Surviving without God

— This is absurd. I ask you, refrain from giving us false hope. Not a single scholar in the kingdom... not even the mages of Seiran could deal with the Cult’s brainwashing, so why would this hastily brewed concoction solve the problem?

Standing before the boiling cauldron, Gunther Sirhe ignored Albern’s complaints, focusing entirely on the result in front of him. Despite his composed expression, Albern continued to stare at the potion with open distrust.

— If you are lying merely to avoid immediate difficulties, the consequences will be severe.

The horrifying appearance of the mixture—red sediment tangled with fibers resembling black mold—only fueled his skepticism. Blanc Ibel stepped in, interrupting him.

— Our... our commander isn’t like that! He can do anything! I... I think it’s wrong to call us useless just because you can’t do anything yourselves.

— No, I did not...

Even Albern, fierce as a lion, could not speak harshly to Blanc. A knight scolding a small girl—such a sight would be too pitiful. He merely let out a low grunt and fell silent.

— Lord Gunther... too much rests in your hands right now.

— Please, please, please, please.

Seril Barkel and Servan Barkel were practically holding their breath, glued to the cauldron. Their knightly dignity was nowhere to be seen—they looked ready to bury their noses in the foam itself.

For them, this was not merely about restoring their cherished vassals. It was about saving their lands, their family, and ultimately the entire country. That was what lifting the brainwashing meant. Servan spoke, his voice heavy with emotion:

— Those who lived their entire lives by the code of chivalry have lost themselves and now commit evil under another’s will... Please, help us rewrite this ending. I beg you.

Gunther exhaled and spoke:

— I understand. So everyone, be quiet.

A deathly silence fell.

Bubble—bubble—

Only the potion in the cauldron boiled noisily. Tarsha Everlight and Levain Bernecker had gathered the ingredients and mixed them precisely according to the recipe, but several steps still remained. Gunther glanced at Tarsha, who, drenched in sweat, stirred the mixture tirelessly with her staff.

[The Ruler of the Oceans is extremely dissatisfied]

— The reaction definitely occurred?

— Of course.

— Good. Did you bring all the ingredients?

— A little is missing, but... not enough? Should we go again?

— No, we’ll test the effect first. Then we’ll decide.

Gunther raised his gaze to the top of his vision again. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself.

“...Will this really work?”

To be honest, even he found it hard to believe that the Cult of Repose’s brainwashing could be solved so simply. In the game, it had been an incredibly complex mechanic.

“If this potion fails...”

He would have to commit suicide and reset. To begin Act 2 branded as a “lying charlatan” among the kingdom’s knights would be no different from declaring the scenario impossible to clear.

[The Drug-Addicted Saint nods confidently]

[The Cult of Repose’s brainwashing has advanced, but its roots remain the same]

[Modern people have forgotten the methods of resistance, but she remembers]

[The King of Ninety-Nine Defeats quietly adds that in the past she was called the “Opponent” of the Cults of Healing and Repose]

[Alphonse of Red Street clarifies that, to be precise, she was called a “Demon”]

...As always, he trusted the gods. Gunther no longer hesitated and slowly extended his hand toward the boiling cauldron. After offering the Saint a vast amount of Karma, something within him had changed.

Tsssss—

This was Alchemy. The unique authority of an alchemist, allowing direct intervention in the structure of an object.

Hummmm—

Golden lines began to rise one by one in the air. Elegant patterns expanded, interlocking, forming a defined flow.

Gunther’s vision gradually blurred. Following instinct, he grasped the “framework” of the mixture, focusing on reorganizing it into a new order. Though it was his first time, his hands moved with the confidence of a master who had done this all his life.

The moment the symbols and shapes aligned into a single rotation—

Bubble—bubble—

The liquid in the cauldron boiled violently, as if on the verge of exploding. A foul stench spread through the area.

— W-what’s happening?!

— Everyone back!

— I knew it...!

Panic broke out around him, but within Gunther, there was only calm.

It was like playing with Lego as a child. He sank into absolute concentration. It felt as though instructions unfolded naturally in his mind, and the structure under his fingers rearranged itself accordingly.

In that moment of immersion, a voice spoke.

[What do you think alchemy is, Gunther?]

A gentle, reverent voice. It was not words, but resonance. As if the first page of a sacred scripture had turned on its own. The sound was so clear it felt like light had taken form as a voice. It carried an unfathomable mystery that made his head spin.

[It is not merely the art of creating gold or brewing medicine]

[It is an attempt to tear apart the veil of “matter” and touch the laws beyond it]

[To create ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) changes that nature itself does not allow]

[To reconstruct the microscopic rules that form the flow of the world with human hands]

Ding!

[Your understanding of “Alchemy” increases dramatically]

[New skill created: “Structural Intervention”]

The God of Alchemy. Gunther had to admit—he had taken that title too lightly. A mortal who ascended to divinity through a single discipline alone. The weight of that story was beyond imagination.

Having lived in a world with science, he knew this: the world appeared to consist of matter, but its essence was structure. That structure, interpreted in certain ways, could be transformed into something entirely different. Alchemy read that structural language and rewrote it, producing a new result. The Drug-Addicted Saint stood at the very peak of what a human could achieve in the “reinterpretation of structure.”

[Yes. For one who can distort, restoring what has been distorted is a trivial matter]

With those words, Gunther slowly opened his eyes.

Silence filled the surroundings. No—everyone was instinctively trying not to make noise. The faint sound of someone stepping back, the slight tremor of armor, quiet gasps from those unable to close their mouths in shock.

Gunther stepped forward and stood before the cauldron. Where the grotesque sludge had been, a golden “finished medicine” now shimmered.

.

.

.

[The Child of Miracles shines with joy that people can be saved]

***

The walls of Valloren still stood unshaken. Massive gray stones tightly encircled the citadel, and atop each tower fluttered banners bearing the long sword and hawk—the symbol of the Barkel family. A majesty that seemed as though it would never allow the enemy to take even a single step inside... yet the scene outside devalued that strength.

Shhh—

Those surrounding the walls were not foreign invaders. They were people bearing the shields and equipment of House Barkel. Noble knights and soldiers who had once protected this land. Now, with empty eyes, they pointed their swords at their own lord and his domain.

It seemed all nearby forces had gathered here—their numbers exceeded all expectations. Yet an eerie silence filled the air. No arrows, no siege weapons, no battle cries. At first glance, it was hard to believe this was a siege.

But the faces of the defenders on the walls were the same as during a rain of arrows.

No—worse.

— Again. It’s starting again...!

Tssss—

The air trembled slightly, and in the sky appeared the phantom image of a massive bell. Sacred scripture was intricately engraved across its surface, slowly rotating around a radiant holy light.

Then the bell began to swing.

Dong!

A single strike. Yet its sound was heavier and deeper than thunder.

Wooooo— 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

An invisible wave spread outward. It passed through the walls and pierced the people. One soldier clutched his chest with a trembling hand.

— A-ah... I am Gilbert Burns. Gilbert Burns from the village by the mill. My wife Eliza, my daughter Chloe, and little Louis who just learned to walk... the ones I must protect, the ones I must...! No, please...

He struck his chest with his fist, repeating those words. Yet even as he cried out, his pupils gradually dimmed. A knight beside him dropped to his knees, smashing his forehead against the wall.

— A knight takes up the sword for the weak... A sword must not be turned against those below. We began with honor, we must end with honor. We... must not strike those we swore to protect!

Clear bite marks were visible on the back of his hand. But in the end, the voices faded, and their gazes emptied. One by one, they silently picked up their weapons and descended from the wall.

...At the highest point of the outer wall, a man watched them with grief.

— My lord, what are your orders?

The head of House Barkel, Kylis Barkel. He stood with his head lowered.

— My lord.

— I...

Kylis was surprisingly frail for the leader of a Round Table family. It was due to the severe illness he had suffered in his youth. If his brothers had not died one after another in mysterious incidents, he would never have become head of the family. He himself had wished for that—believing the house should be led by stronger, braver men.

Yet the position had fallen to him by bloodright, and he had done everything he could. He sincerely cared for his people and protected his lands. When epidemics raged, he never left the infirmaries. Each year after harvest, he personally distributed grain to the poor.

He was not strong, but he was compassionate.

That was precisely why he could not decide.

— Let them go.

— Yes, my lord.

Kylis slowly clenched his fists. He understood—logically, they should kill all the corrupted now. They were no longer a recoverable fighting force. Moreover, the Cult’s brainwashing worked through assimilation: the more followers it had, the stronger its divine power became. Leaving them alive meant strengthening the enemy’s god.

And yet... he could not.

These soldiers, these knights...

They were all people with whom he had defended Barkel lands. Those he had personally appointed, those he had called by name. Knights who had marched against monsters threatening the people. An old soldier who, even on his day off, forged farming tools for villagers...

“And I am supposed to cut them all down?”

He knew his softness had always made House Barkel the subject of ridicule among the other families. Yet he still could not raise his hand.

Creeeak—

The gates opened. Those whose will had been broken by the “bell strike” walked out of the walls on their own. In the distance, they joined the enemy ranks. No resistance, no hesitation. On the contrary, they were calm. Disciplined.

— ......

Yes. Kylis knew what Luthien wanted. They would consume Barkel whole.

He trembled in despair.

“...Is this truly power that belongs to a single person?”

His gaze turned toward the very center of the enemy camp. A girl sat there with her eyes closed. She was smiling. The corners of her lips lifted softly and elegantly, her hands raised to the sky like a priestess offering blessings.

The Apostle of Repose. The mistress of the “Bell.”

No one could take them from her grasp.

Kylis slowly closed his eyes.

“Seril... Servan...”

Do not return. He found himself thinking it, selfishly.

At the same time, he realized it was time to make a final decision.

Even if defeat was inevitable, he could not hand Barkel over intact.

That was the chivalry of House Barkel.

All the Cult of Repose would take... would be corpses.