Paradise lived up to its name.
The capital of Lust Domain sprawled across gently rolling hills, its streets paved with smooth cobblestone that gleamed from recent rain.
Unlike the other domains where war and scarcity left their marks in crumbling walls and desperate faces, Paradise thrived.
Merchant stalls lined the main avenue, their colorful awnings fluttering in the warm breeze. Vendors hawked fresh bread, ripe fruits imported from carefully maintained orchards, bolts of fine silk, and intricate jewelry that caught the afternoon sun.
The air carried the mingled scents of baking pastries, roasting meat, and the sweet perfume of flowers sold by corner florists.
Children played between the stalls, their laughter bright and carefree. Craftsmen worked in open-air workshops: blacksmiths hammering horseshoes, weavers threading looms, carpenters shaping furniture.
The streets themselves were remarkably clean, with dedicated workers sweeping away refuse and waste into proper drainage systems.
It was prosperity incarnate. A testament to what humanity could achieve when not constantly bleeding itself dry on the frontlines.
And walking through the heart of it all was a woman who'd become synonymous with that prosperity.
She wore the habit of a nun, though "habit" seemed too modest a word for the scandalous garment.
The dress itself was pure white silk that clung to every curve, tailored so tightly it left little to imagination.
High slits ran up both sides, exposing pale thighs with each step. A boob window cut into the chest revealed an almost obscene amount of cleavage, serving no practical purpose beyond distraction.
But over this provocative uniform, she'd draped a long coat that fell nearly to her knees, concealing most of the design's impropriety.
Light blonde hair cascaded down her back, catching golden highlights in the sun.
A few strands near the ends showed pink streaks… a recent development that had become her signature. Sky-blue eyes, bright and warm, surveyed the street with genuine affection. Her butterfly-shaped pupils, visible only to those who looked closely, gave her her own unique flair.
Very large breasts strained against even the modest covering of her coat. Her proportions would have drawn stares anywhere.
But it was her presence that truly captured attention.
An invisible aura radiated from her with every step… calming, comforting, wrapping around passersby like a warm blanket. Aggression melted. Stress eased. People found themselves smiling without quite knowing why.
Blissful Aura, working its magic.
She was surrounded by a dozen other nuns, all wearing the same scandalous uniform.
But unlike their leader, they'd forgone the concealing coat.
Eyes couldn't help but roam the thighs visible through those high slits, the pale skin, and the bouncing softness visible through those boob windows that served absolutely no function beyond commanding attention.
The dresses were extra tight, accentuating every curve, yet no one dared stare too long.
Certainly no one catcalled or made inappropriate gestures.
These were the nuns of the Chapel of the Everlasting Covenant, after all.
This faction, aside from being tightly intertwined with Seravelle's main faith, held tremendous power as one of the Big Five: the five great factions corresponding to humanity's five surviving Domains.
But things didn't stop there.
On top of being at the apex of the social hierarchy, each one of those nuns was a healer.
And as the saying went: Piss off everyone but the one who heals you.
Due to their nature as the faction with the most healers, Lust Domain held far more connections and sway than the other four domains combined.
Nobles sent their wounded sons here. Wealthy merchants paid fortunes for treatment. Even military officials quietly arranged for their officers to receive care in Paradise.
This made the Chapel, and by extension, its nuns, practically untouchable.
But all of this political maneuvering went above the average commoner's head.
To them, these lovely ladies were nothing but angels.
The scandalous uniform? Just an unusual preference. Hardly worth comment when those same women roamed the streets daily, healing every malady and injury they happened upon.
How could anyone think ill of them when their children's fevers broke under gentle hands?
When broken bones mended without permanent damage?
When illnesses that would have been death sentences became mere inconveniences?
Health and wealth. That was all the general populace needed in these dark times to be eternally grateful.
If it wasn't for their mysterious Sin Lord, a woman who already worshiped the Eternal, they'd likely be worshiping the nuns themselves.
As it stood, the vast majority followed her lead and prayed alongside her to the one true God.
This phenomenon made cult activity in Lust Domain significantly harder than elsewhere.
Ironically so.
Cultists usually believed in their own twisted deities and attempted to pull people into their religions. Such recruitment became nearly impossible against a populace unified in faith. On the contrary, it made spotting the rotten ones much easier since anyone who refused to pray stood out immediately.
But good things didn't stop there for Lust Domain's population.
They had a new Saintess Candidate now.
Such a title had been bestowed only once before—on their current Sin Lord before she ascended to rule. Everyone's expectations were sky-high.
And she hadn't disappointed.
⛧⛧⛧
Seraphine's lips moved in constant whisper as she walked, words too soft for casual ears to catch.
But those with mana sensitivity could feel it... the gentle lines of mana threading through the air with each syllable.
{Activated Path Skill: Soulweaver's Whisper}
"I desire your health... I desire your vitality... I desire your wounds to close and your pain to ease..."
The words weren't technically necessary. But they helped focus her intent, crystallize her will into something mana could shape and carry.
Threads emerged.
Thin strands of luminous azure mana spun out from her chest, her fingertips, the crown of her head. They drifted through the air like gossamer silk caught in an invisible breeze, seeking, searching.
Then they found their targets.
A thread latched onto a young girl clutching her ankle that was scraped raw from a fall on the cobblestone. The moment connection established, the mana flowed down the strand like water through a pipe. The girl gasped, watching wide-eyed as torn skin knitted itself back together, blood evaporating into nothing.
Another thread found a construction worker gripping his lower back, face twisted in chronic pain. The mana poured into him, soothing inflamed muscles, coaxing vertebrae back into proper alignment. His shoulders dropped with relief so profound he nearly wept.
A third thread discovered a baker with burned hands... casualties of her trade. The mana wrapped around scarred tissue, encouraging regeneration, reducing the angry redness until only faint marks remained.
More threads. Dozens of them.
They branched out like a spider's web made of light, each one connecting Seraphine to someone suffering. Small wounds and large. Fresh injuries and old aches. The threads made no distinction. They healed what they touched.
And wherever they latched, people paused their work.
The vendor mid-pitch fell silent. The blacksmith stopped hammering. The seamstress set down her needle. The street musician lowered his lute.
All of them turned toward the woman at the web's center.
"Thank you, Saintess!" The young girl's voice rang out first, high and bright with wonder. She stood on her healed ankle, bouncing experimentally. "It doesn't hurt anymore!"
"Many thanks, girly! My back was killing me—haha!" The construction worker's booming laugh followed, genuine relief coloring every syllable. He bent at the waist, touched his toes, and straightened with a grin that split his weathered face. "First time in years I've moved like this!"
"Bless you, sister!" A pregnant woman clutching her swollen belly. "The cramping stopped!"
"You're a godsend, miss!" An elderly man examining his arthritic hands, now flexing freely. "I can hold a quill again!"
"Thank you! Thank you!" A mother with her feverish child, tears streaming down her face as the boy's temperature visibly dropped, his flushed cheeks returning to normal.
The chorus of gratitude swelled, voices overlapping in a symphony of relief and joy.
Seraphine answered with a bright smile.
Her lips continued their whispered litany, too occupied with maintaining the healing threads to respond verbally. But that smile... genuine, warm, radiant with the Blissful Aura that enhanced its effect, spoke volumes.
It said: This is why I'm here. This is my purpose. Your gratitude isn't necessary, but I'll accept it with love.
To every observer, that smile cemented her reputation.
Guardian Angel of Paradise.
Saint-in-waiting.
The woman who embodied everything the Chapel preached: compassion, service, sacrifice.
But Seraphine's work wasn't finished.
As her mana threads continued their surface healing, she felt deeper problems lurking beneath.
A merchant whose cheerful demeanor masked creeping exhaustion. This one, unlike others, wasn't from mere overwork; it was from a wasting illness slowly devouring his vitality.
A soldier on leave, standing tall despite the poisoned wound in his side that festered despite field treatment.
An old woman whose breath came labored, lungs thick with corruption that would kill her within weeks.
For these, Soulweaver's Whisper wasn't enough.
{Activated Path Skill: Desire's Renewal}
This one required touch.
Seraphine broke from her procession, approaching the merchant first. She placed her hand on his shoulder, and he startled—started to bow, started to thank her.
"Be still," she murmured gently.
Her mana shifted quality. Where before it had been gossamer threads, now it became a cleansing tide. It poured into him, seeking the source of decay, the rot eating at his life force.
Found it.
A curse. Faint and almost unnoticeable. The kind that killed slowly, imitating natural decline so perfectly that even skilled healers missed it. She briefly wondered how this merchant got into such trouble for such a curse to latch onto him.
Her Desire's Renewal wrapped around it like a vice, then squeezed.
The curse fought back, attempting to dig deeper, targeting his marrow. But Seraphine's will was iron. She desired his health. Desired the curse gone. Desired balance restored.
And what she desired, her mana manifested.
The curse shattered.
The merchant gasped as color flooded back into his face. Energy surged through limbs that had grown progressively weaker. He stared at his hands... steady now, and strong... and then at Seraphine with something approaching religious awe.
"Saintess... I... how did you..."
"You're well now," she said simply, already moving to the next target. "Be more careful about who you interact with. Curses don't appear from nowhere."
She found the soldier next, and despite his protest that he was "fine, really, just a scratch," she pressed her hand to his side.
It was poison designed to kill slowly while maximizing suffering.
Desire's Renewal devoured it, flushed it from his system, and repaired the damage it had wrought. The soldier's false bravado crumbled into genuine relief as the pain he'd been carrying for weeks finally, finally ended.
The old woman was last, and her condition was worse since she was not cursed or poisoned. She was just... old. Her body was giving up, and her lungs were filling with fluid as her immune system failed.
This one took longer.
Seraphine knelt beside her on the street, both hands on the woman's chest, and poured everything she had into Desire's Renewal. She didn't try to reverse aging—that was beyond even her skill. But she could restore balance by clearing the lungs, bolstering the immune system, give the body the strength to fight back against entropy's pull.
When she finally withdrew her hands, the old woman was crying.
Not from pain. From the sudden, shocking absence of it. From being able to breathe again without drowning.
"Child..." Her voice was a rasp, "Thank you..."
"Stay well, grandmother," Seraphine replied softly.
She stood, dusted off her knees, and rejoined her procession.
The street behind her buzzed with renewed energy. People who'd been healed spread the word. Those who'd witnessed it firsthand began embellishing the tale—the Saintess Candidate who walked among them, whose touch cured the incurable, whose smile banished suffering itself.
Paradise's angel, earning her wings.