I Was Mistaken for a Saint in a Dark Fantasy

”Then I will take my leave, Godfather.”

As Yulian left the room,

his godfather—Handel Nihilrit—looked out the window.

In the distance, a small silhouette could be seen walking toward the Annex.

To Handel, that small figure looked nothing but precarious.

Handel, watching the boy’s back, opened his mouth.

”Head Butler. How long did it take to complete that medicine?”

”Two years, Master.”

”Two years...”Handel unconsciously touched his forehead.

The nights he soaked his body in ice water because fever-reducing potions didn’t work.

The servants who couldn’t sleep because of the sound of his teeth chattering.

It had all started right after Baron Handel returned from his Southern Inspection.

”Two years... Had it been a little later, I would have gone to join my friends.”

At Handel’s words, the Head Butler’s hand trembled slightly.

The Head Butler also remembered it clearly.

At the time, the Order’s Healer had shaken his head.

Whispers of needing to prepare a coffin had passed through the hallways.

It was a moment when everyone was bracing for the fall of the Baronial Family.

A nine-year-old child appeared with a black medicine bottle and opened the sickroom door.

”When the Young Master brought it himself, I was honestly...”

”Half in doubt, I’m sure. I was the same.”

Handel gave a bitter smile.

He, too, had been the same.

Even as he was dying, he’d thought, ’Surely a medicine made by a child won’t work.’

Back then, he hadn’t believed in Yulian.

He had only drunk it thinking he had nothing to lose.

And that choice had brought about a miracle.

”...But even after I recovered, that child demanded nothing.”

The business proposal?

That couldn’t be called a reward.

As Handel was also in a position to share the profits, it was nothing but beneficial to him, so it couldn’t be called compensation.

But Yulian acted as if that was enough, never clinging to him as his savior or expecting any further reward.

Instead, the child had stated only one condition.

[Please sell it to the soldiers at half price.]

Handel recalled those words and sighed softly.

”Blood will tell, I suppose.”

Handel thought of The Couple (His Friends), who had passed away.

His foolish friends, who had left their young son in his care and headed to the frontline, saying they were needed by the soldiers there.

The couple who treated soldiers never returned.

And their child, not yet ten, created a medicine for soldiers.

He even lowered the price by reducing his own share.

Could this really be a coincidence?

Could this character of his be a coincidence?

”What did that child see there?”

Two years ago.

The child, while collecting his parents’ remains, seemed shocked by the soldiers there.

And upon returning from that place, the child stayed up all night, beginning to research tree bark.

At first, Handel considered it childish whim.

A nine-year-old who hadn’t even learned the basics of alchemy, creating a new medicine.

He thought it was a kind of mourning ritual to soothe his grief.

Thinking the boy would give up once he was satisfied, he assigned an alchemist to assist him.

But when the child didn’t stop after two weeks, a month, then three, Handel slowly began to worry.

— [Tell me honestly. Does that child... have any talent for alchemy?]

At the time, Handel had sought advice from the alchemists assigned to Yulian.

But the answers that came back were cold.

— [His talent is average. No, to be frank, he’s a bit dull. He lacks intuition. Usually, talented children know to change direction when they fail, thinking, ’Ah, this isn’t it,’ but this child doesn’t seem to be good at that.]

— [He’s the type who only turns back after confirming it’s truly a dead end. Honestly, it’s because his experiments are at a child’s level that the expenses aren’t high. If a grown adult did this, they might have ruined their family.]

Handel’s heart grew heavy upon hearing this.

No talent.

Those words meant the child’s efforts were highly likely to be a vain effort.

While watching those numerous failures, Handel had indirectly advised Yulian to give up.

The failed works poured out due to incorrect concentrations.

The extracts that had to be disposed of due to their stench.

Ten times, thirty times, seventy times.

Even the alchemists who had been quietly cheering for the boy left his side, saying they couldn’t watch anymore.

Nevertheless, Yulian did not give up.

From that sight, Handel got the impression that Yulian was being chased by something.

It was as if he considered curing the soldiers’ illnesses his mission.

And in the end, the boy found the answer alone.

By saving the life of Handel, who had returned from his Southern Inspection.

Others might not know, but to Handel, this miracle never felt like a coincidence.

”Head Butler. Come to think of it, I didn’t give up for seven years.”

It had been seven years.

Every year, on the anniversary of his friends’ deaths, Handel took leave and headed to the Southern Region.

He searched the demonic beast’s territory, dug through collapsed ruins, and sifted through the registers of unreturned bodies.

”Until I found my friends... I had no intention of stopping. No matter what anyone around me said.”

”...”

”And yet, I was the one who told that child to give up.”

Self-derision touched Handel’s lips.

”Looking back, it’s shameful. I considered my own stubbornness a conviction, but the child’s stubbornness, a whim.”

His fingers, resting on the windowsill, unconsciously scratched at the wood grain.

”Perhaps... I might have been exhausted.”

Looking back, the Handel of that time was gradually wearing down.

The annual journey to the south, returning empty-handed.

The pitying gazes.

The suggestions to ’let them go now.’

All those realities piled up, and from a certain point, Handel had become sensitive to ’things that won’t work out no matter how hard you try.’

Was that why?

The sight of a talentless child staying up all night repeating failures had overlapped with his own image of floundering in the swamps of the south.

”As you know, I don’t believe in gods.”

”...”

”Of course, gods exist. Otherwise, there’d be no way to explain the miracle of divine magic. But if those beings called gods truly cared for humans... it shouldn’t have taken seven years.”

There was no way the gods wouldn’t know how many people they had saved in the Empire, or how faithful they were.

They were people worthy of receiving an Oracle.

In Handel’s eyes, the couple were people who deserved it.

”The gods may not have prevented their deaths, but they shouldn’t have abandoned them in that swamp for seven years.”

But the status the couple received was miserable.

”That’s why I didn’t pray to the gods even while hovering on the brink of death. Likewise, I didn’t believe in an afterlife.”

”Master...”

”But, you see.”

In Handel’s eyes as he looked out the window, Yulian’s back was no longer visible.

But he still gazed in that direction.

”...My friends’ child saved me. With what he saw in the land where his parents died.”

Handel thought.

If that child hadn’t carried on the will of his parents who cared for soldiers,

if Handel hadn’t tried to find his friends’ bodies for seven years,

if Handel hadn’t taken that child to that Demonic Realm,

if, in this whole process, either one of them had given up as others had suggested,

would he still be alive right now?

”I still don’t believe in an afterlife. But... this time, I think it was a gift worthy of my friends.”

The Head Butler could not reply.

He only wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

Handel pretended not to see him and shifted his gaze to the documents on his desk.

Outside, a light turned on in the Annex’s warehouse.

It seemed the eleven-year-old child had begun to research something again tonight.

Handel could only quietly cheer on the child’s efforts in his heart.

Talent was now a meaningless word to him.

Inside the Archive of Stars.

Screeee—

The teapot began to let out a shrill noise.

The Administrator of the Sanctuary where all forgotten or completed stories gather.

The being, commonly called the Librarian, refilled his tea and began reading the book again.

~~~~

▽▽▽

This is a story to be forgotten. Or a story that was prepared.

▽▽▽

- ”Happy 10th birthday... Yulian.”

Bang—!

A single gunshot rang out, and the boy’s body collapsed onto a grave.

The city did not react to the gunshot.

As usual, it simply let a single life drift away into the darkness of the night.

And so, the boy’s story seemed to end.

”...Ha.”

The boy with closed eyes let out a gasp with a cold breath.

He slowly opened his eyes.

Was it because of the gunshot just now?

Fragments of chaotically tangled memories scattered in his mind, but they already felt as distant as someone else’s diary.

There was no hatred for the world that had made him this way, nor jealousy for the shining stars unlike himself.

The only things moving him were curiosity toward the unfamiliar knowledge nestled in his head and a hunger that felt like it would never be filled.

As he was slowly adapting to this sudden situation, something trickled down from his temple.

It was a dark red, sticky liquid that should have been warm.

The being that was once a boy indifferently wiped it with his finger and brought it to the tip of his tongue.

”...Ah.”

He felt the illusion of the area around his empty heart being filled for a brief moment.

It was a sensation similar to smelling freshly baked bread, like eating an appetizer that whets the appetite.

The being that was once a boy tilted his head.

It was because the cognitive ability to distinguish between interest and a sense of depravity had not yet returned to him.

Rustle.

Just then, an old gravedigger appeared, cutting through the dawn mist.

The gravedigger’s eyes widened when he found the boy sitting there, covered in dirt.

But the surprise was brief. Soon, his eyes narrowed slowly and began to scan the boy’s body.

What a windfall.

The gravedigger’s murmur scattered in the dawn mist.

Soon, the gravedigger extended a hand to the boy with a sleazy smile.

- ”My, my. You poor thing. Let’s go to my place and get you warm first.”

The boy nodded.

His gaze fixed on the faint veins of the gravedigger’s forearm.

...

The gravedigger’s hut was shabby, but it held a certain warmth.

The door closed.

And not long after, the inside of the hut grew noisy.

- ”Hehe. There’s no such thing as a free lunch, kid. Now then—”

- ”Oh... my god... Dear Lord. No way...!”

- ”H-Help me... Unde...!”

A short scream leaked through the wall.

The sound of something being dragged. A struggle, as if crawling toward the entrance.

Thud. And then, silence.

Inside the hut, the boy looked down at the fallen gravedigger.

His mind was noisy.

Countless voices tangled and murmured.

Those who wailed, those who chanted, those who were silent.

But the moment he smelled the gravedigger’s blood, those voices melted into one.

What remained at the end was a feast of exquisite knowledge and languages.

The location of blood vessels, the boundaries of fascia, the principle by which life is sustained.

Wisdom from another world with an unknown origin.

This must surely have been the wisdom to save people.

But the boy could feel no great interest in the value of that wisdom.

Instead, what interested the boy was satiety.

It was because when he licked the red liquid that held the gravedigger’s life, the unbearable hunger had been momentarily satisfied.

The boy licked his lips.

And looking at the gradually cooling gravedigger, he muttered to himself.

- ”Bon appétit (Enjoy your meal).”

...

A while later.

The boy wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and rose from the table.

He bowed politely toward the gravedigger on the other side of the table, who had his head lowered.

”My apologies. The ingredients were more plentiful than I expected, so I made a little too much. I hope you are not offended.”

The gravedigger could not answer.

Only his loosened trouser legs flapped in the wind coming through the open window.

”I will be leaving first. You can save the Chateaubriand and have it later.”

”...”

”Well then. Merci pour l’hospitalité. (Thank you for the hospitality.)”

The being that was once a boy bowed politely, then opened the door and stepped outside.

Outside, the morning sunlight was scattering through the smog.

His hunger was slightly sated.

But the boy also knew that it would not last forever.

From the cemetery, the boy looked up at the city.

In the city spread out above, a great flock of sheep must be living.

A foolish and pitiful flock of sheep, sick, injured, and craving salvation.

And the unfamiliar knowledge in his head could stage miracles that would make that flock of sheep come to him of their own accord.

He thought he could even create a religion if need be.

If so, he could receive a regular supply of lamb more easily.

The being that was once a boy smiled.

Having a clear direction in life was such a beautiful thing.

◆◆◆

-This is A Demon’s Memoir, of the most terrible and beautiful, with the most ordinary talent.

◆◆◆

Clack.

The Librarian closed the book.

”...It’s been a while since this happened.”

It was because the words in the book suddenly began to disappear.

The Archive had begun to edit the book.

It was a common occurrence.

”The future, after all, is endlessly protean.”

At times like this, there was only one thing for the Librarian to do.

Without a second thought, the Librarian tossed the book he was reading into the fireplace.

”There’s no need to spare a bookshelf for a dead story.”

Crackle. The sound of the book burning could be heard.

The Librarian didn’t even glance at the kindling as he turned his head away.

And at that moment.

The first thing Yulian did after earning a fortune with Quinine was...

”It can’t be restored?”

...to despair in front of the alchemist.

”No. It’s been too long since the parchment was erased. There’s not even an afterimage left.”

”...”

”Young Master, was this document so important? Can’t you just write it again?”

”...A text written like that holds no precious memories.”

”I’m sorry. I was thoughtless.”

A genius poem written by a 4-year-old was valuable; one written by a 10-year-old was just a slightly superior poem.

’No... my first creation...’

That day, Yulian had to admit for the first time.

That there are things that don’t go well even for the protagonist of a Misunderstanding Genre.