Words to Shatter the Silence Before Suspicion Takes Root
It was a half-assed remark I'd tossed out just to break the awkward silence before his doubts could deepen. A flimsy excuse at best—I hadn't expected Mun Yo-seop to take it at face value.
But surprisingly, he nodded slowly, as if conceding the point.
"I see. The type who thrives in a crisis, then?"
"W-Well... something like that."
"A hero who shines in turbulent times— that'll do. Anyway, got it. So..."
Mun Yo-seop glanced around. His eyes, which had been wandering the Holy Training Ground, soon fixed on one spot. The armory.
Through the half-open door, dusty training weapons jutted out haphazardly.
He jerked his chin toward them and continued. "You'll use a weapon. I won't. That should even things out."
"...Truth be told, I don't know much about handling weapons."
"No problem. You'll learn as we spar. Come on, follow me—I'll pick one out for you."
He dragged me toward the armory. Swords, spears, bows—archaic weapons coated in dust, their luster long faded, piled high.
Mun Yo-seop browsed them like he was shopping, then spoke as if struck by a sudden thought.
"You know what the most common excuse is from folks dragged into court for spontaneous murder?"
"Uh... no idea."
"'I didn't think it'd kill him,' 'I just meant to scare him a bit.' They all trot out the exact same lines, like they've rehearsed it. So, what do you think was in their hands?"
I shut my mouth. A knife sprang to mind first, but that didn't feel right.
Mun Yo-seop pulled a mace from the pile, brushed off the dust, and went on. "Usually something like this—a blunt instrument with a heavy, rounded head. Hammers, chairs, sometimes bricks pried from a wall."
"..."
"Now, put it all together. What conclusion do you draw?"
He shoved the mace into my hands. It was far heavier and colder than I'd imagined.
Before I could answer, he pressed on. "A blunt weapon gives even the timid courage they didn't know they had. No matter how kind or cowardly, pick one up, and suddenly you've got the guts to kill!"
"Is that really the right way to interpret it?"
"Right or wrong—what does it matter? If it sounds good, that's enough."
He pointed at the mace in my grip. "Genesis says the first murder weapon was a blunt one too. Cain probably didn't want to kill his brother. He just swung a rock to test the waters, and... oops."
"Huh?"
"That was a joke. Forget it."
Grinning with hands clasped behind his back, he strode to the center of the Holy Training Ground's sparring ring. I followed.
The floor was thick with dust from disuse, making it slick underfoot.
"Shouldn't we clean before we spar?" I said, kicking at the dirt with my toe.
He shook his head. "Nah, like this. Fights are more fun with variables. Gotta practice on slippery ground too, right?"
"Ah... sure."
I had no idea when I'd ever need to fight on slick terrain, but I nodded anyway. Mun Yo-seop wasn't the type to listen if I argued.
Careful not to slip, I toed my way forward. He marched confidently to his corner, ignoring the dust entirely.
As I took my opposite corner, he spoke. "Say when you're ready. I'll match you."
He assumed a stance— one I'd never seen before. It looked sloppy on defense and offense, full of glaring openings. No martial art or fighting style I knew started from something so bizarre. All techniques prioritized efficiency; there was no reason for such inefficiency.
Some special inquisitor technique only they use?
I brushed it off. I took a clumsy stance of my own. No chance of winning anyway—just put on enough of a show not to disappoint him.
"Ready—"
[Bosu's body is itching like crazy right now.]
I was about to say "ready" when Bosu cut in. His voice drooped with dejection.
[Tell the Prophet to summon Bosu, pretty please.]
"..."
[Bosu isn't flashy like Sobo... Is that why the Prophet hates me? Such a tragedy...]
"..."
[Without Bosu, you can't beat that guy. I know it instinctively. You gonna lose like this? The Prophet has no fire for victory. Steeped in defeatism...]
Always with the grating noise. Still, even with the mace, beating Mun Yo-seop was a pipe dream. Mighty Strength Blessing or other blessings wouldn't cut it. Hell, I might not even get a chance to use them.
"Take your time getting ready."
I glanced at Mun Yo-seop, glaring from his weird stance. He overestimated me. His surveillance mixed with forced camaraderie stemmed from that misconception.
The moment I fell short in this spar, that camaraderie would vanish, leaving only suspicion. He'd grill me about the Satanist fight, no doubt.
...Fine. Might as well use it.
I clasped my hands at my chest. Mun Yo-seop, poised and waiting, tilted his head curiously.
"What're you doing?"
"I always pray before sparring. It's my... routine."
"Excellent habit. Carry on. Say when you're set."
I closed my eyes, clasped hands, muttering nonsense to fake a prayer. A natural improv to summon Bosu.
[Bosu answers the Prophet's call after so long!]
I'd slipped his name in mid-prayer; he responded gleefully. Soon, Bosu's power surged through me—superhuman strength welling up.
A steady thrum and heavy breaths echoed in my muffled ears. Flashes filled my vision, veined strands flickering beyond. But as I steadied my breathing, the glare faded.
Since I'd only offered sacrifices without using powers lately, the burden was light.
[The Prophet's vessel has grown!]
Bosu claimed, but who knew if it was true. I exhaled deeply, feeling the heat and tingle flood my body. Elation and confidence boiled within.
Right now, I could take him.
"Here I come."
"Come at me easy."
The spar began with his reply, but he didn't budge an inch. Just stared blankly from that bizarre stance.
It looked baseless at a glance. Yet instinct screamed not to close the distance rashly.
Before bridging the gap, I needed to break that eerie posture first.
"..."
One way to shatter it without advancing.
I raised the mace in my right hand, aiming for his head. Channeling Mighty Strength Blessing evenly into my right shoulder, back, arm, and chest. I dropped low, rose on tiptoe, shifted my weight upward, and hurled the full force through the mace.
Bosu's signature toss, amplified by the blessing. Unavoidable.
"Whoa!"
Thwack!
He ducked dramatically, genuinely startled by my grunt. The mace slammed into the cage with a deafening crash.
Mun Yo-seop eyed the dented cage and my face, flashing a childlike grin.
"That was dangerous! You'd have killed me!"
His voice trembled—not with fear, but pure thrill.
No time to reply. I lunged into the gap his broken stance left.
*
So Do-jin limped along, injured ankle throbbing. Lying in bed waiting to heal felt too stifling; he'd bolted from the infirmary toward the Holy Training Ground.
Kim Bok-dong or Ha Ye-jin would chew him out if caught, but no risk, no reward.
From the rebuilt gym to the cafeteria, main building—he scanned Florence's structures. The main building's steeple cross showed faint rust. Always rushing before, this slow walk revealed overlooked details.
Life at a leisurely pace wasn't half bad.
Passing the shuttered barn—sealed after his animals turned to magic beasts—a familiar scent hit him.
"..."
The acrid stench from the hospital, facing the chairman. Cigarette smoke.
He followed slowly. Ankle wouldn't cooperate for speed.
He spotted her at the path to Eden Hill from the barn. She stubbed her smoke at eye contact, bolting the other way.
"Hey! Where you running? Stay put."
So Do-jin halted her. Kim Jin-seo froze, then backpedaled warily.
"You won't yell?"
"You quit if I do?"
"Hm."
She nodded. He'd never planned to scold anyway—same boat, sneaking from infirmary himself. No stones from glass houses.
He limped on, then paused curiously. "Wait, why're you here? Shouldn't you be in class?"
"...Sneaking..."
"Sneaking what?"
"Training... for a bit... yeah."
She trailed off vaguely. Sneaking training, stepped out for a quick smoke.
He nodded slowly. "For practicals?"
"Yeah, sorta."
"And you smoke? During practicals season?"
"..."
Practicals loomed—training was praiseworthy. But smoking? Worth addressing.
She stared at the ground, speechless.
"Not scolding... anyway, where to now?"
"...Class?"
"Nothing else? Follow me."
He dragged his foot onward. Slow going with the limp. She caught up, head tilted.
"Where to?"
"Holy Training Ground. Been too long since I held a sword. Train with me."
He waved. His wrist rattled oddly. Ankle wrecked, muscles atrophied.
"Body's shot, but... swordplay I can teach, probably."
"Ah, okay..."
His rattling wrist recalled that incident—guilt stabbed her. Amid the scuffle over injured duo and one potion, she'd lost it, pinning him by force. His wrist got hurt then.
So Do-jin sensed her guilt but ignored it. In her shoes, he'd save his friend over some elder too.
"Quit smoking. For your own good."
His tone cautious en route.
"...Yeah."
"Or at least till practicals. Beat Kang Dae-man or Yeo Min-seo chain-smoking?"
"Yep."
She answered boldly. He snorted in disbelief.
Where's that confidence from?
"Cocky much?"
"Not cocky... I'll win."
She stated it plainly. Fair enough—she had the skills. Yeo Min-seo gimped, Kang Dae-man brute force sans finesse.
Thinking on it, few matched her. Ma Yu-hyeon and Han Su-ryeon too stylistic; Seong Ha-yeon out. Left one.
"Do Seon-woo?"
Kim Jin-seo flinched.
"W-Why him?"
"Can you win?"
"I can."
"Sure?"
"Pretty... why keep asking?"
She snapped back irritably. She'd beaten him once in sword sparring, but sword-only. Different rules? Maybe loss. Or he threw it.
"Genuinely curious who'd win. So, sure?"
She eyed distant hills pensively, then shook her head.
"Dunno."
She truly didn't. Nothing certain about him. Thought she knew him well, but zilch. He shared nothing personal. Consistent to all—including her. That irked.
Hence the snippiness at So Do-jin.
"Fair enough. You'll figure it."
He trudged on. Didn't care who won—spars didn't gauge cleric prowess. Paladins aimed to exterminate demons and beasts; reals had variables unlike spars.
Yet he centered classes on spars because clerics' ultimate goal was heretic annihilation. Heretics mimicked humans. Like Gu Jun-hyeok.
"Been a while."
They reached the Holy Training Ground. So Do-jin muttered, eyeing birds perched on the weathered roof, surveying the world.
Memories flooded: trapped here, facing dozens of demons, hundreds of beasts. Once recalled, they swelled, filling his mind.
Heart raced. This was why he'd come—to confront those memories sword in hand.
Thought he'd be fine; wasn't.
Thud!
A dull boom echoed from inside. Roof birds flapped in panic.
Crashing, crumpling repeated. So Do-jin instinctively reached for his waist—empty, no sword.
"Left it at the infirmary..."
His hand trembled. Gu Jun-hyeok's allies or taxidermy dolls raiding Florence? Fear surged. Current state, couldn't protect students from demons.
"What?"
Kim Jin-seo eyed him puzzled. Unaware of his ordeal here.
He wiped cold sweat, feigning nonchalance. "Nah, nothing. Probably fine..."
Has to be. He entered. She followed.
Their gazes locked on one spot.
They stared, entranced, at two men battling in the ring.
Do Seon-woo swung a massive, heavy-looking mace freely—hurling, thrusting variably, beastly yet precise.
Mun Yo-seop parried leisurely, grinning like toying with prey. Dodged tosses, redirected swings, slamming Do Seon-woo's arm to ground.
Dust billowed wildly per step. Some moves too swift, uncanny to track. Only cage dents and ground slams audible.
"Nasil."
So Do-jin's eyes fixed on Mun Yo-seop. Beside him, Kim Jin-seo silently tracked Do Seon-woo.
His movements.
"..."
Too fast to follow visually, yet each packed power, laced with precise offense-defense calculus. Unlike their spar—flawless now. Eyes sharp, intense.
First time seeing him so dead serious.
(To be continued in the next chapter)