I Have Younger Sisters

If you asked most people who formed the foundation of the Holy Kingdom of Lucerne, they would point to His Holiness the Pope, the representative of God.

Yet contrary to popular belief, every citizen of Lucerne would answer: the priests.

Not the cardinals, not the holy knights, not even the bishops—just the priests, who sit barely above the bottom of the ecclesiastical hierarchy?

But once you consider that it is the priests who create the faithful, and that faith itself survives only through the existence of those believers, the claim becomes impossible to refute.

"But no matter how far you carry the blessed Gospels across the continent, it's all useless if the kings and local warlords who control those lands end up hating you."

"That's right."

"…No matter how noble your intentions. In their eyes, we're just an outside force that happens to hold Lucerne citizenship."

"Of course. How could it be any other way?"

Shiron beamed at the man sitting across from him.

Paulo Martini, missionary bishop.

A man who swept his glossy, oil-slicked blond hair straight back. Sharp, irritable eyes and a hooked nose sat in a narrow face that looked, at first glance, thoroughly uptight. Yet this same man had earned the trust of the locals within a single year of being posted to this contested region. He was a man of real character.

Word had it he was once a rising star of the Holy Iron Hammer Knights, until a horrific accident forced his retirement. Shiron's gaze drifted down to the prosthetic leg fitted below the man's knee.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

The prosthetic, stamped with the papal seal, kept the flesh where it met the metal from festering.

Every time I see it, I still find it fascinating.

Shiron had always been the type to get curious about elements that never appeared in the game and dig into them. It was a childish streak hard to reconcile with the image of a transmigrator, but there was no helping it. His body was a seventeen-year-old at the peak of its hormones, and the mind tended to follow the flesh—that was the universal rule.

Besides, the tools the game had given him were never enough to navigate every situation. Yesterday had proven it. Tomorrow would prove it again. Shiron had to use everything the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠circumstances offered him, without hesitation.

"In the end!"

Thud—

Sensing Shiron's attention wandering, Paulo stamped his prosthetic against the floor.

"Priests must project a neat, gentle demeanor even if their true natures fall short! Every last one of you is no different from a diplomat posted to a foreign nation!"

"I know. So please stop the lecture and just sign it already. Otherwise I can't graduate, can I?"

"…Hah."

Paulo covered his face with both hands. The youth's shameless attitude made his head spin a little.

He rubbed his burning eyelids, then ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stared at the stack of documents on the table.

Shiron's academic record.

The résumé was dazzling. It had to be. The young man in front of him was the greatest prodigy Lucerne Academy had produced since its founding…

Even if he had entered with a recommendation letter from Captain Malleus, the fact remained that he had passed the Lucerne Seminary entrance exam at the tender age of fourteen—an exam normally taken at seventeen. A child who had not even received baptism clearing a test that lifelong Gospel memorization might not guarantee? Of course every figure of note in Lucerne had fixed their eyes on Shiron.

And the youth had proceeded to smash every "youngest" record in sight, just to make a point.

But…

Even so, Paulo hesitated to graduate him.

Not because he feared leaking a precious talent to the outside world, but because Shiron was simply not the sort of person suited to become a priest.

He flipped to the final page of the academic record.

The moment he looked at it, Paulo felt another wave of dizziness.

Any one of those items was grounds for expulsion.

Just whose backing did this youth have that he had managed to reach third year? Paulo was dying to know.

The upperclassman assault got buried when his classmates submitted a petition, and he waved the elf lover away as a "guardian," somehow making it stick… but the absences and the drinking should have been impossible to overlook…

"Haaah…"

"Bishop Paulo. What exactly is the problem?"

When Paulo only sighed without answering, Shiron spoke up, sounding thoroughly irritated.

"You saw the band of wicked heretics I wiped out just yesterday, Bishop. Captain Malleus himself said that with achievements like these, early graduation is a given—and a priest's ordination would practically fall into my lap."

"Ordination… 'fall into my lap'…?"

"Priest. Slip of the tongue. Anyway."

Shiron offered Paulo a warm, toasty smile.

Paulo stared into the eyes that curved into crescent moons.

The expression looked, at a glance, like that of a thoroughly likable young man. Paulo knew exactly how vicious this youth truly was.

If he granted Shiron a priest's ordination right now, he could already see what would happen.

Rumors will spread that a priest of Lucerne is a demon without a drop of blood or tears.

Paulo made up his mind.

Here and now, he would persuade Shiron.

"Do you truly need to become a priest? You would suit a holy knight far better… no, a heretic inquisitor. 'Suit' doesn't even cover it. You were born to be a heretic inquisitor!"

"Bishop."

"…What is it?"

Paulo answered a beat late.

"If I become a heretic inquisitor, I can't go home."

"…That's true."

It certainly was. The heretic inquisitors of the Holy Kingdom were an elite unit drawn from orphans with nowhere else to go. As a natural result, the organization had developed a culture of throwing them into operations with virtually no leave.

"I have young younger sisters, and a great many dependents I need to support."

"…Don't lie to me. Everyone in Lucerne already knows you're a great noble of the Rihnn Empire."

"When I returned a week ago, a mountain of letters was waiting for me."

Shiron let out a deep sigh and held out the envelopes.

Rustle—

It was not one or two sheets.

An avalanche of letters spilled across the table.

"Can't you feel it, Bishop?"

"…Just how many is this?"

"Around thirty-five, I'd say."

"Insane."

"I think so too."

Shiron gave a hearty laugh and checked the senders.

Siriel, Siriel, Siriel… thirty letters.

Lucia, Lucia… four letters.

Victor… one letter.

What the hell is this bastard doing sending a letter every month?

Shiron tore Victor's letter open with a sharp rip. No need to check. It would be another desperate plea not to come back to the Academy, because he had personally cleaned up the insects buzzing around Lucia and Siriel.

"My little sisters miss their older brother terribly."

"I understand…"

Paulo heaved a long sigh, signed the paper, and stamped the still-wet license. The youngest priest in history was born on the spot.

Shiron slipped the license into his coat and smiled at Paulo.

"Please give Captain Malleus my regards."

"…I will."

"If fate allows, Bishop, let's meet again someday."

"May God's blessing always go with you on your path."

"Thank you."

Feeling considerably lighter, Shiron stepped out of the cathedral.

Outside, rows of outdoor cots held the sick and wounded. True to a conflict zone, indiscriminate factional fighting was still raging even now. Patients seeking the cathedral was an everyday occurrence.

This, too, ends today.

Shiron approached the nearest patient.

Warm energy flowed from his hand, easing the man's pain. Minor wounds, at least, he could treat with ease now.

The face of the patient who had been groaning in agony relaxed, and at last the man cracked his eyes open.

"Deacon… thank you, as always…"

"It's priest."

"…Priest. Thank you, as always."

"Yes. Shiron Prien, the youngest priest."

"…Ah. Yes."

Shiron made sure to give his name. Just in case it might let him meet Latera even without going to the Holy Land.

A fresh May sun poured down over the Academy grounds.

In a pavilion on the rooftop garden where the flowers were in full bloom, Siriel Prien gazed at a letter written in elegant handwriting and wore a contented smile.

Spritz—

Ah, is that too much?

Siriel set the perfume bottle aside and fluttered the paper through the air.

If the perfume is too strong, Oppa might think I'm some cheap girl.

She brought the paper to the tip of her nose and checked whether the scent was overdone.

"…Siriel."

"E-eh?"

Siriel startled and looked up.

In front of her sat a slightly sour-faced friend. Not Lucia, though.

Grace Versaille. A classmate who had entered the Academy together with Siriel and Lucia. Word was she was the daughter of a rather old and prestigious martial house… but that detail was not important to Siriel.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure, go ahead."

Siriel answered with a bright smile.

"Who on earth are you writing to that you're putting this much effort into it?"

"Just a letter to my oppa, checking in."

"…Really?"

"Mm-hmm."

"I see…"

Grace took a sip of her long-cold black tea. Spraying perfume on a letter looked exactly like sending a love letter—but the moment she heard the recipient was an older brother traveling far away, all the heat drained out of it.

Her friend Siriel Prien was normally a girl of cold expression who never showed a hint of a smile.

There were times, however, when she openly let her emotions show.

When she sparred with her other friend, Lucia.

And when she took up a feather pen with a splendid golden tip and wrote across dainty paper.

By the way… are those two really sisters?

Grace glanced down over the rooftop railing. Below, a red-haired girl was in the middle of thoroughly thrashing a group of upperclassmen.