The Paladin's Crisis of Faith

My office had been transformed into an interrogation room, and I hadn't even had the pleasure of being the one interrogated. Eliza, my personal auditor from hell, was leading the questioning. She sat on the edge of my desk, her black slate in her lap, firing questions at Sir Justus with the cold, rapid-fire precision of a machine gun.

“The faction behind this,” she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. “Who are they? What are their resources? Where is their base of operations? I require facts, Sir Justus, not rhetoric.”

Justus, who stood stiffly in the center of the room, looked like a cornered animal. A very large, very shiny, and very devout animal. “They are a heretical sect, nothing more!” he insisted, his voice tight with denial. “Their influence is minimal! They operate in the shadows, twisting the sacred teachings for their own corrupt ends! The Holy Kingdom of Nazareth would never officially sanction such an order!”

I leaned back in my chair, trying to see how many of my ink pens I could balance on top of each other. Look at them, I thought. She's playing bad cop, and he's having a religious meltdown. And I'm stuck in the middle, the unwilling warden of this asylum. I miss the days when my biggest problem was a cursed loofah. Life was simpler then.

“Your loyalty is commendable, but your denial is illogical,” Eliza countered smoothly. “The runes in the treasury required an immense amount of power and a deep understanding of sacred syntax. This was not the work of a few rogue priests in a basement. This was organized. Funded. Who funds them, Sir Justus?”

Justus’s face was a storm of conflict. He opened his mouth to argue, but then his eyes fell on me, the supposed hero, building a wobbly tower out of office supplies. A look of profound weariness crossed his face.

He took a deep breath. “There is… a faction. A splinter group of traditionalists who believe the Pontiff’s path of peace is a mistake.” He said the name as if it tasted like something rotten. “They call themselves… the Slime Dai Maō Karuto.”

Oi oi Author, you bastard. At this rate, we really are going to get sued by Micro Magazine and Yen Press. You’re not even being subtle anymore!

“The…. Slime Dai Maō Karuto?” Eliza repeated the words, sounding even more ridiculous in her precise, clinical voice. “Explain.”

As Justus reluctantly began to explain their radical beliefs, there was a flash of light in the center of the room. A shimmering, golden scroll materialized out of thin air, tied with a ribbon of pure white mana and bearing the official seal of the Pontiff of the Holy Kingdom. It floated for a moment before gently drifting into Justus’s hands. A high-priority magical missive.

Justus looked at the scroll, then at us. “This is an official communication. I must review it in private.”

He retreated to a corner of the office, his back to us, and unsealed the scroll. As he read, a profound stillness came over him. His broad, armored shoulders, which were always held back with righteous pride, seemed to slump. The proud, defiant anger drained away, replaced by a hollow, brittle silence. When he finally rolled the scroll back up, his movements were slow, mechanical. Broken.

He turned to face us, and his face was a pale, shattered mask. He looked directly at me.

“Sir Hero,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “May I have a word?”

My pen tower collapsed. I gestured to the door, and we stepped out into the hallway.

“What’s up, Tin Can?” I asked. “Bad news from the home office?”

“The scroll contained a new set of directives,” he said, his voice hollow. “They… they commanded me to continue my observation of you. But they also ordered me to… to report on the structural and magical weaknesses of Lysvalde’s royal defenses. To hinder any investigation that might cause… ‘unnecessary diplomatic friction’ between our two nations.”

It was a command to obstruct justice, wrapped in the pretty paper of diplomacy.

“The Slime Dai Maō Karuto…” he whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of his own realization. “They are not just a splinter group. They have sympathizers. Powerful ones. Within the Grand Order. Within the Pontiff's own court. The very institution I have sworn my life to… is complicit.”

He slumped against the wall, the full weight of his shattered worldview crashing down on him. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“So,” I said, breaking the silence. “What are you going to do about it?”

He looked up at me, his eyes filled with a terrible, lost confusion. “My faith… my vows… my entire life has been a service to a lie.”

“Yeah, yeah, join the club,” I said with a wave. “That’s called being an adult. Your bosses are crooked. Your mission is a sham. What are you going to do about it, paladin?”

My question seemed to spark something in him. He pushed himself off the wall, his back straightening once more. The broken man was gone, replaced by someone new. Someone forged in the fires of betrayal. He took a step forward and knelt before me on one knee.

“Oh, for the love of— Get up,” I said, but he ignored me.

“My loyalty was to the Holy Kingdom and the justice it was meant to uphold,” he declared, his voice ringing with a new oath. “The Kingdom has betrayed that ideal. They have forsaken the light.” He looked up at me. “But you, Sir Hero… your methods are a chaotic mess. Your morals are… questionable, at best. But you have not once strayed from uncovering the truth. You seek justice in your own, baffling, lazy way.”

He reached for his sword, offering it to me. “My sword, my faith, and my life are no longer pledged to the Pontiff. They are pledged to this task force. They are pledged to you, and to the true justice we will uncover together.”

I stared down at him, my mind reeling in utter horror. Perfect. Just perfect. I spent weeks trying to get rid of this guy, and now he's more attached to me than ever. He’s had a crisis of faith and decided I'm his new religion.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Time out. Get up,” I insisted, trying to pull him to his feet. “I am not looking for a disciple. I am not your new Pope. This is a temporary, annoying project that is seriously cutting into my nap time!”

But he wouldn't rise. His conviction was absolute.

Argh, my life. my peaceful lazing around life. I scream while dying inside.