Chapter 108: Despair has no voice.

When do people truly believe in God?

When they offer prayers to the heavens for the sake of idol worship.

When they think a single shooting star will grant their wish.

When they kneel, make the sign of the cross, bow their heads—and hope that alone will change something.

In Juraria, churches could be found in great numbers.

From the grand cathedral dating back to the nation’s founding, to those attached to orphanages, down to modest ones barely distinguishable from ordinary homes.

Marlin had been raised in one such church.

It wasn’t that the people were especially devout, yet everyone believed in God as naturally as breathing; making the sign of the cross was simply what one did when praying.

Religion wove itself so seamlessly into daily life that adults could calmly tell children, “God is watching,” without a hint of irony.

They never doubted that a gentle God smiled down from above.

Shimmering stained glass.

A statue of the Holy Mother gazing down with an expression of boundless compassion.

Bronze candelabras.

The space, beautifully arranged to praise God, stood near the great cathedral and was therefore almost always deserted.

Surrounded by trees, shaded and dim, it carried the lingering impression of shadow.

A place steeped in the remnants of confession—never the dreamed-of lap of God where happiness rained down freely.

The thin layer of dust told of how few visitors came.

Perhaps because there were so few priests and sisters, or perhaps they deliberately left Yuran alone—Yuran had never once seen another person here since he began coming.

How many times had he visited now?

It felt like forever ago, and also like just the other day.

In reality, he was still only a regular of fewer than ten visits—countable on both hands.

（God.）

The stained glass he looked up at was beautiful even to someone as gloomy as him.

An idol crafted to receive light, to shine, to be thought beautiful.

Sunlight poured through the multicolored shards, illuminating the embodiment of love and goodness smiling serenely.

A broad, generous smile that seemed to declare the whole world at peace.

Each time he came, he regretted it.

Each time he left, he swore he would never return.

Yet he could not stop coming.

He clasped his hands and knelt before the Holy Mother.

Behind the curtain of his hair, behind tightly shut eyes, deep—deep—in his heart, he repeated the words over and over.

（God…… if you truly are God）

If you are the great omniscient, omnipotent being everyone seeks salvation from.

If you hold universal love as good and guide humanity with your finger.

If you are the revered founder whose blasphemy cannot be tolerated.

（Then save my world. Save my God.）

His clenched fists—nails digging so deep into the backs of his hands they turned white—were already covered in unhealing crescent scars.

His lips, bitten raw; his vacant eyes; his body starved of proper nourishment—every part of him was worn ragged with thirst and hunger.

He had never believed in prayer, never in vague wishes.

He had never dreamed that good deeds would reach heaven and bring happiness raining down.

Even so, at this point, there was nothing else he could do.

No matter how vast and heavy Yuran’s feelings were, the opponent was an entire nation—anyone who thought they could win was the fool.

In truth, Yuran had never acted with any real hope of victory.

He no longer possessed the calm needed even to consider such things.

He simply wanted to save her—so he tried everything he could.

Even if Marlin, a mere former servant, was discarded, surely the words of a noble’s son—of royal blood—would at least be heard.

The result: they were heard, and nothing more.

They became nothing but an annoyance.

（Petitions, defenses, attempts to obstruct the trial—all meaningless.）

Slowly, slowly, a noose tightened around his neck.

Gradually but inexorably, this country was coming to kill Yuran.

As long as he continued shielding Violet, they would make him understand the folly of it—squeezing tighter with every breath until the day he was strangled outside the execution platform.

He had thought his life, his entire existence, belonged to her.

To live for her, to die for her.

If he could simply watch her smile from afar, that alone would give meaning to his birth.

That was why he wanted to save her.

Why he wanted to help her.

No matter what it took, no matter what手段 he used—even if it cost his life—he wanted her to be happy.

Because his life had been born for that purpose.

Because he had lived for that purpose.

And now—look at him.

His once-straight back trembled and began to curl inward.

Crouching before the Holy Mother, clinging to a god he did not believe in.

The mask of the gentle, excellent, admirable young man had peeled away completely.

Now he only pressed his forehead miserably to the floor.

How laughable. How pathetic.

In the end, he had accomplished nothing—not even a fragment.

Laugh if you want.

Throw stones, scorn him as much as you like.

Yuran himself was already mocking his own powerlessness.

Laugh. Mock him. Hit him, kick him, spit on him.

Anyone—God, devil, anything at all—would do.

（──────Someone）

Someone, anyone—please save her.

“Yuran-sama……!!”

Without warning the door burst open.

A voice—breathless, bouncing with urgency—called his name.

He jerked his head up, spun around, and met the eyes of the woman leaning against the doorframe, barely managing to stand.

Only one person knew he came here.

Not some indifferent acquaintance.

Not the parents who raised him.

Not the loathsome blood relation.

Only someone connected through Violet—and precisely because of that connection, someone he could trust.

She had grown far thinner since the days she stood at Violet’s side; her soot-blackened, ragged appearance now closely resembled Yuran’s own.

Her clothing lacked any trace of unisex design—it was simply genderless: plain black top and bottom, like the crude sketch of clothes a child might draw.

No longer in a maid uniform, no longer in the private clothes Violet once chose for her—nothing of the calm, dignified Marlin remained.

Golden, once called the sun.

Crimson, once reminiscent of sunset.

They collided.

“……!”

Before Yuran could even ask what happened, Marlin’s face crumpled.

Tears spilled from her bloodshot eyes faster than the collapse of her twig-thin body.

She dropped to her knees.

No words. No sound.

She simply bowed her head and remained motionless.

In the sacred silence of God’s lap—where no wail, no scream, no roar broke through.

Yuran understood.

The Violet who had changed their world.

The most precious person in her world—

He had been unable to change it for her.