The Useless Extra Knows It All....But Does He?-Chapter 374 - Looking into the dark past! (6)

Chapter 374: Chapter 374 - Looking into the dark past! (6)

The air around the cathedral changed.

It wasn’t mana.

It wasn’t pressure.

It was disgust—thick, sour, clinging to the stone like rot that refused to be washed away.

Soft laughter drifted through the plaza. Not loud. Not bold. The kind whispered behind hands and lowered veils.

"Tch... disgusting."

"So shameless..."

"Pregnant... and she still dares come here?"

"Hmph. The Goddess must be merciful to tolerate something like that."

Amusement followed close behind the revulsion—quiet, poisonous amusement.

Luca’s head snapped toward the source.

And then—

He saw her.

A young woman stood at the base of the cathedral steps. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

Lavender hair hung loose and unkempt down her back, dulled by dust and neglect. Her face was thin, almost gaunt, eyes ringed with exhaustion so deep it looked permanent. There were no tears left in her—whatever she had cried, she had already cried dry.

She didn’t look at anyone.

She didn’t react to the whispers.

Her hands rested instinctively against her belly.

Rounded.

Heavy.

Eight months pregnant.

Luca’s breath caught violently in his throat.

His eyes locked there—and refused to move.

Something inside him shuddered.

His fingers trembled. His shoulders stiffened as if struck by an unseen blow, and instinctively—almost desperately—he turned his head to the side.

To the Saintess.

She had gone still.

Completely.

Her body hadn’t moved, but Luca could feel it—the way her breath had stopped, the way her presence seemed to pull inward on itself. Her eyes were fixed on the woman climbing the steps, wide and unblinking.

Unfamiliar.

And yet—

Frighteningly familiar.

Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

The woman began to walk.

One step.

Then another.

Slowly, steadily, she climbed the cathedral stairs.

Each step echoed far louder than it should have.

The murmurs followed her like insects.

"She still has the nerve to pray?"

"After what she’s done?"

"Who knows who the father even is..."

"Disgusting."

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t hurry.

She didn’t lower her head in shame.

She simply kept walking.

And without realizing it—

The Saintess followed.

Her feet moved on their own, drawn forward by something deep and aching. She didn’t speak. Didn’t look at Luca. She just walked behind the woman, eyes never leaving her back.

Luca sucked in a sharp breath and followed them both.

Inside the cathedral, the space opened wide.

Tall pillars soared toward the vaulted ceiling. Light poured down from stained glass, painting the floor in fractured gold and white. The statue of the Goddess stood at the far end—serene, immaculate, untouched by the filth of human judgment.

The moment the woman stepped inside—

Everything changed.

People recoiled.

Like a tide pulling back from something foul.

Priests stiffened, faces twisting in barely concealed revulsion. Devotees who had been kneeling moments earlier stood abruptly, backs straightening as they hurried away. Conversations died mid-sentence.

One by one, they left.

Footsteps echoed as the hall emptied.

Robes swished. Doors opened and closed. Whispers faded into silence.

Until—

Only one figure remained.

The lavender-haired woman walked forward alone, her steps slow but unwavering, until she stood directly before the Goddess’s statue.

Light fell over her bowed head.

Her rounded belly.

Her tired, trembling hands.

She stopped there.

Alone.

Before the Goddess.

The cathedral was silent.

Not the reverent silence of prayer shared by many—but the heavy, aching quiet of a place abandoned by people who did not want to be here anymore.

Light streamed down from the stained glass high above, bathing the lone figure at the altar in fractured gold and white. Dust floated lazily through the air, catching the glow like tiny stars.

The woman stopped a few steps before the Goddess’s statue.

She didn’t kneel right away.

For a moment, she just stood there, one hand pressed to her rounded belly, the other clenched loosely at her side. Her shoulders trembled—not from sobbing, but from holding something back for far too long.

Then, slowly, she lowered herself to her knees.

Stone met fabric.

Her head bowed.

"...Goddess," she whispered.

Her voice was quiet. Hoarse. Worn thin by days—and nights—of silence.

"I don’t know if... you still listen to someone like me."

She swallowed.

Her fingers spread gently over her stomach, thumb brushing in a small, unconscious circle, as if soothing the life inside her.

"I won’t ask for forgiveness," she continued softly. "And I won’t ask for mercy for myself."

Her shoulders rose with a slow breath.

"I..... don’t think I deserve it."

Luca felt his chest tighten.

Beside him, the Saintess stood frozen, hands clasped tightly at her chest, eyes locked on the woman’s back. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath—until it started to hurt.

The woman’s voice trembled, just a little.

"But... please."

She lifted her head just enough to look at the statue’s face—not accusing, not desperate. Just tired.

"Please watch over my child."

Her hand pressed more firmly against her belly now, protective, instinctive.

"She hasn’t done anything wrong," the woman said. "She hasn’t seen this world yet. She hasn’t made mistakes... hasn’t chosen anything."

A faint, broken smile touched her lips.

"She kicks a lot," she murmured. "Especially at night. Like she’s impatient. Like she wants to hurry and see everything."

Her eyes glistened, but no tears fell.

"I don’t know what kind of world she’ll be born into," she went on. "I don’t know who will be there for her. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to—"

Her voice caught.

She stopped herself.

No self-pity.

No plea for survival.

She shook her head slightly, as if scolding herself.

"That doesn’t matter," she said firmly. "It really doesn’t."

She straightened her back, kneeling tall despite the weight she carried.

"Just... let her be safe," she whispered.

"Let her laugh."

"Let her run without being afraid."

"Let her meet people who will be kind to her."

Her fingers trembled as they tightened against her cloak.

"If she ever cries," the woman continued, voice barely holding together now,

"please let someone be there to hear her."

A breath slipped out of her—thin, fragile.

"If she ever feels alone," she said,

"please... don’t let her be."

She bowed her head deeply, forehead nearly touching the stone.

"I don’t need happiness," she murmured.

"I don’t need a future."

"I don’t even need to be remembered."

Her shoulders shook once.

Just once.

"I only want her to live," she said.

"To live well."

Silence followed.

Deep. Crushing. Sacred.

Luca felt something burn behind his eyes.

His jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Because he was afraid—terrified—that if he did, something inside him would break beyond repair.

Beside him, the Saintess had gone pale.

Her hands were trembling openly now, fingers pressed to her lips as tears welled and spilled freely down her cheeks. She made no sound, but her entire body shook as she watched.

A mother.

Who asked for nothing.

Not redemption.

Not justice.

Not even the chance to raise her own child.

Only that the child might live a better life than she had been given.

The woman stayed kneeling there for a long time.

Then, slowly, she lifted herself up.

She bowed once more to the statue—deep, respectful, final.

And without looking back—

She turned and walked away.

The Saintess didn’t speak.

She walked a step behind the woman, her gaze fixed on that trembling back, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and instinct—like her heart knew something her mind couldn’t yet name.

She glanced at Luca once.

Just once.

Her lips parted, as if she wanted to ask a question—but none came. There were too many. All tangled. All frightening.

So she said nothing.

She simply followed.

Luca stayed beside her.

Silent.

Rigid.

Every step felt heavier than the last.

Tell her.

No—how?

Now? Like this?

That’s your mother.

The words echoed in his mind like a curse. How could he say them? How could he tear open a truth like that when he himself was barely holding together?

So he didn’t.

He walked.

They followed the woman out of the cathedral.

The light outside felt harsher now. Sharper. Less forgiving.

People turned as she passed—faces twisted in the same familiar shapes: disgust, amusement, contempt.

"Tch... shameless."

"Pregnant and still crawling back to the Goddess?"

"No wonder divine punishment fell on her."

The woman kept her head down.

Her hand stayed protectively on her belly.

She didn’t argue.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t look back.

She just walked.

Then—metal scraped against stone.

Holy knights stepped into her path.

Their armor gleamed. Their expressions did not.

One of them grabbed her arm.

She stumbled.

"Hey—!" she gasped, instinctively curling inward, both hands flying to shield her stomach.

"Move," one knight barked coldly.

"P-please," she said quickly, panic breaking through her calm for the first time. "I’ll go—I’ll go quietly, just—please—"

They didn’t listen.

She was shoved forward, nearly falling.

The Saintess froze.

Her breath caught sharply in her throat.

Luca’s fists clenched.

The knights dragged the woman toward a black, enclosed carriage waiting at the edge of the square—iron-bound, windowless, its presence heavy with intent.

"No—!" the Saintess whispered.

Her feet moved on their own.

She ran.

Luca followed instantly.

The woman was thrown inside the carriage with little ceremony. The door slammed shut with a dull, final sound that echoed far too loudly.

The horses snorted.

The carriage lurched forward.

Luca and the Saintess ran after it—though no one noticed them, no one saw their panic, their helplessness. They followed as the carriage rolled through narrowing streets, away from the cathedral, away from the light.

The city thinned.

The air changed.

Finally, the carriage slowed.

Stopped.

Before them rose a mansion.

Large. Stone-built. Imposing.

High walls. Iron gates. Guards stationed like statues of authority.

And fixed beside the gate, polished and unmistakable, was a metal nameplate.

Bishop Truce.