Chapter 314: One Way a Saintess is Born

Religious music is often soothing—calming melodies help ease tension, and some faiths even embed psychological suggestions within their music, subtly reinforcing unwavering belief.

The music of Nagaryll’s native religion was no exception: gentle, tranquil. But today, beneath that calm, there was a trace of joy.

As the flower parade began, Lynch noticed more families with young daughters along the streets. These girls were very young—fifteen or sixteen. According to Nagaryll law, a girl is considered an adult at sixteen.

Their parents had dressed them beautifully, adorned with flower crowns. Their young faces still held confusion, and their vacant eyes revealed that even they didn’t know what lay ahead or what was expected of them.

The people on the parade wagon grew interested. They openly commented on the dancing girls by the roadside, evaluating them as though they were merchandise.

“Not this one. Did you see her hair? I don’t like that dull yellow color—too dry…” said one noble representative, absently stroking the railing of the wagon as if lost in thought.

“This girl looks good. Her figure’s nice—I like that,” another said, tossing a gold-painted flower crown from the wagon.

The girl’s family lit up with joy, kneeling together in gratitude as the crown landed near them.

The girl herself had no idea what was coming, or what kind of fate this would bring. Perhaps this single day, by chance, would redirect the entire course of her life.

Scene after scene played out like this. Families who received crowns knelt in deep gratitude; those who didn’t sighed and complained, some even scolding their daughters or blaming one another.

People sang, danced, and celebrated. It was a festival—joyful, lively, filled with smiles.

Festival of a Hundred Flowers.

The parade route wasn’t long—this city had only two roads suitable for flower wagons. The others were either too rugged or too narrow to handle both flower wagons and crowds.

From morning activities through a brief midday break, the festival concluded around two in the afternoon.

The final destination was the largest temple in the Magulana Province, located on a hill at the edge of the city.

Calling it a hill was generous—it was more like a pimple on the Mother Earth’s face, shaped with obvious artificial effort. Clearly, much labor had gone into creating this mountain to make the temple appear grand and divine on the flat plains.

The temple’s golden-painted exterior glowed under the midday sun. From the foot of the hill, it looked like the mythical home of gods.

“Boss…”

Asel was already waiting at the base. He hadn’t qualified to ride the flower float—not being a noble, wealthy merchant, or foreigner.

The reasons sounded absurd, but they were real. Fortunately, Asel wasn’t upset; he had grown used to the strange local norms.

He handed Lynch a towel soaked in ice water. Lynch wiped his face—the chill instantly cooling the heat that had baked him all day.

With the cold towel draped over his face, he inhaled deeply. The icy air entered his lungs and soothed his inner restlessness.

At nearly 28°C, after hours under the sun, it had been unbearable.

After a moment, he removed the towel, wiping the exposed skin. The city dust was thick; the white towel quickly turned black.

He returned the used towel to Asel and began climbing the stairs toward the temple. “What’s next?” he asked casually.

Asel passed the towel and basin to a servant—he’d told Lynch earlier about some family matters that had troubled him. Thankfully, Lynch had offered timely guidance. Now Asel seemed to have accepted the changes that had occurred in his absence, finding some peace.

Following behind Lynch step by step, Asel said, “The High Priest will pray next, then the gods will descend to bless the people. After that, there’s a closing ceremony, and the festival ends.”

He didn’t elaborate further, and Lynch didn’t press. The two walked and discussed upcoming matters.

“All the goods we need to bring back are already at the port. We can board the ship the day after tomorrow. Should take about three or four days to return to the Federation…”

It had taken them a week to get here, mostly because they’d traveled by mail ship, which stopped at several ports along the way for passengers, mail, and cargo.

Lynch had found it too slow. This time, he hired a cargo ship—no stops, a full tank of fuel. If seas were calm, they’d reach the easternmost port of the Baylor Federation in just three days.

Lynch nodded. Asel continued, “We’ve lined up reporters from major outlets—the Federal Daily, Federal Times, and big TV networks like Federal TV, East Coast TV, and North Union TV all accepted our invitation.”

Lynch paused mid-step, thinking for a moment. “Give each of them a $500 check. We’re not asking for praise, but they must report the truth.”

There was a hidden meaning here. It sounded like he wanted to avoid distortion from malicious actors—and those people did exist.

Lynch was a rising figure among the more radical elements in the Federation. There were always those who opposed him, misrepresented or outright twisted his words. Politicians commonly used such tactics.

Public perception was a battlefield. Unlike Lynch, ordinary people didn’t have access to truth. They relied entirely on media—the only channel through which they saw the world.

A lack of media diversity left people with no basis for comparison or questioning. They accepted what they were told as reality.

So ensuring the reports were not altered or distorted was critical. That’s why so many political groups, and even individual politicians, owned their own newspapers or TV stations—to preserve the integrity of their message.

But Lynch didn’t fear distortion. What he meant by truthful reporting was that the media should simply relay his version of events.

The media had never been to Nagaryll—at least not recently. They had no clue what it was really like here. But Lynch did.

So when he said report the truth, he meant: don’t add anything, don’t fact-check, don’t adjust. Just publish exactly what he gives them.

Asel nodded firmly. Watching Lynch continue climbing toward the temple, framed by sunlight and the golden glow, Asel felt awe. Lynch seemed to radiate light.

He was only twenty-one, yet he gave Asel a deep sense of shock.

As Lynch walked ahead, Asel snapped out of his thoughts and quickly followed.

As mentioned before, the hill was nothing more than a bump. Lynch, physically strong, reached the temple entrance in no time.

Inside, to his surprise, were the girls who had danced in the streets during the parade.

A sweet, cloying scent filled the temple—some incense made from special materials. The girls knelt uneasily in the courtyard, looking dazed, like they were drunk.

Nearby, their parents wore wide, gleeful smiles. Bowed and humble, they lined up to receive wooden deity tokens—stark contrast to their daughters’ innocent, confused faces.

People often claim that life is precious and priceless—but only because they live in comfort. The moment they step outside their comfort zone, they realize those sentiments are meaningless.

Life isn’t noble. It’s cheap—so cheap that a worthless piece of wood can decide these girls’ entire futures.

The wooden divine token is the lowest tier in Nagaryll’s religious hierarchy. It’s nowhere near the level of Lynch’s token, which is made of bone and inlaid with gold.

Yet even so, 80% of the population struggles to obtain even this lowest-tier token and enjoy the basic privileges of divine rights—such as being allowed to enter the temple to worship, or access certain public facilities. A joke that isn’t funny.

Public infrastructure in this country exists partly to impress foreigners and international human rights groups, and partly to reinforce class divisions.

Only those wearing a wooden divine token are permitted to use these public facilities for free.

They can ride trains and buy seat tickets at reduced prices, see a doctor without standing in line like ordinary people, and even send their children—with divine tokens—to libraries.

That alone is enough to make any family desperate to climb the social ladder. And the only way for most of them is to offer up their daughters.

Once a girl is favored by the gods (gods manifest temporarily through certain priests or guests during rituals), she may become a saint of the city. For ordinary families, this is their only real chance at advancement.

It may be cruel. It may be brutal. But it has long become a folk tradition—a twisted, backward culture.