The Priest Wants to Retire

〈 Chapter 27 〉 Lullaby

*

The dim hallway, smeared with a darkness like watered-down ink, felt oppressively eerie.

The Sister suddenly leaned against the wall.

As if about to collapse. No, as if about to crumble.

The searing sensation simmering in the veins of her eyelids surprisingly felt grateful.

The piercing pain not only helped her keep her fading consciousness at bay due to mental exhaustion, but also dulled the guilt that had stabbed into her gut like a stake.

Was this really the best option?

No, it wasn’t.

In truth, countless better alternatives existed.

If only the Saint’s mind were intact. If they weren’t a Hero Party. If only her insight surpassed theirs.

Without any costs to pay, without any losses to bear, there surely would have been a myriad of ways to ease the situation.

Lock the Priest in the Meeting Room for a while, and Sister, whose impression was marked, could seek asylum somewhere outside this System to buy some time.

After revealing a series of events to the Hero Party, she could negotiate to ensure that the Priest’s safety was completely transferred to her.

Or perhaps she could ask the Priest to persuade them to send the Hero Party back.

But what if…

What if, just what if, those attempts failed?

Unlike the elusive alternatives that rarely came to mind, the ominous possibilities bloomed vividly with her closed eyes.

If the Hero Party, who had been chasing after the Priest in her absence, were to discover him through some cunning trick, and find themselves facing the Saint, the very person who was apparently the cause of his confinement…

If negotiations fell apart, and they insisted that the Priest must return to the Hero Party…

What if, in the process, the current unstable mental state of the Saint led her to harbor a grudge against the Hero?

That would be the end. In simple terms, it would be catastrophic.

It’s a well-known fact that as the Demon King, whom humanity sees as despair, grows stronger with each generation, the Saint, regarded as humanity’s hope, becomes more powerful in her divine abilities as time goes on.

However, unlike the Demon King, who has no physical body, the Saint possesses a living body.

The side effects from the process of channeling divine power into a human vessel have only intensified over generations— a gruesome truth strictly forbidden from being revealed by the Vatican.

Among all the Saints documented throughout history, the modern-day Saint boasts an exceptional level of divine power.

Welna Angelas Ashes.

However, due to the overwhelming force from the divine power bestowed upon her, her cognitive abilities regressed to an infantile level.

Not long ago, the Royal Family had boldly argued that the best approach for the Hero Party was for the Hero and Saint to join forces to defeat the Demon King, but they flipped their stance to claim it’s more stable for a Hero to receive the divine blessing from the Saint before heading into battle.

The Blessing Ceremony.

If the citizens within this System were to discover the sordid origins behind this seemingly glamorous event, what expressions would they make?

They probably wouldn’t be happily smiling. That’s what the Sister thought.

The day the Saint became the Saint.

The day when the girl became the Saint. The Sister would never forget that day.

How could she forget the horrific scene where a personality was erased, an existence was cloaked, and an individual was completely lost?

The despair felt like consciousness drowning in an endless swamp. The helplessness seeping into her bones. And the nauseating relief that slowly spread like water-diluted paint would rise up like a buoy every night.

It was the Sister’s regret, her curse, and her stigma.

Compared to the sting of her heart, the pain of searing flesh with red-hot metal would seem laughably trivial.

If only she could make up for the mistake of that day, the Sister would willingly comply with the demand to gouge out her own eyes.

“The Saint… I will protect Welna…”

She had to protect.

Thus, she couldn’t let that Priest, that man go.

She must not let him out of the current Saint’s sight for a single moment.

If she lost that person, who returned the Saint—an empty vessel imbued with divine power, a mere breathing corpse cloaked in garments of envy— back to being a human.

This time, the Saint would surely crumble.

Only that one individual, who could grasp the wretched hands that sank into darkness due to past failures and pull them up into the path of sunlight, was the key to atoning for her sins, her only mission— that’s how sincerely the Sister believed.

And for that, she was prepared to do anything.

Yes. Anything.

Even if it meant snatching someone who could have been someone’s support, or intertwining her life of integrity with lies, she would not shy away from it, resolved and determined.

Fortunately, her unwavering resolve didn’t dissipate into the wind.

Due to the series of plays where the Sister played both the script and the lead, the idea of the Hero Party suspecting this Monastery would surely be wiped clean from their minds.

A person burdened with debt to the heart sees darkly and narrowly.

That overwhelming feeling was something the Sister had personally experienced.

No matter how many realistic circumstances pointed to this place, as long as some sense of guilt remained toward the Sister in their hearts, that guiding principle would inevitably fade.

It’s only natural to know that the best choice against an opponent you can’t oppose with strength or wit is to bow down and stir their compassion; even the street urchins know this.

“Huh!”

Was it static electricity?

The Sister frowned at the sudden inexplicable sensation springing from her palm.

“Blood…?”

She brought the hand that had been resting on the wall before her eyes.

The vivid scratch crossing her palm looked as if she had smeared red paint on a pristine sketchbook; judging by the dampness of the blood oozing from the wound, it was clear that the injury was recent.

Had she brushed against some debris from the table the Hero broke?

At that moment, it seemed she was too overwhelmed by their fierce spirit to even notice.

“Give it back!”

The Sister shook her head, blankly.

She couldn’t waver.

There was no room left for compassion or grace towards others; that had long since turned to ash.

She had to turn away. She could turn away.

Self-righteous, selfish, and dirty as she was, she could very well do so.

All of this was for her. For the Saint.

What did it matter if her mind and body were splattered in foul muck?

As long as she could see her laugh, cry, get angry, and feel sad like the other children, the Sister was willing to get dirty.

“Wel… na…”

Perhaps it was because the tension had eased. Maybe it was due to the blood loss.

The Sister’s consciousness began to fade.

In the melancholic resonance created by her parched lips, it was evident that a damp longing intertwined.

The cold night air caressed the Sister’s cheeks, and the moonlight projected through the clouds came briskly to showcase its brilliance beside her.

But it seemed the Sister was too busy chasing memories beyond her slowly closing eyelids to perceive the beautiful lullaby played by the deep night.

“Beltein, sister!”

Yes. There had been a time like that.

When someone called her not “Sister,” but “Beltein.”

Beltein Angelas Ashes.

Now, it felt so foreign that it was rather awkward to be called that.

But she wished that just that one person, the one she loved the most in this world would still call her that. The Sister couldn’t completely sever the vain attachment to that title.

Once, the Sister had a younger sister.

Yes. She had one.

“Um, Sister… if you sleep here, your mouth will get crooked…”

That was when it happened.

Like a single droplet of dew falling into a lake, someone’s voice descended amidst her blurring consciousness.

“Geez, how did this hand get like that….”

What followed was the feeling of cozy buoyancy.

Now only faint outlines remained of memories from childhood. The moment her father carried her to bed after playing too hard and collapsing, a feeling of warm comfort settled in her heart.

“Grantor, I am your finger. Just a mere lamb. I will bring rest to all things on this earth under your authority. All glory will be dedicated to you.”

With that gentle voice that tickled her ears like a lullaby, her consciousness plunged into blissful darkness.

Somehow, the Sister felt that she wouldn’t have nightmares today— that’s how she felt.

There was no certainty. Just that feeling lingered.

*

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