Blood of the Martyr (2)
Do you know what happens when a bullet burrows into human flesh?
Of course, there are exceptions, but generally, it creates an entry wound and an exit wound in the body. Just as a building with an entrance has a separate exit, the path of the bullet carves its own tunnel.
Entry and exit. If they pierce the lungs, you suffocate and die. In the head, your shattered brain, flesh, and skull fragments spray out as you die. In the heart, you drop dead from shock, or cling to life for a little while before dying.
In the end, you die. No matter how desperately you thrash and scream to survive, a gunshot to a vital spot means death. Even grandmages and swordmasters are no exception.
Of course, they would deploy defensive magic to block the bullet before it reaches them, or slice it apart with their blades. But most people thrown into the battlefield lack such monstrous abilities.
Yeah. You die. Unless you're lucky enough to be rescued by a skilled priest standing by nearby, any hope of surviving by sheer fortune is slim.
But those who die from mere gunshot wounds at least leave a corpse behind—a small blessing for their bereaved families.
You didn't even get that small blessing.
How much better it would have been if you had.
If you hadn't been shredded beyond recognition by a high-explosive shell detonating right behind you.
If your bones hadn't been pulverized, your guts hadn't burst open, spraying a mist of blood in all directions.
If you hadn't died so pointlessly, without a single scream or last words.
If you'd just been shot instead. If you'd at least left a body behind.
How much better that would have been.
I remember the grand funeral held by the imperial family for the war veterans. I remember the families sending off their loved ones in coffins, weeping as if the overcast sky that day had poured down their tears.
I remember the widow who lost her husband, crying out to the Lord—Why take him so soon? Why inflict such trials?—until she collapsed in a faint.
And you, standing alone as the coffins holding everyone else's bodies were buried, with only a lonely tombstone erected for you.
I remember.
Humans, when death approaches, cry out most desperately for God.
It doesn't matter which god. They plead for the Lord's grace, cling to barbarian folk faiths, yearn for heretic deities, or even casually invoke demons.
I called no one's name. I knew all too well that no being could help me, fallen into the depths of hell.
But I didn't curse God. I knew how foolish that would be.
Instead of cursing an innocent God, you should resent the head of state who declared war.
Instead of resenting the leader, resent the cause of the war.
And if you have time to resent anyone, abandon such useless thoughts and focus on how to survive.
I faithfully put that into action and survived like this.
So why couldn't you?
...Helena.
“Urk...! Urrgh...!”
I clung to the toilet and heaved repeatedly. The tea I'd drunk earlier came up entirely, and now only bitter stomach acid scorched my innocent esophagus as it forced its way up.
“Ptoo! Damn it all...”
I spat out the watery saliva and flushed the toilet. I watched the vomit-swirled water spiral down.
Why am I here?
I was clearly talking with Priest Peter right there, and then...
Then, Priestess Camilla asked me...
If I knew Helena...
“Ugh...!”
Overwhelming nausea made my shoulders convulse. I gripped the toilet again.
I'd already emptied everything out, so why did my stomach still churn?
Because of battlefield memories? Because of the corpses rotting from the inside?
Or because of this inexplicable metallic blood stench numbing my nose since moments ago?
On any other day, I wouldn't have given it a second thought. No, I'd have ignored it deliberately.
If it hadn't been Helena's blood.
The texture under my hand felt fluffy, like grasping a pile of dirt. That sensation naturally brought the trench to mind.
The hellish trench where shells rained endlessly, turning the earth into a downpour.
I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head wildly. This isn't real. I've already shaken it off. So please.
“Stop... stop it...”
Please stop.
“......”
How much time passed like that?
Time sense had vanished. I had no idea how long it'd been since I'd bolted to the bathroom mid-conversation. I checked my wristwatch.
Ignoring the occasional small tremors in my arm, I confirmed the time. The hour and minute hands pointed to exactly 10 a.m.
I slowly opened my eyes. The academy cathedral bathroom came into view—familiar from the few times I'd seen it.
The tinnitus ringing in my ears faded, and the shaking in my body gradually subsided. I slowly lowered the toilet lid and collapsed onto it.
“Hoo...”
I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped my forehead; it soaked up cold sweat. I wiped the sweat from my nape too, then stepped out to the sink, splashed cold water on my face roughly, and left the bathroom.
Unlike the mostly sealed bathroom, overwhelmingly fresh air filled my lungs. It felt a bit better.
“You're finally out.”
I turned toward the voice. Priestess Camilla leaned against the wall by the bathroom entrance.
“Priestess Camilla.”
I realized now—my voice was parched and cracked. Probably damaged from vomiting acid.
Priestess Camilla seemed taken aback by it too. Her eyes wavered uncertainly for a moment before she turned her head away.
“At least rinse your mouth. Your voice sounds awful.”
“......”
I did as she said and came out. She was still waiting by the bathroom door.
“Head Chaplain Antonelli.”
I looked at Priestess Camilla. Her hazy gray eyes fixed on me.
“Yes, Priestess Camilla.”
“Don't we have something to talk about?”
She smiled with her eyes, but her naturally sharp features made it look like a feral grin to me.
I averted my gaze and replied.
“What are you referring to?”
“...It's a problem if you play dumb like this.”
“Priestess Camilla. Mind your manners.”
Her tone was subtly aggressive. My brow furrowed involuntarily.
She stared at me silently for a moment, then bowed her head.
“Sorry. It's just my usual way of speaking.”
“I understand.”
“But this doesn't feel like usual.”
Priestess Camilla strode toward me, invading personal space like she didn't know better, stopping just half a step away.
“Head Chaplain Antonelli. You're taller than I thought.”
“Priestess Camilla. What is this?”
“Sorry. I was just really curious about something.”
Her already sharp face sharpened further as she glared at me. I met her eyes calmly.
“Head Chaplain Antonelli. You knew Priestess Helena, didn't you?”
Hearing that name again made my head spin. I suppressed the throbbing pain and looked at her.
Was Priestess Camilla acquainted with Helena?
Even if they were, there was no reason for her to act so insolent and aggressive toward me. I answered in my usual flat tone.
“...Yes. I knew her.”
“As expected... That makes things quicker, then.”
“How did you know I knew Helena?”
“Earlier, when Priest Peter asked if you'd served, your answer made it obvious to anyone you'd been in the war. And you're Helena's successor as head chaplain and theology professor at the cathedral. I asked just in case, and it checks out.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly as she watched me. Then she spoke.
“Head Chaplain Antonelli. Were you there when Priestess Helena died?”
“...Yes. Unfortunately.”
“Then tell me honestly. Why did Priestess Helena die?”
“She fell in battle. Regrettably.”
“That's not what I'm asking, Head Chaplain Antonelli.”
I noticed her fists clench tight. I met her eyes.
And the moment her mouth opened.
“Why, when Priestess Helena was dying right in front of you, did you do nothing?”
The instant I heard those absurd words.
Something in my head...
Snap.
...Broke.
BAM—!
Priestess Camilla looked up at the man standing right in front of her. She'd disliked those stoic eyes from the first moment she saw them.
I asked just in case, and it was true...'
That he knew Priestess Helena was a bit shocking. The world was small, but such coincidence?
While at it, she decided to probe deeper.
“Head Chaplain Antonelli. Were you there when Priestess Helena died?”
She didn't miss his dead-fish eyes waver for an instant.
“...Yes. Unfortunately.”
Rage boiled inside Priestess Camilla. When she'd heard Helena fell in battle, it felt like the world collapsed.
Yet he'd been there. And a priest, no less.
“Why, when Priestess Helena was dying right in front of you, did you do nothing?”
Did you just let her die?
And right after she spat it out.
Head Chaplain Antonelli's eyes changed completely. For the first time, she saw an emotion she'd never glimpsed in him.
Something like fire consumed his pupils, swallowing those usually parched-desert eyes in the hottest inferno.
It was unmistakable rage. No—something more desperate than rage. Veins bulged on his hands.
Crunch...
But by the time she noticed.
Whoosh—.
...Huh?
BAM—!
It was already too late.