The saying that a saintess is no longer a saintess—
To someone like her, who had known nothing but the life of a holy woman raised as an orphan in the temple, those words could never be taken lightly.
Hernán had guessed as much, but hearing it from her lips made it far heavier than he had imagined.
He was about to ask Marina whether she would lose her clerical position altogether, but stopped himself.
If the answer was yes, he wasn't sure he could bear it.
"...Hernán."
The saintess clutched the hem of her priestly robes, her hands trembling.
"What I just said... do you truly understand what that means?"
"I do."
"I discussed all of this with the hero as well. In more detail."
Of course she had. The hero likely knew Marina's situation better than anyone. After all, recruiting companions was her responsibility, not Hernán's.
"The hero listened to everything—and still refused to change her mind."
Their eyes met, not quite close, but not far.
Her dark brown gaze pleaded with him: Please... you, at least, refuse me.
"Will Hernán do the same?"
There was no real way to refuse.
Without her divine power, Marina was merely a woman with a strong body. Against warriors and thieves with overwhelming strength, she wouldn't stand a chance.
The hero had the upper hand in this house, and as long as Hernán cooperated with her plan, the saintess had no way out.
"Lady Marina…"
Hernán spoke after a brief but resolute silence.
"Karine is my lover."
And Marina was a companion. Nothing more.
Her expression went pale.
Guilt stabbed at him as memories of their time together resurfaced. He had admired her—truly. And even now, despite the conflict, he didn't want to trample on her dignity.
But his bond with Karine, unstable though it was, hadn't collapsed yet…
"Ah…"
When Hernán stood and offered her his hand, Marina followed automatically.
"Let's go to bed."
There was no resistance.
Only her face, full of foreboding, twisted the knife deeper into his chest.
"Goddess... have mercy."
She lay down stiffly upon the bed.
Seeing her like that, Hernán hesitated to undress.
The priestly uniform was tightly fitted for travel and battle, not easily removed.
If he delayed, his resolve might falter.
"Just... do it."
Marina reached behind herself and clutched her robes, as if sensing his hesitation.
Hernán stared at her downturned face and asked quietly:
"I'm really sorry, but... could you lie face-down?"
He didn't want to see her expression—couldn't bear to.
Without a word, Marina turned onto her stomach.
The dark blue fabric stretched over her hips, now elevated before him, trembled slightly.
It was an incredibly vulnerable, painfully intimate sight.
"Ah…!"
Marina let out a sharp gasp as Hernán raised her skirt.
He exhaled slowly and lifted the garment higher, past the belt, revealing her simple, pristine white undergarments.
Even before the suppression of his lust, he'd noticed her body—generous breasts, a full, shapely backside. At the time, he'd simply thought she looked too cumbersome for combat.
Now, though, the view was powerfully stimulating.
"Please… don't press too hard…"
Her voice was weak, muffled by the pillow.
As Hernán slowly pulled down her underwear, he heard her whispering to herself. A prayer, most likely.
Her untouched sex was dry, pale, and neatly framed by golden curls the same color as her hair.
Unlike with Potty, there was no immediate arousal.
Should he start with foreplay? Would it even help?
But he couldn't afford to hesitate forever.
Without speaking, he leaned in and pressed his lips to her folds.
"Ahh!"
Marina's prayer broke into a cry.
He licked her gently, letting his tongue search between her petals while one hand cupped her backside.
She trembled, shifting her hips to escape the sensation, but Hernán held her steady.
It felt strange—wrong—to be here, between the legs of someone he had once admired as a pure and distant figure. She was not Potty, who had seduced him, nor Sharpie, who reveled in chaos.
This wasn't just crossing a line. It was breaking something sacred.
"Lady Marina…"
He lifted his mouth. Her sex was now wet with both saliva and arousal.
That meant she was ready.
"The moment has come," he said gently.
"Please, Hernán!"
She called out instinctively, not in rejection, but from confusion and despair.
She said nothing more.
"I'm going in."
And he thrust himself inside her.
"Aah!"
Her scream was sharp, nearly splitting his ears.
"Ugh...!"
He pushed deeper, slowly but firmly.
There was resistance—something clenched, tight, fighting against him—but he kept going, tearing through it.
Marina writhed, trying to pull away. But he held her hips and continued.
"Ah…!"
Finally, he reached the end.
Unlike Potty, whose body could never take all of him, Marina's trembling walls clenched and accepted his full length.
He paused, allowing her to adjust.
Her breathing was ragged, but it slowly began to even out.
Then he moved again.
"Oh…!"
She shook her head frantically, her golden braid dancing across her back.
"I'll finish quickly," Hernán said, trying to spare her.
"Don't… inside..."
Her words were faint, cut short.
She didn't plead again.
He continued.
There was no pleasure in her body—only pain and grim endurance.
Her hips jostled, her breasts and clothes shaking with every thrust, but her moans were of discomfort, not pleasure.
Still, Hernán moved, driven only by duty, until his climax arrived.
"Ugh…!"
He groaned and released inside her.
Marina exhaled deeply, silently receiving his seed.
When it was done, Hernán slowly pulled out. The last few drops spilled onto her thighs and undergarments, now stained white and red.
"It's over."
He gently pulled her panties back up.
The once-pristine cloth turned transparent, then red, then an opaque white.
"…Hernán."
Her voice, muffled, came from the pillow.
"Don't use honorifics with me anymore."
He blinked.
"Just now? Why?"
Marina slowly pushed herself up and picked up the priest hat beside the bed.
"I'm not a saint anymore."
She stared at the soiled hat, then dropped it to the floor.
Then, one by one, she removed her robes, stripping down to her stained undergarments.
"I have no title left. No reason for you to speak formally."
Hernán watched her and felt the weight of what they'd done.
She wasn't the same.
Her priestly dignity lingered, but now it felt more like the habit of a life lived in discipline, not a truth she believed in.
He didn't know whether she would fall or rise from here.
"I… should wash—"
"Because I'm not a saint?"
Her voice was sharp, her expression dark.
"I don't even have a last name. Just call me Marina."
She returned to her softer tone, but it was clear she had changed.
Hernán rose and dressed himself.
He didn't want to stay in this room any longer.
He needed to return to his lover.
"I-I'll just go back…"
He had always planned to return, even if Karine told him to stay elsewhere.
"Don't go."
Marina's voice stopped him.
He turned.
"Sleep here."
"But—"
"Please, Hernán."
He hesitated.
"Then… let me wash first. You too."
"After saying that, will you still return to the hero?"
Her words weren't accusatory. Just quietly wounded.
"Come here."
Hernán couldn't refuse anymore.
"…Alright."
He returned to her side, still unable to drop the honorifics.
She lifted the blanket and let him lie next to her.
It was soft. Too soft.
"Why?" he asked. "Why do you want to sleep with me now? Is it because of the hero?"
"There's nothing left."
Her answer was brief—but heavy.
It meant more than he could grasp in the moment.
Hernán closed his eyes and his mouth.
And Marina came into his arms.
He fell asleep, replaying their conversation over and over.
Morning came.
Hernán stepped out of Marina's room with her beside him.
She had changed into the clothes provided by the house—a sleeveless top and a skirt that barely reached her thighs.
With her large breasts and wide hips, the outfit clung tightly to her form.
"Oh…"
The Demon King gave an amused gasp as they approached.
"Quite the sight, having a saintess dressed like that."
She herself wore similar clothes, yet Marina simply offered a tired smile and sat down.
Then she saw the food on the table.
"I didn't make this…"
The hero answered without looking up.
A large pot of steaming stew sat at the center of the table.
It smelled rich and nourishing—food meant to sustain rather than delight.
"Looks like something from an almshouse," muttered Sylnia, who still looked pale from yesterday.
But she, too, glanced at Marina, clearly aware of what had happened.
Only Potty remained absent, still recovering in bed.
"This is the saintess' favorite food," said the Demon King, warming her palms over the pot like a hearth.
When everyone was seated, the hero reached for the ladle.
But Hernán was faster.
He gently placed the ladle in front of Marina.
"Would you do the honors?"
She looked at the ladle… then at the stew.
"Do you remember that ruined city we stopped at during our travels?" he asked.
"That one?" Sylnia murmured, remembering.
Back then, everyone had said it would slow them down. But Marina had insisted on helping the starving townsfolk, even staying behind to cook for them.
"Could you… share it with us? Like you did back then."
Marina grasped the ladle, still silent.
The Demon King groaned theatrically. "Hurry up. The bunny girl's probably starving too."
Marina stood suddenly.
"Marina."
The hero called out her name.
But she said nothing—just walked back to her room.
"What now?" muttered the elf. "Everyone here's acting insane…"
Moments later, Marina returned.
She had placed her priest's hat atop her head.
It was still stiff with dried cream, not clean at all—but it was still hers.
"I'll serve now."
She began filling bowls with ladlefuls of stew.
The hero accepted his portion quietly, then looked at Hernán.
As he received his bowl, Hernán asked softly:
"Saint… Can you continue?"
The table fell silent again.
Marina scooped another serving, then met his gaze.
"I'll try."