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"Agh, my shoulders…."

The old man lightly tapped his shoulders, groaning in exhaustion.

He liked to think his spirit was still as strong as ever, but his body—his body could no longer lie about the weight of time. There wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t ache.

Just ten minutes. If only he could close his eyes for just ten minutes and rest…

"Bishop Raphael! The frontline against the demonic beasts is requesting priests. They say it’s urgent—how should we respond?"

"—So I’m not even allowed to rest, huh."

There was no time to close his eyes.

Urgency bled through the priest’s report, and it didn’t stop there.

"We’ve received word from the border! A demonic outbreak is imminent—they need healing priests or medics immediately!"

"A plague is emerging. Since last month, the number of priests assigned to rural areas has been insufficient, and villages that lacked proper oversight seem to have succumbed to disease."

"Urgent message from the royal capital…."

"……Ha."

A relentless stream of reports, one after another. Raphael could feel a headache creeping in.

"Your Holiness!"

"…I’m not the Holy King."

"Ah! Bishop!"

"Mm…."

At this point, he had given up correcting them.

He wasn’t sure if his brothers in faith were doing it on purpose, but they kept calling him either the Holy King or the Bishop.

It made him uncomfortable.

But he couldn’t bring himself to scold them.

Because, in truth—

"—You’re the only one they have left to rely on."

"Oh, Brother Roen."

"Don’t call me brother. I’m neither a follower of the God of Light nor someone who tolerates the Temple."

"Then shall I call you Young Master instead?"

"…That’s even worse. Just use my name."

"Heh, very well, Roen."

"……."

Roen Dmitri de Lionel.

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