MTO C37

Chapter 37

After the disorder had calmed, the townsfolk came forward one by one to speak with the Saint. Could a bungling priest who couldn’t even write a proper prayer truly converse with the people? Kaidan doubted it. And yet Michel guided each exchange with surprising ease.

“What is your name?”

“H‑Hans.”

“Brother Hans, I’m glad to meet you.”

He always greeted first and always asked the names of those who stood before him before laying his hands to bless. Where townsfolk had shrunk beneath the armored might of knights, Michel’s smile loosened their fear.

And once a saint invited them to speak, they poured out burdens long hidden:

“My chickens all died at once—what should I do? It’s been so hard.”

“I really don’t know how I’ll survive this winter…”

Michel clasped their hands without hesitation. When tears fell, he wrapped them in embraces, heedless if their rags left stains upon his costly robes. He never once recoiled.

Watching it unfold, Kaidan felt unsteady.

All he had ever intended from Michel was a brief blessing—never such earnest conversation.

He had even ordered a chair placed for him. Yet Michel never sat, not once. He received them without break, never seeming weary.

Was he striving so hard to impress me?

But if so, why did Michel so often treat him as if invisible? Time and again, when he needed something mid‑conversation, he’d crane his neck absurdly far to call:

“Brother Kaidan!”

As even now.

Suppressing a sigh, Kaidan stepped forward.

“Here.”

“Oh? Were you standing there all along?”

Ignoring Michel, Kaidan addressed the peasant instead.

“The House of Eglence will lend cattle. You shall repay one‑fifth of the milk and eggs. Pay steady tax three years, and you may keep the beasts in full.”

“Thank you, my lord!”

Listening was Michel’s task; solutions were Kaidan’s. To him, the problems were laughably simple to fix—but any problem was insoluble if one had never seen it. Kaidan realized then just how little he knew of the basic lives of his subjects.

Lowering taxes, repairing walls—yes, he had worked hard. But to uplift daily life? Pitiably little. He needed to look closer. To ask, to hear.

For example… the way that man was doing right now.

“Is this really for me? Thank you!”

A child cried with joy as Michel knelt to meet his eyes, knees on the filthy ground, heedless of the fine white robes.

Kaidan suddenly understood why David, and half the household, had been taken in. Who could look at those gentle eyes and doubt they were real?

“Too precious to eat! Would you share with the Duke?”

“Yes!”

“Thank you! Here you are!”

Rising, Michel pressed something blackened into Kaidan’s hand. A coarse biscuit.

Kaidan knew it. Barley dough mixed with herbs and dried fruit. The cheap snack of peasants—but one he himself had stolen tastes of as a boy. From someone’s discreet kindness, long ago.

“Brother, it’s from Jena.”

Michel nodded toward the child peeking out from behind her father’s legs, nervous but hoping.

Michel motioned for him to take it. Slowly Kaidan did. The biscuit, warm from little hands, damp and soft, but flavored exactly as he remembered. Sweet raisins clung to his tongue.

“…Thank you.”

The words came out rough. The boy grinned wide, tension broken.

Kaidan’s heart lurched as though a hundred frail seedlings sprouted inside his ribs.

“Brother.”

He looked up. Michel’s face shone with delight, as if witnessing a miracle.

“You should smile more. You look wonderful.”

Only then did Kaidan realize—he had been smiling.

The festival’s last act was to eat together. Great cauldrons bubbled with hot soup and mulled wine for warmth.

Though a saint and a duke had honorary seats under the pavilion, Kaidan had meant only to symbolically share the same meal with the people. But Michel had already insinuated himself right among the villagers.

“Brother Kaidan! Over here—I saved you a place!”

Carrying two portions, Kaidan froze. Faces all around fell into terror the moment they recognized him. He almost turned away—fearing to ruin their mealtime.

But he could hardly leave Michel unguarded. With a soldier’s stride, he sat himself down beside him as if by right.

“Oh! You brought my food too? Thank you! Everyone, let’s enjoy our meal!”

“P‑please, Saint…”

At that, silence fell. The peasants barely moved, choking down bread as though afraid it might kill them. Kaidan too, unsettled, could not lift his spoon.

Not enough. Still far from enough.

Their fear of House Eglence had not shifted.

“Mmm! This soup is rich! Do your knights have to cook this well to serve? Even David’s dishes tasted this fine!”

Michel beamed and gobbled, utterly blind to the tension. How could someone so alert in combat be so dense now?

“…Why aren’t you eating?”

“M‑my lord, we are eating.”

The poor man opposite gulped frantically, caught Kaidan’s eye, and nearly choked. Michel coaxed him gently with water. Kaidan turned away.

Enough.

The sooner he left, the sooner they could eat with ease. The faithful wanted the saint—he needed only to step away.

But—

“…?”

A small face suddenly loomed beside him. It was the boy who had given the biscuit earlier.

“My lord Duke, does your sword really flash like lightning?”

“Jena!”

His father rushed in panic, hauling him back.

“Forgive us, my lord! Apologize, Jena!”

“Stop.”

Kaidan raised a hand. But too sharply—the father paled as if struck.

Kaidan bit down words of comfort. Experience told him they would only deepen fear.

Yet the child met his gaze unflinching. So Kaidan bent low, eye to eye. As Michel had.

“Do you wish to see?”

He tapped the hilt at his waist. The boy nodded fiercely.

Kaidan turned, assessing. An empty grain jar abandoned outside the tent. Perfect.

He strode, people parting instinctively.

With a clean slash, steel cut the air—

CRASH!

The jar split open, halves slamming apart.

Satisfied, he sheathed the blade and looked back.

And found nothing but pale, frightened faces staring.