I’m a Former Saint Exiled to the Forest, but for some reason, the Cold-hearted Magician keeps visiting me. - Chapter 1

Evelyne’s mornings always began with purifying the water she drew from the well.

The water in the “Forest of Corruption” was tainted, and drinking it as-is would cause the internal organs of an ordinary person to burn away, leading to a swift death.

However, for Evelyne, a former saint, this level of impurity was no big deal. She clasped her fingers together, calling upon the power that flowed within her. A gentle phosphorescence spilled from her body, cascading over the murky water in the pitcher, which instantly cleared.

With barely a moment to breathe, she moved on to her next task: tending the fields. More
precisely, she purified the soil so ordinary plants wouldn’t wither and die.

Her once-proud golden hair was now dull, her skin tanned from the sun. Her fingers were calloused, rough with cracks and blisters. Anyone who saw Evelyne now would never imagine she was only 23 years old—or that just two months ago, she had been revered as a saint of the Kingdom of Claire.

“Well, I guess whatever reputation I had has gone down the drain,” she muttered with a small laugh, though there was no one around to hear her words.
After all, Evelyne was the only inhabitant of this exile ground, the Forest of Corruption. All she had was a shabby hut, a tiny field, grotesquely twisted plants warped by the corruption, and ominous magical beasts lurking in the shadows.

“But honestly, for an exile, this isn’t so bad,” she murmured, grabbing her battered hoe and heading toward the field.

Two months ago, Evelyne had been a saint of purification in the Kingdom of Claire.

While magic brought numerous blessings, it could also stagnate, creating corruption that harmed all living things. The power of purification could cleanse this corruption, and those who possessed this rare ability were cherished by the church as saints or holy figures.

Evelyne, born in a remote village at the edge of the kingdom, awakened to her purification powers at the age of 13 and was taken in by the church.

While there were many magicians capable of using general magic, those with purification powers were few and far between. At the church that took Evelyne in, the only other person with such power was an elderly priest with a bad back. Evelyne, young and capable, took on purification requests, traveling to various locations to fulfill her duties.

It was hard work, but thanks to her strong powers, she handled the tasks with ease. Her reputation eventually reached the royal capital, and she was summoned to the grand cathedral to take on even more responsibilities.

Although her foster grandfather, the priest, and her fellow villagers were worried for her, it wasn’t something she could refuse. Corruption festered in places filled with death—areas ravaged by vicious magical beasts, plagued by disease, or scarred by war. Despite the
hardships, Evelyne carried out her duties without complaint, forgoing her youthful years.

But perhaps that was her mistake.

When she returned to the capital after one of her missions, she found herself accused of being the source of the corruption, branded as a “villainous saint who neglected her purification duties for selfish gain.” Before she could even process what was happening, she was tried and sentenced. Her punishment was exile to the Forest of Corruption, a place where no saint or holy figure had ever succeeded in cleansing.

That was two months ago. If she’d known her life would take this turn, she would’ve indulged in the capital’s famous cuisine while she had the chance.
To avoid the scandal of punishing a saint, her sentence was framed as an “appointment to the Forest of Corruption.” She was given a small hut, some rudimentary tools, and a limited supply of food. The reality was clear—no one expected her to survive. She was meant to succumb to the corruption, starve, or fall prey to the magical beasts.

But Evelyne was not like others.
“I started helping out in the fields when I was four! And I helped my grandpa with his herb garden, too! I’ve got the stamina, so this is a piece of cake! …Wow, what a great potato!”

Evelyne beamed as she plucked a fine potato from the soil and tossed it into her old basket. She planned to gather herbs later to make a salve for inflammation. Though the air around her was heavy with corruption, she had purified the area surrounding her hut, making it livable.

Aside from the lack of meat, life here wasn’t so bad. It was certainly better than the days of nonstop travel and camping out while performing her duties as a saint. Evelyne, by nature, loved a slow, peaceful life. Perhaps this was exactly what she had needed after the chaos of her past.

Here, there were no voices trying to flatter her, no scornful whispers, no high-handed demands. It was quiet. Just Evelyne, alone. And she didn’t mind solitude. She thought this life might not be so bad after all.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, Evelyne deliberately ignored the brand burned into the back of her hand.

“Alright, roasted potatoes for dinner. They’d be perfect with melted cheese, but that’s a bit of a dream… Oh well.”

She straightened her back, stiff from the crouching work, and headed toward her hut. Her thoughts wandered to a solo harvest festival celebration, but she stopped abruptly.

Her arms tightened around the basket in disbelief.

Standing at her door was a young man with long black hair tied high.

Magicians typically kept their hair long, as it helped with magical control. His well-maintained black hair shimmered like the night, complementing his sharp, elegant features. But the cold, stern expression on his face made him seem unapproachable.

Few dared to speak to him voluntarily.

Yet, his tall, slender frame, clad in the royal magician’s signature purple robes, suited him perfectly. Evelyne knew he was admired by noblewomen and magicians alike, though he rarely showed interest in others.

Which is why his presence here made no sense. They weren’t close—if anything, Evelyne thought he disliked her.

His name was—
“Serge La Sorcellerie?”

The words slipped out before she could stop them, a habit from her solitude.

The black-haired man turned smoothly, his violet eyes locking onto Evelyne with a cool, unreadable gaze.

“Saint Evelyne Ange. I trust you’re in good health,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion.