Her mercy is deep and vast, and she will tend to the sick and the lacking as a farmer tends to their fields.

Her chosen are not determined by wealth, gender, or birthplace; the holiest will emerge from the filthiest places and bear witness to this truth with their lives.}

It was my first time visiting the capital of the Arkal Empire. Mars City was immense and dazzling.

Cars and trucks powered by mana engines buzzed along the roads, and the city was packed with buildings reminiscent of the Belle Époque era.

After stepping off the train, I immediately began exploring the city.

As I walked briskly, I reviewed the plan I had devised during the train ride.

The Saint.

The Arkal Empire was rife with folklore and legends about saints.

Those blessed by the gods, capable of miracles and supernatural feats.

Stories of a saint suddenly appearing to heal the poor and sick, only to vanish afterward, were so common they bordered on cliché.

I planned to exploit this legend.

Naturally, this era had its share of slums.

And in those slums, there were bound to be countless sick people.

Using my ability to modify bodies, I would heal them. Once I did, word would spread.

Not just anywhere, but here in the heart of the empire—the capital. The rumors would spread across the empire like wildfire.

Once the word had sufficiently spread and I became well-known, I would search for the witch.

Meeting a mage or witch wasn’t something one could do just by wanting to, but if I became famous enough, it would be possible.

There was even a chance the witch might come looking for me.

When that happened, I’d heal her and prevent the apocalyptic doom that would rival the darkest of fantasies.

Then, just like the countless saints in the legends, I’d disappear without a trace.

A saint, after all, wasn’t a magician performing unregistered, illegal magic.

As long as I presented it as a miracle, I wouldn’t be accused of using illegal magic.

I’d act the part of a saint only until I could heal the witch—and then I’d vanish like the wind!

That was my plan.

It didn’t take long for me to find the slums as I wandered the city.

Before beginning my treatment activities, I took a deep breath.

I had to be cautious. One wrong step, and it could all backfire.

If the rumors spread incorrectly, I might be labeled not as a saint but as a heretic and end up dead.

On top of that, the empire was home to numerous religious sects.

I had to ensure I wasn’t mistaken for a saint sent by a particular sect’s god.

I, who had never believed in gods in either my past or present life, would be in serious trouble if it were discovered I was impersonating a saint of any sect.

At best, I’d lose a limb; at worst, I’d face execution.

The most ideal scenario was for the rumors to spread just enough for the witch to find me, allowing me to heal her and make a swift getaway.

However, if I was misunderstood as an unregistered illegal magic user or a fraud, it would be game over.

Likewise, if any sect accused me of heresy for mimicking their god’s saint, I’d be finished.

I knew the odds of success were slim.

But I had no other choice.

If I stayed idle, I’d die; if I acted, I might still die. So I’d rather die trying.

‘Heal the witch, then vanish quickly. Heal her and disappear fast!’

Of course, that was the scenario I hoped for.

The possibility of the worst-case scenario becoming reality was more than sufficient.

But I forced myself not to dwell on those possibilities.

I stepped into the slums.

As I slowly wandered the area, sharp, wary gazes bore into me.

It was no surprise—this wasn’t the kind of neighborhood that welcomed outsiders.

The stares directed at me boiled down to two types:

Is this someone I can exploit?

Or someone who might harm me?

Just those two.

The piercing gazes of the downtrodden, with neither past nor future, were unsettling enough to make my knees weak.

But I pushed down my fear and tried to walk as nonchalantly as possible.

As I continued walking, I finally spotted an appropriate target.

A beggar, devoid of any trace of hope in his eyes, scratched at his skin, swollen with boils oozing pus and blood.

He rattled an empty rice bowl as he muttered.

“In the name of the merciful god, please spare a coin. Just one coin...”

His voice wasn’t heartfelt, more like a reflexive muttering.

Whether he died tomorrow or today, it didn’t seem to matter to him.

“Please, spare just a coin.”

The man, little more than a living corpse, reeked of an unbearable stench.

I slowly approached him.

“Kind sir, in the name of the merciful god, spare just one coin.”

The man, noticing me, cast a fleeting glance in my direction and muttered his plea again. I decided to respond with a question.

This was a performance.

To spread the rumor that I was a saint, the performance had to be convincing.

Under no circumstances could there be rumors that his recovery was due to some illegal, heretical magic.

To avoid that, I needed to create an aura of sanctity. Fortunately, I had a model of holiness in mind.

My childhood Sunday school experience had finally found a use.

Jesus.

Let’s channel some of that.

“Why are you sitting here?” I asked.

“Just one coin, please. Just one,” he replied.

“Are you unwell?”

“Yes, sir, I am. Have pity on this wretched beggar and spare a coin.”

“Do you wish for a coin to get you through today? Or do you desire an opportunity to change the rest of your life?”

The beggar blinked, clearly struggling to comprehend my words.

“An opportunity would be nice, sir. But who would grant a beggar like me such a chance?”

“I will. So I’ll ask again—do you want an opportunity, or do you truly only wish for a single coin?”

“I want the opportunity, sir. If there is one, give it to me. But I have nothing to offer in return.”

“That is enough.”

I placed my hand on his head.

Unregistered magic use was a serious crime.

Reporting it would result in immediate punishment, likely hanging.

This fear had kept me from using this skill even once in the past 20 years. It worried me whether I could use it properly on my first attempt, but I had no choice. It was do or die.

I activated the skill.

In the next instant, the beggar’s physical condition became visible to me as if a 3D model had formed in my mind.

A character customization screen?

That’s exactly what it felt like.

I could see the beggar’s entire body in intricate detail inside my mind—not just the exterior but also his internal organs.

His heart, intestines, stomach, lungs, and more were all visible.

I could upgrade or reshape any of them however I wished.

It was more like a medical simulator than a video game, but the sheer level of detail was absurd.

The beggar’s condition was, in a word, wretched.

‘The bone in one leg is deformed. He must have spent his life limping or crawling.’

His body was covered in boils, and one on his back was nearly the size of a human head.

The unbearable stench was emanating from that very boil.

After assessing his condition, I began to work, carefully “customizing” his body.

I removed the large boil on his back and the smaller ones scattered across his body.

Then I reshaped the twisted bone in his leg to its normal form.

I cleaned his skin, adjusted his complexion, and gave his emaciated frame a healthy layer of flesh and muscle.

Finally, I reshaped his face, sunken from malnutrition, into something fuller and more human.

As I worked, I realized this Body Modification skill wasn’t just about changing appearances—it could cure illnesses too.

‘There’s disease in his body? Let’s get rid of that. Also, these lice on his head need to go. And the parasites in his intestines—gone.’

Anything related to the body could be changed as I saw fit.

I was so focused on adjusting the man’s body that I didn’t notice at first when strange noises began to escape his mouth.

“Ughhh... Urghhhh! M-my lord!”

The sound of bones snapping into place echoed loudly.

The sound of joints, muscles, nerves, and blood vessels twisting and realigning echoed loudly, an unsettling symphony of reconstruction.

The beggar’s screams and the grotesque noises of his body restructuring began to draw a crowd of other beggars and slum-dwellers.

Good.

Keep gathering. Watch closely. Spread the word.

After about three minutes of intense focus, meticulously adjusting every detail of the beggar’s body, I finally stepped back, satisfied with the results.

The beggar collapsed onto the ground, trembling.

With a look of utter disbelief, he began to touch his transformed body. Slowly, he stripped off the filthy, pus-stained rags he had been wearing, peeling away layer after layer until he was entirely bare. Sitting there, his expression was one of indescribable awe and shock as he continued to inspect his renewed form.

By now, the crowd had grown uncomfortably large, murmuring as they alternated their gazes between me and the beggar.

Maintaining the character I had established, I extended my hand to the beggar.

“Rise. Walk on your two feet,” I commanded.

The beggar grabbed my hand, and I pulled him up.

He stood, unsteady but upright, on both feet.

I let go of his hand and stepped back, watching as he took his first hesitant step forward.

It was slow, but the movement was perfect.

He took another step, then another, until he began walking a full circle around the area. His strides, though tentative, were a testament to his newfound strength.

Finally, the beggar approached me, sank to his knees, and pressed his lips to my shoes.

“Oh, saint!”

Tears streamed down his face as he gripped my ankles and kissed my shoes over and over with fervent devotion.

“A s-saint!”

“He has performed a miracle!”

“A saint! A true saint!”

The surrounding crowd of beggars and slum-dwellers began to kneel as well, bowing their heads.

Of course, their reaction made sense.

The legends of saints were known throughout the Arkal Empire, and I had acted precisely in line with those tales.

Good. Everything is unfolding just as I planned.

I gently stopped the beggar from kissing my feet and helped him back to his feet.

“Oh, saint,” he stammered, “I have nothing to repay you with.”

At those words, I racked my brain.

Let’s see... A line befitting a saint…

Drawing from every self-help book I’d read and the memories of my Sunday school days, I came up with something suitable for the character I was playing.

“I seek no payment. Repay me not with material goods, but with your life.”

“I—I will! I swear it, saint! I will repay you with my life!”

The beggar, sobbing uncontrollably, threw himself into my arms, wailing like a child.

I patted his back reassuringly and then turned my gaze to the crowd.

All eyes were on me.

This was one of those moments where a grand line was absolutely necessary.

No choice but to recycle another line from Sunday school.

“All who are weary and burdened, come to me. I will heal you.”

With those words, a flood of people surged toward me.

“Saint! Heal my son!”

“My mother is blind! Please, help her!”

“Saint, my son is dying! We cannot afford treatment—please save him!”

The cacophony of desperate pleas was overwhelming, but it was exactly what I needed.

The rumors were sure to spread now.

Anyway, I only planned to play the saint long enough to heal the witch and disappear.

Let’s stop the apocalypse-ending event while we’re at it.

With that thought in mind, I focused all my energy on healing those who came to me, using Body Modification to treat them as best I could.

It was all going well until…

“The Saint of Lilia’s Grace is here!”

“The Goddess of Grace has sent us her saint!”

“The Healing Saint! The Healing Saint!”

Wait a second.

I didn’t say a word about the Church of Lilia—or any church for that matter!

What the hell?!

Why is a specific church’s name suddenly being thrown around?!

Oh, crap.

To be continued...