* * *
A burning pharynx and several bottles of low-grade holy water.
Apprentice Sister Marianne spoke worriedly to the nun who was nonchalantly organizing the instruments in front of her, like a skilled doctor arranging his instruments.
''Sister. Is it really necessary to do this?''
There was no doubt that Sister Marianne's pitiful question was tinged with pity.
The blue-eyed owner, who was staring at the pharyngoscope that was as red as a ripe maple leaf, was about to carve a scar on her own face that would never heal.
The skin is punctured once with the pharynx, and then bathed in inferior holy water.
When the words first escaped her eager lips, Marianne was stunned to realize that by repeating the process, she could carve burn marks on her body that must have been decades old.
''If it's just a trick to hide your face, isn't it already enough to wear a mask----. Moreover, it's not as if it's been confirmed yet that the Dragon Lord will be visiting this place----. If you still have to disfigure your face, then hah, one turn----. One turn is enough, isn't it----. As you know, Sister, prayer and holy water can only heal wounds that have not yet healed. A scar from an open wound cannot be healed by any means----.''
Marianne stopped speaking.
The nun gently pulled Marianne into a hug, trying to soothe her pent-up emotions that had spilled out with her words.
''In a monastery where the highest ranking clergy are gathered, the presence of a person with a wound that is more than capable of being healed is bound to arouse suspicion. The people I need to deceive from now on are reversed heroes who have seen all sorts of wounds and the various methods of healing them countless times, so any flimsy disguise will be seen through.''
''Ha, but----!''
''I'm fine. Sister Marianne.''
''You can't be okay. You can't be okay.
No matter how much you swore a vow of chastity to God. A woman. Especially on her face.
To live the rest of her life with a scar that could never be erased was to say that she would hold onto the pain and regret until death, never knowing when it would erupt.
''Hmph, hmph, Sister!''
Marianne struggled to straighten her vision, which was threatening to blur with tears.
This might be my last chance to see this beautiful smile on her face.
You almost vomit out all the cringing you're feeling at the saintly compassion in her eyes as she gently strokes your hair, even though it's you who's suffering the most.
Clenching her fists, Marianne finally managed to bite down on the grain and spoke with a forced smile.
''May the gods smile upon you.''
With that, Marianne wiped away her tears and left the room with a blessing.
The nun, who responded by bowing her head, saw her off.
Beyond the tightly closed room, not a single syllable of human voice could be heard, not a scream or a groan.
Profit. Chibi.
There was only the intermittent sound of hot metal pressing against flesh.
◈◈◈◈
What better way to entangle a man's heart than with his own?
A sentimentalist might say friendship, or perhaps even love. A practicalist might say that there is no way to bend someone's will without a material price.
As a nun who has faced many a self-described sinner in the cramped, dimly lit confessional, she had long since come up with her own definitive answer.
Guilt.
It is the name of the largest and heaviest chain ever worn in the lock of reason, the weight of the cross that tests those who walk the path of righteousness at every turn.
Nothing is more unstable than a guilt-ridden human being.
They live in constant doubt as to the validity of the steps they are taking, the path they are traveling, and the series of actions they are committing.
The more egregious the sin, the more so. The heavier the weight of the shackles that bite at their ankles.
The cloudier the sinner's eyes, the less they dare to hold light, and the more they turn toward the ground.
And so it is. Like now, for example.
''Are you satisfied with this?''
The nun's question was asked so casually that no one in the room could speak easily.
How could they be when they were so afraid of humans?
She was forced to prove her innocence by exposing a part of her body that she would never have wanted anyone to see, purely to deflect the arrows of suspicion that they shot at her.
Their suspicions were unwarranted, and they may have wounded the one she loved.
It is a situation that would have been deeply distressing even to those with a normal mindset.
Moreover, they were part of a group of heroes who carried the adoration of the entire nation on their backs.
At that moment, the waves of guilt that washed over their minds must have been of a magnitude that the culprit could not even imagine.
''That----. The wound is----.''
''I apologize for the ugliness. In fact, I have a shameful past, having been captured by slave traders when I was a child----.''
The warrior stammered, and the nun, noticing the signs of agitation in his voice, realized that her ruse had worked, and she lied.
She was a nun who deserved to die and fall into hell, and yet here she was, under the shadow of the shadow of reality, in front of God, telling lies without hesitation.
These were the only means by which she, a mere mortal, could stand up to the transcendents before her.
The nun was still struggling to speak, her guilt on a scale that would never be matched by them.
''What do you think? Did the unscrupulous nun you're looking for also have this ugly scar?''
The silence was long.
Ever since the nun had removed her mask, it was safe to say that the position of the collector and the collected had been completely reversed.
How much time had passed.
A warrior made mute by honey. Downah, who can't think of the right words to apologize. Big Tim, who is still dozing off.
Finally, on behalf of his confused companions, Apis, the oldest member of the party, slowly moved his heavy lips.
''Uh, I'm sorry----. We must have misunderstood----.''
''That can't be-!''
A loud shout tore through the silence, echoing through the room.
''It's the smell, I'm telling you, I smelled it, and there's no way I, and no one else, can't recognize your scent, though I can't tell where it came from because of the other scents that mingled with it along the way, but you've been with him for a long time, that much is certain!''
''Yo, warrior, calm down!''
Apis hastily restrained the warrior, who was shouting with a rare fervor that was obviously tinged with desperation.
It wasn't hard for the nun to guess the identity of the other odor the soldier kept mentioning, the one that had mingled with the others along the way.
Contact with the Roosevelts.
The brief time she had spent with the woman, who always wore a perfume of such a consistency that it made her nose twitch, had undoubtedly played a role in the mysterious disappearance of Priest Rages.
Fortune. A miracle that could only be attributed to the help of the gods, unless it was the result of someone's calculations.
And so it was. Desperately realizing that the time to drive the wedge was now, the nun summoned all the courage she could muster.
''I'm sorry----. Still, I feel sorry for you, so I thought of something----. Since the monastery here is the so-called heart of the Holy See, where priests from all over the islands come and go as the Saintess's real body is enshrined, it's possible that the priest you're talking about and I have a history of casual contact, and that's why I smell the odor----.''
It was then.
''Dragon!''
''No! Warrior!''
Without any grace to realize the change, without even having time to intuit something.
For a moment, she didn't fully recognize the identity of the fiery metal that suddenly appeared in front of her.
Her body's joints and mind's nodes stiffened as if a needle had pierced the skin of her entire body, as if a pungent coldness had seeped into them.
''Hmph! Hmph! Hmph!''
I saw a teardrop, heard a ragged breath.
It was only then that she realized that the warrior was pointing his sword at her.
Neither Apis's bow nor Dauna's magic could keep up with the warrior's swift strokes, but a strong hand from outside her field of vision caught the hilt of her sword just in time, preventing the tragedy of the blade meeting her body.
''Sister. Calm down.''
Big Tim, who had been busy dozing off just a moment ago, was holding back the warrior with eyes that seemed like they would never open.
''Do, turn----, hmph, stone, black, turn----, black, turn----, give me----!''
The blade of the sword was blocked by the obstacle and could not reach anywhere.
But nothing stood in the way of the shredded remains of the warrior's horse, scattered as if to take its place.
* * *