Chapter 48: Ch48 A Saint Against His Will
The child’s scream clawed at Luther’s ears. His hand hovered over the boy’s charred side, the skin split open like burning paper. The smell of ash and rot lingered, biting at his nose.
The apprentice at his side choked out another plea.
"Please, Saint! We don’t know what to do. Nothing we try works—"
"Don’t call me that," Luther snapped, his brows knitting together. His tone wasn’t loud, but sharp enough to make the girl flinch back.
He pressed his palm down. His magic surged—not carefully, not measured, just raw instinct. Golden sparks shot from his hand, light snaking over the blackened skin. The boy screamed again, body arching—then fell still.
When the light faded, so had the wound.
The boy’s flesh was whole, unscarred, as though the fire had never touched him.
Luther blinked. "...No way."
The apprentices gasped in unison. Their voices rose in awe, disbelief tumbling from their lips.
"He healed him!"
"It’s impossible... but—look!"
"The Saint has destroyed the corruption!"
"I told you," Luther growled, standing abruptly. "Stop calling me that."
But the boy clung to his sleeve, whispering weakly, "Thank you..." before passing out from exhaustion.
Something twisted in Luther’s chest. He pulled free and forced himself to look away, stepping to the next bed where another victim writhed. A woman’s arm was consumed by the same black corruption.
His hand hovered. His lips pressed into a thin line. So... I really am the only one who can heal this?
The apprentices stood frozen, waiting. Their expectant stares pressed against him like chains. Luther exhaled through his nose, muttering, "Fine. But you lot—focus on the others. The ones without burns. I’ll handle this mess."
"Y-Yes, Saint!"
His glare made them correct themselves mid-breath.
"Y-Yes, sir!"
"Better," Luther muttered, crouching again.
The second healing took less time. So did the third. By the fifth, his breath was shallow, his forehead damp with sweat. Each corrupted wound burned him, as though the filth was trying to cling to him before dissolving under the gold light of his magic. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and looked up.
And his stomach dropped.
There weren’t just a few corrupted victims. There were dozens. The chamber was full of them—far more than he could ever tend one by one before nightfall. The apprentices were still running frantically between patients, trying to slow blood loss, keep wounds clean, but it was like bailing water from a sinking ship.
"Damn it..." he hissed under his breath.
The sky outside was darkening fast, dusk bleeding into shadow. Time was slipping, and so was his strength. He couldn’t keep going like this. Not piecemeal.
He straightened, ignoring the bloodstains streaked across his shirt. He didn’t care. His body screamed for rest, but his mind locked onto a single thought: They’ll die if I don’t.
His fists clenched. He hated it—hated the name, the weight, the blind reverence. But for once, that cursed title might actually be useful.
He raised his voice, sharp and commanding.
"Listen up! Carry every burned victim and line them up—straight rows, both sides around me. Now."
The apprentices froze mid-step, blinking in confusion.
"What? But—"
"That makes no sense—"
Luther’s glare sliced them down.
"I said, as your Saint, I command it. Or do you need me to repeat myself?"
The word tasted foul on his tongue, but it worked. Panic turned into frantic obedience. Apprentices rushed to obey, dragging and lifting the burned into place. Groans filled the chamber, but one by one the victims were lined in two rows, stretching out like grim soldiers on a battlefield.
When the last was placed, the apprentices stepped back, forming a trembling semicircle.
Luther closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He forced the magic outward, no longer holding back. It surged like a tide bursting through a broken dam.
Golden light flooded from him, crawling over his skin like liquid fire. His eyes snapped open, blazing with radiant gold. His body rose, lifted from the ground as if unseen hands had claimed him.
The apprentices dropped to their knees, bowing low.
"Divine..."
"The Saint is... chosen..."
Luther ignored them. His magic poured in twin waves down both sides of the line. Each body it touched arched, gasped, then stilled—their corrupted burns dissolving like ash in water. The blackness hissed, shriveling into nothing, consumed utterly by the gold glow.
It wasn’t just healing. It was purification.
The chamber lit like daybreak, golden rays scattering across the broken stone walls. For a moment, it looked less like a temple and more like a holy sanctuary reborn.
Far down the corridors, knights stumbled as the light spilled out from cracks and doorways.
"What is that?!"
"It’s coming from the healing ward!"
"Move, quickly!"
They sprinted toward the glow.
Inside, Luther hovered in silence, jaw clenched. Every second was agony, the corruption fighting back, clawing at his veins. His teeth ground together, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.
One by one, the groans ceased. Where there had been screams, now there was only breath—peaceful, even breath.
And then, silence.
The last of the corruption withered. The last victim healed.
Luther’s body dropped suddenly, boots slamming against the bloodstained floor. His shoulders sagged, his breaths ragged. The golden glow dimmed, fading back into him.
The apprentices still knelt, heads pressed low, whispering prayers he didn’t want to hear.
He dragged a hand down his face, muttering bitterly, "Why the hell does my body keep doing this?" His lip curled. "I never asked for this..."
He turned on his heel. He had to leave. Now. Before they shackled him again with that damned title. Before anyone else tried to make him their miracle.
But his vision blurred. His knees buckled. He staggered, cursing under his breath, "Not again—"
His body gave way. Darkness rushed to claim him.
But before he hit the ground, steel rang against stone. A knight skidded into the chamber, blade flashing as he slammed it down to slow his momentum, free hand darting out.
Luther collapsed straight into the man’s arms.
The knight’s jaw tightened, eyes wide as he stared at the unconscious boy glowing faintly in his hold.
And outside, the temple bells rang again.