What Can You Do Now?
So, what can you do about it?
Arin dashed down the corridor, luring the hazmat-suited cultists behind her, but she didn't engage the black shadows blocking her path—she just threw herself aside to dodge.
She had no time or stamina for a fight, and she hoped to at least serve as a minor obstacle for them. Unfortunately, the shadowy figures—mere piles of ash—couldn't inflict any damage through the cultists' thick, tough protective suits.
Her breath had been clawing at her throat for ages now, but she couldn't let them catch up until Gaeun and the others escaped outside. At minimum, she had to buy enough time that they wouldn't even think to chase. Maintaining that hair's-breadth distance without even a chance to catch her breath, Arin kept her speed steady, reached out, grabbed a gas pipe bolted to the corner of the wall, and whipped around sharply.
Fuck! Where the hell is this place?
In front of the others, she'd boldly claimed she'd scouted ahead and knew the layout well—but that was a lie.
It was just bravado, born from needing to hide her condition while convincing them, plus that uniquely masculine pride wanting to show off a bit in front of people she knew.
"Ah...."
And with that, her bluff reached its end as she arrived in a space completely blocked by a collapsed ceiling.
The rapid footsteps closing in from behind slowed, then stopped entirely. Arin turned her head with an awkward chuckle, facing the cultists glaring at her.
"Any chance we could have a serious discussion about faith...?"
They raised their flamethrowers without a hint of interest in talking, aiming straight at her, and pulled the triggers in unison.
"Aaagh! Kyaaahhh!!"
The flames erupted, instantly melting her vision and engulfing her body—burning through clothes, skin, fat, and muscle.
The agony—far beyond anything from her previous near-deaths—shot up her spine, stabbing her brain. It didn't take long for the heat invading through her mouth and nose to melt her insides, stopping her screams and her breath.
"Gaaahhhh!"
Arin awoke in the warehouse, clutching her pristine, unscarred body as she writhed from phantom pain that wasn't even there.
The pain faded like an illusion soon enough, but the memory lingered, so it took a bit longer for her to fully regain her senses.
"...God, that fucking hurt."
She wiped the tears and drool streaking her jawline with her sleeve, then lifted her head to check her surroundings and position.
As expected, she'd respawned in the warehouse—but not in the center mat where she'd napped, but off to the side in a dim corner.
She knew the nap spot wasn't the trigger, but why this awkward nowhere place? Pondering and replaying her memories, Arin recalled the moment she'd first entered this warehouse.
The instant Seoyeong handed her bread, saying she must be hungry, and she'd sat beside her to rest and fill her stomach.
"I felt at ease...."
Recalling that brief moment of true rest—forgetting survival and anomalies—Arin slowly reviewed the other places she'd respawned and the states she'd been in when reaching them.
"Places where I felt peace... or relief?"
In front of a machine tangled with vine-like wires.
A cultist fiddling with buttons glanced sidelong at another leaning against the right side and asked,
"How's the leg?"
"Feels like death."
"More painkillers?"
"No. The only addiction I want is faith in the stars."
"Well said."
He'd endured something no cultist could have imagined: torture by a schoolgirl clinging to him. Thanks to the painkillers' effect, he forced his drooping eyes wide to cling to consciousness.
At least it was a relief that she only wanted basic doctrine, not the church's secrets.
"Hang in there a bit longer. Even if that heretic doesn't give up, we have other ways. The search here's almost done."
"Treasure hunt, huh? Can't we just find a safe...?"
"No safe. Looks like they moved it somewhere else."
The man, groaning and trying to ignore the pain in his head and leg through prayer, suddenly snorted a laugh and sighed.
"This is why you can't trust painkillers. Hallucinations and all."
"Shit, did I overdose by accident? What're you seeing?"
"That bitch who smashed my knee. If she's already purified by fire, she should just rot in the afterlife begging the stars for mercy...."
Mid-sentence, a heavy thud cut him off. Sensing something wrong, the other cultist looked away from the machine.
And cold gray filled his vision.
"Yeah, that's the usual reaction."
[Y...ou're... alive... sister... The others... all... headed... forward....]
Arin let out a long sigh of relief at the Pastor's words—no one was chasing them. She spun the iron pipe in her hand and approached the machine.
"Dunno what this is, but smashing it to bits should give these bastards some trouble, right? Oh, sorry. First, lemme check for a cutter to get you down...."
As Arin scanned around to free the suffering Pastor, he called out to stop her.
He creakily turned his head, silently gesturing to a paper in the corner. Curious but compliant, Arin picked up the two overlapping sheets.
"This is... a floor plan?"
One sheet was a floor plan of a massive building, obvious at a glance. The other was a map compiling smaller building layouts.
She noted the common marks and dots, overlapping and separating them repeatedly, then realized: these were the old shopping mall that burned down and the current buildings on its site.
Spotting the warehouse where the survivors had gathered on the church plan, Arin confirmed it didn't overlap with the old mall's layout when aligned.
She nodded.
"So only the spots where the mall stood changed like this."
That explained the safe zone where the scorch marks cut off like it was sliced. Satisfied, she looked to the Pastor, who nodded affirmation and slowly spoke.
[From the church... floor plan... entrance... right side... bottom, there's an... office....]
"Ah, got it. That's outside too, huh?"
[Small... bookshelf... second... shelf from top... Buddhist books....]
"Whoa, a pastor can have that stuff?"
[Respect... is a virtue....]
As Arin traced the office on the floor plan with her finger, the Pastor continued.
[Inside the book... church... land and building... sales contract... They're looking... for that... but never dreamed... it'd be there....]
"Aha, so you want me to find and destroy it?"
[No... would I ask you... to do something so dangerous? Take it out... and tell the experts....]
"...But what good does telling do? Unless it's not just tax or legal paperwork—if it's not digitized, it's just a paper copy."
[By our human... rules outside... maybe. But to them... it seems different... They're using that contract... to claim the whole church... land....]
Figures. If they followed man-made laws, they wouldn't be anomalies, Arin muttered, folding the papers neatly into her bag.
Confirming the cultists still hadn't woken, she cracked her wrists, ready to lower the Pastor and smash the machine. But he spoke again.
[Sister, I... can't return anyway... I'll go to the Father's embrace like this... Don't waste your strength... and time. And one more thing... if you're thinking foolishly... don't burn the contract or scribble... an unknown name to make it... unclaimable....]
Arin chuckled awkwardly at his words, as if he knew her thoughts, and swung the iron pipe.
Focusing on the fragile wire joints and buttons, sparks flew soon enough, smoke rose, and the black-and-white screen shattered.
"Made it church-appropriate with that mosaic filter," she quipped to the Pastor in what might be their last exchange, then—as if proving him right—bolted not for the exit, but toward the office.
Passing the dark corridor filled with black shadows, she reached a pristine white space.
Sensing from the spotless lack of scorch marks that this, like the warehouse, was outside the old mall site, Arin stopped before a wooden door covered in footprints dusted with ash—clearly trampled by many already.
She gripped the door labeled "Pastor Office" with a plastic nameplate, peeked through the crack to confirm it empty, then slipped inside.
Papers that should have been on the desk were scattered messily; every drawer gaped open, spilling contents onto the floor.
The religious bookshelves were the same, but amid the chaos, the small bookshelf the Pastor mentioned stood intact, filled with books.
"Second shelf, Buddhism... Found it."
She pulled a book with a faded yellow cover marked in Hanja, flipped through, and found neatly folded documents.
Pausing before stashing it in her bag, a sudden idea curved her lips. She grabbed a rolling pen from the desk and roughly scratched out the name and signature on the papers.
"Those bastards could've just killed the pastor and claimed the ownerless building. Easier that way."
Hard to say they couldn't find it—if so, they'd have killed him first and altered it later. But they didn't.
"Probably their rule requires the current owner—the pastor—to acknowledge the transfer.... And I just got his acknowledgment?"
Arin scrawled her name clearly and signed with a flourish, then tucked the papers into her uniform's inner pocket.
"And for some reason, stuff I have vanishes with me when I die... and reappears."
From the bag she had when first waking in this body, to meds and pipe she'd picked up, even unthrown-away jelly wrappers.
Everything she held before death reappeared with her, even if dropped.
"So, what can those cult fuckers do now?"
Curious how they'd react to a contract owned by an unkillable girl—one they couldn't seize or burn until she acknowledged it—Arin smirked as urgent footsteps pounded from the corridor beyond.