A Lesson in Discipline
Some parents might say you shouldn't scold a child recklessly, but I doubt any would claim you should never scold them at all. If someone like that existed, they'd probably deserve a scolding themselves. It's easy to see what kind of disaster an undisciplined child might unleash on society without a guardian to correct their mistakes—just look at that cartoon about the green baby dinosaur with psychic powers. Discipline isn't a guardian's right; it's their duty. That was the very point the author of the book I'd burned not long ago, The Parenting Bible: Raising a Child Who Throws Tantrums Without Losing Your Cool, had hammered home across ten whole pages.
"Let go when I say it nicely. Welna."
"Uh, uhh…?"
The Saintess stumbled backward, putting distance between us as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. Even I was surprised that such a cold voice could come out of my own mouth—how much more shocking must it have been for her? I'd heard before that anger from someone who rarely shows it is the most terrifying kind, but I'd never imagined I'd be the one proving that theory right.
Of course, I wasn't actually angry. This was all just an act. Before attempting discipline, I'd simply slapped on the most fitting mask I could improvise. After all, I'd lived such a listless, powerless life that I could barely remember the last time I'd truly lost my temper. People had often remarked that I seemed to have forgotten how to get angry, poking at my soft nature, and I'd never bothered to argue back.
Now what? The gamble I'd thrown out desperately to escape this corner might have worked through sheer luck, but the real problem was the next move. Someone like me, who'd spent their whole life avoiding anger, couldn't possibly maintain a stern enough atmosphere to properly scold someone just by frowning and lowering my voice. Honestly, if my facial muscles hadn't stiffened from all the repeated worrying, even this clumsy performance would've fallen apart.
"U-uuu…"
But it worked. Had some latent talent as an actor finally awakened in me? Or was the Saintess simply naive enough to fall for such an obvious act? Unfortunately, I didn't have the luxury to leisurely figure out which was true. Now that I'd confirmed even this crude display of anger was effective, I had to press the advantage while I could.
"Welna. First, undo whatever you did to my body right now. And promise me here and now that you'll restore the priest you froze earlier as soon as possible."
"U-uuut…"
"Welna."
"N-no…"
"Welna!"
"N-nooo… I don't want to… I don't want to…"
She flinched at my firm tone but clung tightly to my collar with both hands, stubbornly refusing to yield. It was pitiful to watch, but the painful memories of my teenage years—being scolded by my elders time and again—reminded me that now was the moment to drive the point home. My resolve didn't waver.
Corporal punishment. It was a crude, outdated idea that a beating was the best remedy for a disobedient child, but few parenting methods delivered such immediate feedback. Even the kindest parents sometimes found themselves reaching for the switch. I hadn't wanted to resort to something so rough either, but right now, the lives of 1.5 people rested on my shoulders—my own life, and the life of a rather unimportant priest. There was no time to be picky about methods.
Though the Saint's blessing was gradually eroding my senses, I could still move my upper body as I wished. That fact alone decided my fate.
Click.
I yanked the rosary from around my neck and drew out the hidden blade, flicking it open like a balisong knife. Using a rosary with concealed weapons was considered barbaric even among priests from monastic backgrounds, to the point it was tacitly taboo. But most adventurer-turned-priests like me preferred and relied on these hidden-blade rosaries for self-defense in a pinch. On the battlefield, the presence or absence of a weapon could mean the difference between life and death. Even a palm-sized knife was infinitely better than nothing—that was common sense, even to children outside the Capital.
"…?"
The Saintess tilted her head in faint confusion and suspicion at the sudden appearance of the blade. Then—
Crunch.
The sickening sound of steel piercing flesh rang out, and crimson blood splattered.
"…Huh?"
A hollow breath escaped the Saintess's lips. Her eyes widened, her breathing quickened, and her small lips trembled. The emotion written across her face was unmistakable: shock. Perhaps even fear. It was understandable. The scene unfolding before her was more than enough to evoke such dark feelings.
I had driven the blade into the back of my own hand. Just like the Saintess had once done in front of me.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Head-flicks. Switches. The thinking chair. There were all kinds of corporal punishments in the world, but coming up with one that would actually work on the Saintess was no easy task. How could I frighten someone who would stab her own hand until it was a ragged mess over something as trivial as not offering her lips willingly? A petty coward like me, who had dropped Berserk because it was too brutal, couldn't possibly invent something like that. Besides, no matter how necessary the education, a guardian priest plotting to harm the Saintess's sacred body was already a grave sin. I had to abandon any punishment involving pain.
After agonizing over it for a long while, a thought suddenly occurred to me. If I couldn't hurt the Saintess herself, what if I took something she cherished hostage? At first, I hadn't known what she held dear, and I'd worried that using such a harsh method on an emotionally unstable Saintess might be wrong, so I hadn't acted on it. But now? Now that I knew exactly what she cherished, and with no other way to resolve the situation, maybe it was time to put my wicked plan into motion.
"Haa…"
Perhaps because the Saint's blessing was breaking down my mind and senses, bizarre thoughts and concepts floated chaotically in my head. Even organizing the fragments of thought that occasionally surfaced was exhausting. The pain in the back of my hand was more bearable than I'd expected—almost insignificant. It felt as if my consciousness was awake while my body was under anesthesia. The boundary between dream and reality blurred, and only the faint presence of the foreign metal piercing my flesh and touching bone reminded me that I still existed in my original form.
It was a terrible thing to say, but stabbing myself had been the right call. Self-harm had been part of the plan, but the original intention was only to pretend to stab myself. Driving the blade straight into my hand without hesitation was technically an accident. Yet my instincts, honed through dozens, hundreds of life-or-death situations, had warned me that if I didn't create a stimulus strong enough to punch a hole in my hand right now, my mind would be completely consumed by something formless. Like a spinal reflex, by the time I came to my senses, my right hand had already plunged the blade into the back of my left hand.
"Ow… Now that my hand's in this state, I won't be able to pat Welna's head or give her a hug anymore… What should I do…?"
"…"
As if her brain had hit a buffering screen, the Saintess stood frozen in place without the slightest movement or even a single blink, simply staring at the blood dripping from my left hand. Warm droplets slid down the blade, one by one, splattering onto the floor and leaving dark red stains on this pristine white world. For a long moment.
My eyelids grew heavier. The pain dulled. Only after belatedly realizing that the only part of my body I could still move was above my neck did I decide to use my final remaining method. I brought the blade still protruding from my palm up to my own throat. In the hero movies I'd watched as a kid, the protagonist pulling a sword from his hand had looked so cool. But when I did it, it just looked pathetic. Being a hero really wasn't for just anyone.
"Welna… This is your last warning… Undo this right now and restore the priest…"
The moment those words left my lips, my consciousness was already half-submerged in darkness. I wouldn't even be able to tell what expression the Saintess made or what answer she gave. Would she cry from disappointment? Get angry from a sense of betrayal? Or perhaps express her disillusionment at my treacherous attitude of so casually putting my own life on the scales? With that resolve in mind, I struggled to hold onto my fading consciousness—barely, desperately—when a familiar yet strangely unfamiliar, pitiful voice reached my ears.
"I… was wrong… *hic* I was wrong…"