The silence that filled the Chapel’s main room stretched onward, broken only by a few soft whispers from girls speaking with their friends, or by the gentle scuff of shoes as attendants moved items carefully. There was little to distract the assembled children, and most were still confused about what exactly they had witnessed moments earlier. Some exchanged hushed comments about the young girl who appeared to have been pushed. Others murmured that the Head Priest had not even allowed her to attempt the holy power test.

  Yet what none of them understood was that the holy power test was never meant to reveal true sacred aptitude. Yes—the orb responded to holy resonance, but the reaction depended far more upon how quickly a candidate absorbed power from the Church from the moment they entered the building. Those who arrived first had already been breathing incense, crossing buried runes, unknowingly drawing holy energy into their bodies with every breath.

  The ritual—hidden beneath scripture, incense, and reverent silence—had already been active long before the testing began. The names called first were always those who had entered earliest, granting them the longest possible time to accumulate power. Those arriving later were listed later, giving them a few extra breaths of advantage before touching the orb.

  Those who entered after the main doors opened were destined to fail automatically—simply because they arrived after the ritual’s activation phase had concluded. The Church rarely bent this rule. The sole exception was the Princess. Her royal status forced the priests to pretend her lateness did not exist, granting her a chance to “save face,” as the Church was required to preserve royal dignity before witnesses.

  Abigail, however, possessed no noble blood. Being the daughter of a mistress offered no privilege in the eyes of the Church. Her arrival after the threshold had sealed her fate long before she stepped inside.

  Perhaps Abigail believed that being the adorable child taken in by a Duke somehow made her equivalent to a Princess—but nobility did not function that way. As for the Princess herself, she had been delayed because Abigail personally blocked her way to the Church. Why the Princess tolerated such behavior was uncertain, but judging by her expression now, Sairael suspected it had to do with the strange phenomenon that surrounded Abigail. Now that she was no longer beside her, the Princess seemed visibly unsettled.

  In his first life, Sairael remembered that from this day onward Abigail constantly approached the Princess. In public they appeared as friendly companions, yet whenever separated, the Princess always attempted to avoid her. Later, during their mid-teen years, something occurred—something severe—because the Princess abruptly vanished from public view. Even her older brother, the Second Prince who would later become Sairael’s fiancé, never mentioned her again, nor even seemed to recall having a sister.

  Sairael had not realized this until shortly before his arrest. Only then had he noticed that the Princess seemed expunged from high society—as though she had never existed. Even before his execution, he had never learned what happened to her. But now, given a second chance—eyes clearer, mind sharper—perhaps he could uncover the truth.

  Pushing the thought aside, Sairael adjusted his posture, standing a touch straighter as the Head Priest returned to the center of the room, this time holding a large book.

  “The second test will begin. I will read this passage, and you will repeat. When asked to leave, you must do so quietly, without disruption,” he declared, opening the tome without further explanation.

  As the priest began reciting the ancient language, his voice resonated in a low, solemn cadence. His eyes remained upon the pages, his hands holding the book as though it were a sacred treasure. Sairael’s voice followed smoothly, just as it had in his first life—soft, steady, without strain, echoing the priest’s rhythm. Though not loud, he did not falter. The children around him repeated the scripture, some stumbling over unfamiliar syllables, others mumbling through mistakes until junior priests quietly escorted them away with gentle but firm gestures.

  The test seemed unfair—given time, nearly any child might eventually memorize those words. Yet those who continued without a single misstep unknowingly infused their voices with traces of holy magic. This chant was not merely repetition—it was an invocation. Holy power supported those who had already drawn it in. The reason Sairael and the others succeeded was because sacred energy itself steadied their speech.

  This was something Sairael had learned only years later, after being accepted as a candidate for Saint. Only ten would remain at the end of today’s examination. Those ten would undergo brutal training in pursuit of the Saint position. Sairael remembered the exhaustion—the relentless demands—how the Church drained him of every drop of holy power before acknowledging him.

  Closing his eyes, Sairael allowed the words to flow. His body remained still, his voice calm. Unlike the first time, his mind remained fully aware. Every syllable, every subtle tremor of magic—he felt them all. Even so, he maintained a neutral expression, allowing ritual instinct to guide him while he observed silently.

  When the final verse ended, the heavy thud of the book closing gradually drew the room from its collective trance. Sairael remembered that in his first life, he, too, had been unaware. Now he remained composed, mind clear.

  “Good. The final test will begin shortly. For now, remain as you are,” the Head Priest instructed, nodding as he surveyed the children. One more test remained to cut the number of candidates in half. Those who failed would still be offered a place within the Church—but the Head Priest would not reveal that until after the final trial.

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  The children whispered among themselves as priests moved toward the front of the hall, conversations exchanged in tones too quiet for childish ears. They began preparing the final stage.

  In his previous life, Sairael had been nervous at this moment, uncertain how the tests would continue and fearing what purification would demand of him. He had never known a male Saint—Ger or otherwise. It was not until he discovered the Church’s practice of forcing male candidates to live as women that he had resigned himself completely. His heart had iced over as the years dragged by.

  Though he had been raised as the Duke’s daughter, his mother obsessed with molding every gesture into feminine perfection—the Church was worse. His every breath, tone, and posture were dissected. The movements of his fingers, the softness of his voice, the micro expressions of his face. Again and again, the Church pushed him past breaking.

  Keeping perfectly still, gaze lowered, hands folded properly, Sairael waited. The next test would begin without warning—just as the true beginning had. First, children were subtly watched. This time, subtle influences were cast—agitating their emotions, heightening impulses. A Saint must reject the self, deny emotion, refuse personal will. A Saint was not permitted to possess a will of their own.

  The first failure came from a small girl who awkwardly approached another child she had spoken to earlier. Eyes darting nervously, she suddenly shoved the other girl. “You’re a liar! You said we’d finish together—b-but just because my light wasn’t bright enough, you said we can’t anymore!” she cried, pointing at the startled child on the ground.

  Within moments, the room fell into chaos. Noble children began insulting commoners, commoners cried about unfairness, shoving began. Only Sairael and nine others faded silently into the background, unmoving. Even when a few children tried pulling them into the argument, a faint shimmer seemed to ripple around them and the aggressors suddenly became dazed, wandering back into the fray.

  Only when a full brawl threatened did the children fall from their trance-like agitation and were quietly ushered away. Most looked dazed and disoriented, frightened by the voice that had urged them to lash out.

  Only Sairael knew the truth: those who succumbed would be taken to a hidden part of the Church—trained as blade-wielding operatives, future instruments of violence in service to holy authority. Mostly commoners, with the rare lesser noble among them. He still did not know how the Church concealed such disappearances from parents.

  “The test is complete. Congratulations—those of you remaining have passed. You will serve as Saints-in-training until the true Saint emerges,” the Head Priest announced, clapping his hands.

  His gaze swept the group, pausing briefly on Sairael before shifting toward the Princess. A kindly smile softened his features. “Princess, as the highest ranking candidate, you shall serve as Head Training Saint, guiding the others in proper conduct,” he declared, once again offering royal favor. Should no true Saint arise, the Princess would inherit the role—binding Church and crown, if a heaven-chosen Saint did not appear.

  “For now, return home and prepare. In one week, you will report to the Church nearest your home. Training begins then. Princess, you shall remain here for your instruction.” His gentle elder’s smile never reached his eyes.

  The children thanked him with polite bows, offered parting words, and followed junior priests out. Sairael’s assigned priest lingered beside him, but did not escort him yet.

  Only after the others left did the Head Priest approach, his expression turning sharp—cold enough to frighten most children. In Sairael’s first life, he had been terrified, though well-trained enough not to show it.

  “Sairael,” the priest said softly, lowering his voice, “I know what you are. Let me make this clear.” His hand brushed the child’s hair. “Continue exactly as you are now. No one who does not already know must ever learn of it. You are one of the Saints-in-training. Do not disgrace the Church. Understand?”

  Sairael kept his face perfectly composed. “Yes, Head Priest,” he replied, executing a graceful bow appropriate for holy initiates.

  “You are a good girl,” the priest said—forcing the word—before turning away, expression melting back into elderly warmth.

  “You may go. You will return here to study with the Princess,” he added dismissively.

  Sairael lowered his gaze and followed the junior priest out with calm precision, though his heartbeat thudded painfully within his chest.

  In one week, the real torment would begin—the most hellish point of his fate.

  Exiting the main chamber, Sairael was returned to Madam Etheila, still waiting. Her calculating gaze swept over him. “Sairael, my good daughter,” she cooed. “How did it go?” Her hand landed on his shoulder—nails digging through fabric, pressure biting into flesh.

  Sairael did not flinch. “I was requested to return within a week to begin Saint training,” he murmured softly, face unchanged.

  Madam Etheila smiled faintly. “Good. Let us go,” she answered, turning with false grace as Sairael followed the priest back toward the entrance hall.

  They passed Abigail standing to the side, tearfully begging a priest, who looked bewildered and uncertain. But the Head Priest’s declaration was final—whatever Abigail attempted was already hopeless.

  Her tears and complaints meant nothing. Even when she tried to rush toward Sairael and collapsed—accidentally knocking another child into a pile of belongings—neither Sairael nor anyone else gave her a glance.

  Sairael continued walking, expression blank, as the great doors shut behind him—Abigail’s cries echoing hollowly through the church.

  The week that passed after returning home was the easiest Sairael had ever experienced. He was freed from the training his mother usually put him through. The beatings—or rather, “corrections”—paused, as Madam Etheila was busy gloating around the estate, showing off the Saint-in-training she had gained.

  Even the Mistress and Abigail found it difficult to appear in the main building, as they avoided comments from servants who had learned how Abigail had caused a scene in the Church and received a firm lecture from a high-ranking priest. She had even been banned from returning to the Church for several years.

  Sairael was unable to see what exactly she was doing, but he often heard servants complaining that Abigail was surprisingly mean for such a young child. It seemed whatever influence she held before was faltering. Though he remembered this, too. By the end of the week, things were returning to normal—and several servants were missing.

  The same ones who had disappeared in his first life.

  Due to his mother refusing to let him wander far—she had been busy showing him off—Sairael would have liked to investigate, but he remained trapped, just as before. Being a doll Mother wanted to present to visiting ladies.

  Once the week was up, and Sairael had finished packing, he once more sat in the carriage—this time with the junior priest assigned to escort him back to the Church. His gaze remained fixed on the window, mask firmly in place.

  From today forward, he would no longer endure his home as before. Instead, he would enter the new hell of his childhood.