LTTH C45

Chapter 45

1. The Saint? 

“Let us think about what lies ahead at a slower pace. For now, let us return.”

Kassie’s words, carrying the calm sobriety of one who would not be swayed by the tranquil charm of a small village, drew Hansol’s gaze back down from the sky. Yes, time was still abundant for him. Though concern lingered for James and the Tower Lord, he trusted they were surviving well. With such positive thoughts, Hansol followed in Kassie’s steps.

It was then, upon the quiet street, that a voice rang out with a title half-familiar yet uttered in a stranger’s tone.

“Could it be… the Saint?”

A woman holding a child’s hand. Let me be clear—it was my first time seeing her. I was not one to easily forget faces, yet this woman did not exist within my memory. At the very least, she was not someone Hansol had healed or saved.

“It truly… truly was real.”

Caught off guard by her tearful gaze brimming with reverence, Hansol hesitated. In that brief moment, others began to gather, following her lead.

‘There are already so many who know of you—it hardly matters now,’ Isaac’s words drifted back through Hansol’s mind, not by coincidence. Swallowing dryly, Hansol’s eyes swept over the growing crowd.

‘Just how many people are there?’

Far more than the soldiers at the encampment. At least their numbers had been countable at a glance. But this… even at a glance, there were surely over a hundred.

“It’s the Saint! Truly!”

“Is it really him?”

“Who else could it be, with that appearance?”

“Black hair, black eyes—it’s him.”

In Korea, such features were commonplace. Yet here, black hair and black eyes seemed to serve as his unmistakable signature. They murmured among themselves, debating in agreement.

‘To be precise, my hair isn’t entirely black.’

He fiddled absently with the strands of his dark brown hair, faintly washed of color, but it was meaningless. In their eyes, the equation of ‘he equals Saint’ was already sealed.

“Then… what Peter was spreading all this time, could it really be true?”

“Not could be—it is true!”

“Ah, then truly…”

As more gathered, conversations burst forth in torrents, the rising buzz filling the street. Amid them all, Hansol’s ears pricked instinctively at one word, so familiar.

‘Peter…?’

As oft-repeated now as the word “Saint.” That title could hardly have spread on its own, nor could it have grown legs to travel here. Someone must have carried it from mouth to mouth. Isaac, taciturn as he was, could hardly be the one to chatter and spread tales. By process of elimination, only Peter remained.

“Excuse me! Let us through!”

‘…Speak of the devil and he appears.’

Through the crowd emerged a young man with the features more of a puppy than a tiger.

“Whew, Saint! I have been searching everywhere for you. From here on, I will guide you.”

Breathless yet smiling with a freshness all his own, the youth was radiant. Yet knowing now that he was the source of this chaos, Hansol’s gaze toward him was not entirely warm.

“Come now, everyone, make a little space.”

He was not so much giving medicine after poison as creating the poison in the first place. Had he not spread the rumors, there would be no need for this. As Peter scanned their surroundings meticulously and moved close to Hansol’s side, escorting him with devotion, Hansol let out a small sigh, shaking his head.

To part the sea of people was indeed helpful, and the rumor had likely not been spread with malice. He decided against rebuke.

But forgiveness was another matter altogether. Absolutely not.

“The Saint is passing!”

“……!”

‘What on earth is that supposed to mean…!’

Startled by Peter’s booming proclamation, Hansol instinctively tugged at the young man’s arm with a desperate look that silently screamed, “What are you doing?” Yet alas, Peter’s strength was not something Hansol could overcome. Dragged along like a captive, Hansol had no choice but to let go.

“Make way! The Saint passes!”

‘Please… stop…!’

Peter’s unrelenting voice thundered forth like a runaway locomotive, and Hansol’s face burned hot. Unable to endure, he pressed both hands over his face. If only there were a hole to crawl into—he would have gladly hidden.

Must they proceed with such shouting? Effective it was, yes. But was such necessity truly there? With all sincerity—no.

“Peter! Please, stop…!”

With shoulders hunched, his flushed face hidden behind both hands, Hansol clenched his teeth and forced out the plea. Yet Peter, deaf to his words, continued his proclamations undeterred. Instead, Hansol saw the gathered people, cowed by Peter’s cry, draw back while clasping their hands as though in prayer.

As the path widened before them, matched by Hansol’s swelling embarrassment, a chilling thought struck him: would this procession continue all the way to the place they called “home”?

“Peter! What on earth have you been spreading?”

At last, in the lull as the crowd thinned, Hansol pressed close, his face still aflame, and hissed fiercely into Peter’s ear. For the first time, the youth faltered, his awkward smile breaking as his eyes slid away.

That alone darkened Hansol’s expression further.

He detested being treated as a useless hunter. The reason Britain appealed to him was because here, from beginning to end, he was seen as a healer—as a hunter. Yet never, not once, had he wished to be burdened with such suffocating reverence.

‘Just being recognized as a healer who does his part would have been enough.’

The way people now looked at him—eyes filled with sacred awe—was discomforting. It was as though he had become something exalted, far beyond himself.

“Hansol. You seem mistaken. This is not entirely Peter’s doing. Even without him, people already called you their savior.”

“…I have never even met these people. To call me their savior is far too much.”

At Kassie’s soft words, spoken at his side before Hansol had noticed his approach, Hansol shook his head firmly. Perhaps Kassie meant to excuse Peter, to soften his fault. Yet Hansol could not accept such exaggeration—not from strangers he had never seen.

Kassie, however, only smiled faintly, a look tinged with deeper meaning.

“Peter, you lived with your family, did you not?”

“Yes. With my younger sister and parents.”

“And they are well?”

“Of course, they are.”

What manner of conversation was this? Why ask what was so obvious? Before Hansol could even voice his doubt, Kassie’s gaze shifted toward him.

“Hansol. Had you not saved Peter that day, his family would not have lived long.”

What was this man saying?

“That is true,” Peter answered without the slightest hesitation.

True? What part of it was true? Hansol stared, bewildered, as the youth nodded readily instead of bristling in anger. Surely indignation was the proper response.

Lost in the current of this baffling exchange, Hansol could only gape at them both.

“Those gathered here are no hunters. They cannot fight—not in the war against monsters, at least. Tell me, then—how have they survived until now?”

In Britain, there was indeed a system that supported survivors through its shops. But that shop existed only for hunters. Naturally so, for the system itself was built for hunters.

And shop points could only be earned by slaying monsters—creatures only hunters could fell. Even if the system were granted to civilians, they could not use it.

So then, who had sustained them all this time?

Someone must have hunted the monsters, exchanged those points for food and necessities, and distributed them. It was the simplest and most effective method. But could such a way endure not merely one or two years, but eighteen long years? Surely not.

“As you may suspect, they could not earn points themselves. They are no hunters. Yet hunters, too, cannot survive alone. They require one another’s aid. Thus, all their efforts turned toward these points.”

Kassie resumed walking, and Hansol, compelled, followed quickly after.

“These shop points can be traded.”

“……!”

‘The system… civilians can use it?’

“Yes. Within the bounds of the shop. They cannot purchase hunter-exclusive items, of course. But through trade, once they receive points, they can access the shop. It was discovered after many trials.”

Whether after ten attempts or a hundred, the fact remained: the system could indeed be used by those who were no hunters. And beyond that—the points themselves could be traded.

‘My word…’

If Kassie spoke true, then all here could access the shop. At last, the mystery unraveled.

The savory aromas teasing the nose, the clean garments they wore, the countless other signs of human touch scattered around—these now made sense. Hansol had noticed them before, yet held his questions back, for he was an outsider.

But in this moment, he had his answer.

They had not merely used the system—they had transformed the points into currency, weaving them into the fabric of society itself.

Ingenious. Whoever had conceived of it was truly shrewd.

Hansol’s gaze, almost unconsciously, turned toward the red-haired mage before him.