mana within their bodies flowed out as if fleeing.
The people inside the house groaned. The mana they had accumulated over a lifetime had drained all at once, and the backlash must have struck them. Some collapsed to their knees, some clutched their chests, and others retched.
And then, as soon as all the mana they held left the house, another flow of mana rushed in, filling their emptied bodies.
'Were their names really erased from the register?'
Though she was witnessing it for the first time, Roberta was certain.
Ulrich had said, "From this moment on, your names have been erased from Kunkan's register." It had been a whisper, but in the stillness of the night—even breathing could be heard—there was no way she could have missed it.
'The mana leaving must be because their names were erased… and the mana entering must be because they received a new sacrament. There's no other explanation.'
But how was that possible?
The fact that he had performed a sacrament was not surprising. She had already seen it before—on her very first day assigned to Dithmarschen, he had performed one right in front of her.
But erasing names from the register?
'Even His Holiness cannot do that. Removing a name from the register…'
It was a miracle beyond even the head of the public church.
The masses often mistook excommunication as removing a name from the heavens, but that was not the case. Excommunication merely expelled someone from the human institution called the public church—it did not alter the register itself.
'It's not even recorded in the scriptures. When the Creator still resided in the heavens, there was no need to alter the register. The only mentions of changing it appear in later apocrypha and forbidden texts.'
As far as she remembered, those texts mentioned several beings who had altered the register, but never explained how. All cases occurred after the Creator had departed, and all involved non-human races.
That was why they were considered apocrypha. Their contents could not be logically explained, yet they were not outright heretical. Since such acts were never mentioned in the age of the gods, they could not be divine authority.
Thus, theologians had assumed they were metaphors. Roberta had believed the same—until now. But this was no metaphor.
"Who… are you?"
Tapio asked cautiously.
He had once walked the path of a priest. Even as a mere apprentice, there was no way he could fail to understand how absurd the miracle Ulrich had performed was.
"Tapio, continue to guide the children from now on."
Instead of answering, Ulrich smiled gently.
"As you have until now—make sure they do not go astray."
Tapio opened his mouth to ask again, then hesitated. His gaze shifted past Ulrich's shoulder. The children—born human, yet no longer human—were staring at Ulrich's back with wide eyes.
The wariness, worry, and anxiety they had held just moments ago were gone. The pain that had surged when the mana left them had faded, leaving only a calm astonishment.
Yet their outward appearance remained unchanged.
"…In time, their forms will return to normal… won't they?"
"No. I cannot restore everything. It is not a curse."
"Why?" Tapio asked without thinking.
"Even though the evil god's power no longer reaches them?"
"Kunkan, the one you call an evil god—his power brings change. It makes beings grow into something entirely different, rather than inheriting what their parents gave them. The only way to reverse a life that has already grown… is to turn back time."
Tapio's eyes trembled. Even freed from the evil god, they could not return to being human. As he opened his mouth to lament, Ulrich continued:
"However, I have placed your names in Ganymea's register."
Ganymea—the goddess of knowledge and wisdom, and the mother of Hestio.
"The beings you call good gods do not try to greatly influence our world. They follow the nature of their mistress. That is why, compared to Kunkan, their influence is minimal."
"But," he added,
"She never once agreed with Kunkan during her lifetime. The power she left behind is the same. Among the many changes he caused, she will soften some… and erase others."
"She… symbolizes reason."
That was why priests of Ganymea were often described as cold and rational. They also possessed an unusually strong curiosity for knowledge.
"That's not all," Ulrich murmured to himself.
Tapio did not hear him. He was deep in thought. The liberation he had longed for had finally come, yet it had not solved everything.
Even though their names were erased, their outward forms did not return to human. The children who had received the false sacrament would have to live with their current appearance until the day they died and returned to dust.
"Appearance matters. But it is not everything."
Tapio nodded.
Until this very moment, on what basis had he treated the children as people? For him, being human meant thought and action. If they thought like humans and acted like humans, then regardless of their appearance, they were human children to him.
"Kunkan drove the children with impulses. They would suddenly become angry, suddenly cry… and in an instant, forget that they had ever been human."
"That will not happen anymore."
Ulrich stated firmly that it would no longer happen—that even if their forms did not return, they would not become monsters. Tapio smiled faintly, clenching his fists tightly.
"That is enough."
Ulrich stepped out of the house alone.
Outside, he met Roberta and Fritz, who had been waiting. Their expressions were different from one another.
Fritz was composed. Partly because his experience was shallow and he could not fully understand what had happened inside—but even if he had understood, his attitude would not have been much different.
The boy was a descendant of the Meyer family, a lineage that had served a single man for generations. Even if that man performed an even greater miracle than this, Fritz would simply accept it as something natural. That was how he had been raised, and it was in his nature.
"..."
Roberta, on the other hand, wore a complicated expression.
It seemed as though many emotions were tangled within her, leaving her at a loss for words.
"Roberta, you can already see the answer without asking, can't you?"
At Ulrich's words, her expression stiffened.
"It would be strange not to question it. But you don't need to hear it from me right now. By the end of our journey, you'll be able to reach your own conclusion."
Saying that there would be many things she would come to understand without explanation, Ulrich began to walk. The two followed behind him. In the late-night village, even the sounds of insects had quieted.
"Don't you think this is a cruel world?"
Since Roberta did not ask, Fritz did.
"What do you mean by cruel?"
"That one cannot live without relying on gods."
"Isn't that only natural? They created our world, after all."
"It is not natural. The world was not originally like this. The ritual called infant baptism was created after the age of the gods ended. It was not made by them."
"What?" Fritz tilted his head, confused. It differed too much from what he knew. He glanced at Roberta, but she remained silent. Even hearing words that denied religion, she did not react—only staring intently at Ulrich's back.
"When the sages of the heavens governed the world with great will, the land was pure. Even without receiving a sacrament, people could use mana, and mana did not harm those who had not received one. Mana was simply a part of nature, like the wind."
"..."
"In those days, there was no need for faith. None of those who created the world ever called themselves gods, nor did they desire it. It was the people of the earth who revered them."
Ulrich then looked up at the sky, where the fog had cleared, leaving scattered clouds.
"There were already many believers when they were present. Now that they are gone, it is beyond measure."
"Today, it is only natural that the pantheon has created the concepts of heaven and hell and claims that nothing holds value except faith. Look at this village—at what Tapio and the children have endured."
During the civil war, without receiving the sacrament, not a single child survived past infancy for years. And the sacrament they finally received summoned something that was never meant to be called, bringing them suffering.
Of course, the situation this village faced was an extreme exception. But the very fact that such an exception could occur was proof that this world was cruel.
"Not many people can endure such suffering by accepting it as simply how reality is. They believe there must be a reason for hardship, and that a reward will follow. That the heavens are testing them, and that they will go to heaven. People live while hoping for a salvation that no one has ever promised."
"..."
"But,"
At that moment, Roberta spoke.
"In the end, this place did receive that unpromised salvation."
Ulrich's steps faltered slightly before continuing.
"My view may be narrow, but I do not pretend not to see what I have seen."
The three guests left the village at dawn.
As the swamp once again sent forth its fog, the three who had come from beyond it disappeared back into it.
Tapio and the villagers stood at the entrance, seeing off the man who had moved their names to the rightful place.
"Sir Tapio."
At the sound of a young voice, Tapio lowered his gaze.
"Is it really okay if we don't go back inside?"
A boy with deer antlers growing above his ears asked.
"What if someone sees us?"
His worry was evident—he feared what might happen if outsiders saw them gathered at the village entrance.
It was a natural concern. Even though the blessing of the evil god had vanished, their appearances remained unchanged.
"It's alright. We don't have to hide anymore."
"Really?"
Tapio gently patted the boy's head. Though their appearances would bring many problems, he was not worried.
"Show me your hand. Do you remember what I showed you earlier?"
"This?"
The boy opened his right palm. It resembled the underside of a cat's paw—covered in soft white fur, with pink pads protruding between it.
Soon, it began to glow. A blue symbol appeared above his palm—the mark of Ganymea. Tapio praised him, then opened his own right hand to reveal his seal.
Tapio's seal was not Ganymea's. It belonged to the King of Heaven, Dieus. Until yesterday, he had carried a wooden seal of Dieus—but today, he bore the true mark. Just like the children to whom he had given the sacrament.
"If anyone calls you a monster, show them that."
Looking at the boy's mark, Tapio thought:
He was the youngest among the children who had received the false sacrament. He had several siblings, but all had been consumed by madness and died. One by one, from the eldest down, they had become monsters.
Next would have been this child. Both of them knew the same fate awaited him—a fate that would come before long, like destiny.
But that destiny had changed.
A man who could alter the heavenly register and grant them the embrace of Ganymea and Dieus had stood before the child. The wrongly inscribed name was erased from hell and rewritten in the register of the human mother.
From now on, this child would live—not as a monster, but as a person. And when he grew into an adult, he would have descendants, becoming the beginning of a new race—one yet unnamed in this world where the gods had already departed.
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