The Ill-Fated Priest #3
Do you know anything about church retreats?
Ordinarily, a youth-group church retreat meant singing hymns, reading scripture, offering a few prayers, then settling in for a good meal in the evening — complete with a BBQ party and recreation at an outdoor campground. Spend two nights and three days like that, and the participants grow close; couples even start forming left and right.
In my opinion, a twenty-first-century church retreat was really just a social mixer.
"But even among the fakes, a genuine article still turns up now and then. Someone like me, for instance."
There were real retreats too — the kind that actually lived up to the word discipline.
Back when I was still a seminary student, I used to attend that sort of retreat every quarter. From morning until bedtime you read the Bible, prayed aloud until your throat went raw, and trained yourself so hard that your knees bruised from kneeling all day long.
Life at Emeris Monastery was much the same.
One full week devoted solely to honing holy power and meditating on the faith.
And at last, I was put to the test.
"Monk Hyde. Cough. If you have awakened to holy power, you should be able to purify this murky, muddy water. The water is muddy, but it was originally holy water — so it will respond to your holy power. Cough."
Puccino, the supervisor of the monks, held out a basin toward me, his bald head gleaming — shaved in that peculiar way that made it look like an egg yolk.
"Cough! Cough-cough!"
Puccino's bronchial tubes were apparently in terrible shape; he coughed every day, never covering his mouth, just spraying germs in every direction.
An utterly crude bastard.
The basin he handed me looked like a washbasin, filled with muddy water so cloudy that even my face wouldn't reflect in it.
"Go on, then. Cough."
At Puccino's word, I took the basin.
Purifying it clean with holy power — that was my examination.
"Do you really think that Midbar native has gained any insight into holy power?"
"Come on, the guy's no saint or holy maiden. Awakening holy power in a single week? Please."
The monks muttered their disbelief as they watched me, but I was supremely confident.
After all, for this entire week I had lived a truly devout and wholesome life of faith.
Muddy water like this? I'd clear it in an instant.
"Hup—!"
I gripped the washbasin with both hands and poured strength through my whole body.
Slosh.
Perhaps from the force in my hands, gentle ripples spread across the surface for a moment —
Then bubble-bubble — air pockets began rising through the muddy water.
"Oh?"
I was honestly surprised.
Even I, who had never shown the slightest talent for magic or aura, seemed to have some mysterious power flowing through me!
I closed my eyes and focused harder, turning my attention inward toward my spiritual core. Something electric and tingling seemed to course from my heart through my entire body. It felt as though hot blood were flooding through clogged vessels, and my body temperature surged all at once.
"L-Look at that!"
"Good heavens, what is that?!"
"The water's changing!"
I heard the astonished cries of the people around me.
Had the water in the basin not merely cleared, but transformed into rainbow-hued holy water?
I opened my eyes with that hopeful expectation — and was mildly shocked.
It was still the exact same cloudy, muddy water.
The only difference was that it was now bubbling and boiling like carbonated soda.
"What the hell is this."
Pffft—.
Laughter soon followed. I turned my head and found the monks — their scalps shaved smooth as polished stone — snickering as they looked at me.
"It didn't clear up at all!"
"Good lord, even without talent for holy power, how can someone be that bad?!"
What on earth had gone wrong?
For this entire week I had truly refined myself through devout, ascetic discipline. From the moment I woke until the moment I slept, I had prayed and meditated — so why this?
"There's a problem. There is clearly something wrong with this muddy water!"
I was certain some trick had been played on the water. Me, of all people, unable to purify water? Aside from foul play involving the muddy water, there simply were no other options.
But Supervisor Puccino shook his head.
"Tsk tsk. There's nothing wrong with the water. Cough. There's truly nothing wrong with it, so don't go casting baseless suspicions, you insolent brat!"
"No, still — I'd like to check just once."
The moment I tried to dip my hand into the cloudy water, Puccino snatched the basin from my grip and dumped it out onto the dirt floor.
At that high-handed act, I was about to start with "Hold on—" when a thunderous voice cut me off.
"You worthless fool! Unable even to admit your own inadequacy!"
I turned my head. A thin, clean-shaven middle-aged man with grey hair — looking especially gaunt from the close shave — was scowling at me with a thoroughly vicious expression.
It was Nomad, the abbot of this monastery.
"How dare you blame the water for your own lack of piety and virtue? You — I can see now that your discipline is sorely lacking. Starting tomorrow, you will also participate in physical training!"
"Physical training?"
What was physical training supposed to be?
Was there some method of cultivating holy power I didn't know about?
Now this is getting interesting!
The next day, I found out exactly what that physical training was.
Emeris Monastery was largely self-sufficient, and behind the grounds they cultivated a fairly large field for growing vegetables. Farming in this barbaric medieval world was pure hard labor.
I barely had time to pray as it was, and now they wanted me farming? Frankly, it felt like a waste of time.
"There was definitely something wrong with that muddy water. Bad dirt, maybe. Or the holy water was cheap stuff. Or maybe this monastery's location is just cursed?"
I wanted to retake the holy power examination.
But every day of grueling farm work left my body more and more exhausted, and there were times I simply nodded off mid-prayer and fell asleep.
"I finally got a second chance, and if I keep going like this I'll end up a farmer instead of a priest."
Slip—.
On a night when even the moonlight was hidden behind clouds, I slipped quietly out of my room.
My plan was to use the holy water kept at the monastery and test my holy power on my own. But holy water was a fairly precious commodity, stored in the chapel — a place only high-ranking monks were permitted to enter.
Naturally, such a place had a night watchman on duty by regulation. The chapel's night watchman, however, was dozing off with his head bobbing.
The monks of this monastery farmed every single day, so of course they were exhausted enough to fall asleep at night.
"You fool. While you sleep, salvation and heaven come like a thief. That is why a man must always stay awake."
Ssshh—.
After delivering a brief sermon to the sleeping watchman, I slipped past him without a sound.
Inside the chapel, a basin of holy water sat waiting. I mixed in the dirt I had prepared in my pocket beforehand, then channeled "holy power" into it exactly as I had during the examination.
"Hup!"
A strange change occurred.
The holy water did not clear — it boiled and bubbled with froth.
"What is this."
As I stood there puzzled, a familiar sound struck my ear.
Cough—. Cough—.
Coughing.
I listened more carefully and heard not only the coughs but also the murmur of conversation.
"Is Supervisor Puccino reciting a prayer?"
A prayer.
I had only recently learned that the prayer Puccino had given me on the first day was a Wood Badge prayer.
In this world, monks recited different prayers according to their rank, and naturally the higher the rank, the greater the prayer's effect. Puccino was a ten-year veteran with his name engraved on an Iron Badge.
His prayer would certainly be an Iron Badge prayer. Praying with that every day would be far more helpful for cultivating holy power than a Wood Badge prayer.
With that thought, I strained my ears toward the prayer room where Puccino was staying.
"—Yes. We proceeded the same way this time. The muddy water was just ordinary water. If it isn't holy water, it won't respond to holy power, after all. Cough. It was a perfect little performance — using insufficient training as an excuse to put him on physical labor. Cough."
"That Midbar bastard has good stamina. He's full of life. The sisters have been wanting vigorous offerings. Let's work him a bit longer, then sell him off to the Sisterhood."
"As expected of the Abbot. Cough. This time the muddy water even started bubbling and boiling. Even I was quite startled. Cough. Was that some sorcery the Sisterhood taught you?"
"Boiling? I have no idea what that means. But the witches of the Crescent Moon have always been helping us with this and that. If I ascend to the bishop's seat soon, it will be thanks to them."
"This fucking—"
I knew it. Of course it was like this.
The problem with my holy power training had never been my fault. With heretics like these occupying the head of the monastery, no amount of earnest effort would let me accumulate holy power.
No matter how hard I tried to stay clean, if mudfish thrashing dirty water were right beside me, of course my clothes would get filthy.
The moment that thought settled, a furious rage began to rise in me.
"My time."
Nearly twelve days.
Almost two full weeks wasted because of these despicable bastards — I could not stand it. Twelve days might not sound like much, but in terms of faith, twelve days was enough time for the Lord to create the world twice over, and enough time to rise from the dead four times.
"How dare they—"
I could not tolerate men who colluded with heretical cultists calling themselves monastics. And on top of that, they had rigged the muddy water with tricks and then rebuked me in front of everyone as immoral?
Worse still — they planned to work me like a slave and sell me off to the Crescent Moon Sisterhood?
"—Guilty."
Nomad, abbot of Emeris Monastery, was in an excellent mood.
The newly arrived slave — monk — was exceptionally sturdy and healthy.
'The bastard even knows his letters and theology. All that daily racket about how faith ought to be this and that was irritating, but soon enough his life will be over anyway!'
Nomad was thrilled at the prospect of handing the newcomer over to the Crescent Moon Sisterhood. The recruit was tall, reasonably handsome, and literate — so his sale price would be high.
The Crescent Moon Sisterhood particularly favored tall, good-looking, intelligent men.
"This time I might get thirty silver coins out of it."
Thirty silver.
At the thought of buying a hair ribbon for his lover Cristona, who lived in Sodomy, Nomad's hips were already twitching with anticipation. Whatever money remained after the gift, he would use to express his "sincerity" to the Archbishop of Durgien. Then being recommended for the bishop's seat of Sodomy at the next council would no longer be a mere dream.
"Bishop Nomad. From a bottom-rung Wood Badge monk to a Silver Badge bishop in twenty years—"
He was deep in his daydream when it happened.
Rattle-rattle—.
The window of the abbot's office shook violently, then swung wide open.
"It's summer — what's with this wind?"
Grumbling, Nomad approached the window to close it, and only then noticed that someone was standing outside.
"Hm?"
The distance was roughly fifty feet.
It looked like a pitch-black shadow. With even the moonlight hidden behind clouds, under that dark sky, the figure slowly raised a finger and pointed it at Nomad.
As if accusing him.
That single gesture alone stood out with unnatural clarity even in the darkness.
"Wh-What? Son of a bitch? Motherless…? Who's there?! Who the hell is playing games at this hour of night?!"
The voice rang out with unnatural clarity from the darkness, and Nomad startled. Just as he was wondering what on earth was going on, the dark voice continued.
Curse of Awareness
"Thus saith: Thou shalt be able to breathe only by consciously perceiving every second, every moment of thy breath. Inhale and exhale. Feel vividly, day after day, the air that enters thy lungs."
"Wh-Who's out there?! Who is it?! What bastard is pulling this stunt in the middle of the night?! Hans? Is this because I kicked you out of the monastery — are you holding a grudge?!"
Nomad snatched up a nearby candlestick and shouted in a panic. But when he turned his head, the black shadow's form had already vanished.
"What in the world…"
Thinking it a strange affair, Nomad let out a long sigh — and immediately noticed something wrong. From the act of exhaling to the act of inhaling—
That process, which had always been so natural he had never paid it any special attention, was now becoming unnaturally, vividly conscious.
"M-My breath…?"
Inhale. Exhale.
He had to focus solely on that fact, and so he could do nothing else. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes — no matter how much time passed, it would not return to normal.
Nomad was so rattled that cold sweat poured down his face.
"…I'll just sleep! Yes, I'll go to sleep!"
Thinking it might improve once he woke, Nomad lay down on his soft goose-down bedding. The moment he closed his eyes — the man realized the situation was far more terrifying than he had imagined.
The instant his eyelids shut and he began to slip toward unconsciousness—
His breathing stopped along with them.
"…Oh, for fuck's sake — if I fall asleep, I'll forget how to breathe!"