The One Thing You Should Never Do at a Funeral
What is the one thing you absolutely must never do at a funeral? Without a shred of doubt, I say it's resurrection.
Staggering back to life in front of people who have prepared themselves to let go, who have made all the proper arrangements to say goodbye. In fact, I believe anyone who struts around boasting that they still had one life left in them deserves to be shot dead on the spot. Even Jesus supposedly waited a few days before resurrecting, just in case it might inconvenience his disciples. I don't think I need to waste any more breath explaining how much of a nuisance an unannounced resurrection would be.
"Lobel! My Lobel! Please come to your senses! It's me! Your beloved fiancée, Grenola!"
"Young Master! Young Master Lobel! It's me! Your personal maid, Carlia!"
"Master! Master Lobel! Your baby kitten Natasha has come!"
The dizzying scene unfolding through the narrow gap in the door was making my carefully relaxed facial muscles seize up again. For a second I wondered if I'd accidentally wandered into the wrong indoor garden. The colorful bouquets blooming everywhere throughout the room existed solely as decorations to honor the single man lying in a reverent pose at the center. And the women in dresses, chattering away without pause like baby birds begging their mother for food atop that artificial flower garden, looked as if they were holding an impromptu competition to see who could call the man's name the most times.
"What the hell is this mess...? Just what..."
"They are Priest Ranobel's lovers.... It seems each of them learned of Priest Ranobel's critical condition through the servants they had planted in advance...."
"Lovers? Plural?"
My already starving motivation to save Ranobel was completely incinerated the moment I heard the nun's words. Even a rough count showed more than a dozen beautiful women swarming one man, whispering pitiful words of love. That scene, the very pinnacle of absurdity, was more than enough to ignite the primal murderous intent buried inside me.
"How strange.... As far as I know, our order has a sacred doctrine that strictly forbids premarital relations, doesn't it...."
"The only person in our entire order who actually follows that in-name-only doctrine to the letter is Priest Regis, I believe."
"...Really?"
A feeling I couldn't quite define—futility or betrayal—swept through my chest. But pouring emotion into something already over seemed pointless, so I simply let out a sigh.
"Haa...."
"I'm sorry.... I did everything within my power, but one of the young ladies was the daughter of a grand duke, so...."
"No.... You don't need to apologize, Sister...."
The nun must have found it pitiful to watch me clutching my head with one hand, lost in gloom for so long, because she offered an apology in a self-reproaching voice. The revival method the Saintess had taught me—after I threatened her with my very life—was something that might come across as rather inappropriate to perform in front of so many witnesses.
Her vocabulary was lacking to begin with, and with her emotions running high, deciphering the Saintess's even more slurred speech than usual was quite the difficult task. Still, after all the time we'd spent together, figuring out the root meaning of her words was well within my range.
I lifted my left hand and stared at the unfamiliar pattern engraved on the back. This ornate mark, which hadn't been there before I entered the audience chamber, was a fragment of the power the Saintess had temporarily entrusted to me. A piece of authority, as it were.
According to the answer I had derived from the Saintess's explanation, striking Priest Ranobel with all my strength using the hand bearing this pattern would return his briefly runaway soul to its proper place.
...Probably.
Honestly, I had somehow produced a plausible answer. But if someone asked whether I possessed unshakable confidence in it, whether I could take responsibility for my words, I would have to say no. After all, it was an inference drawn from no one other than the Saintess herself.
Ice.... wrong.... with this.... hard.... wrong then.... better....
That was the full statement the Saintess had muttered while sniffling as she engraved this incomprehensible pattern onto the back of my hand. The situation made me desperately wish for an answer sheet to grade whether my conclusion was correct. But since neither a red pen nor Mr. Gu-mon existed in reality to evaluate my choice, the decision ultimately fell entirely on me.
"Fuu...."
It was a strange feeling. My desire to save Lobel was gradually fading away, yet my urge to plant a fist in his face was surging like a fountain. My head was filled with a truly ironic thought.
Even if I surrendered to that impulse and succeeded in boldly striking him in front of everyone to bring him back, that would create its own mountain of problems.
A young priest, praised as one of the finest in the capital, had fallen into critical condition for unknown reasons. The highest-ranking clergy and the finest holy water the chapel possessed had all been mobilized to heal him, yet nothing improved his state. If, while everyone was drowning in despair, the rumor spread that a certain guardian priest—who everyone had assumed was incompetent and all title with no substance—had effortlessly saved the poor superior who had been wandering at death's door...
Then it would be safe to say my retirement had sailed away for good.
A true dilemma. It was a bleak situation with no suitable path forward or back in sight.
Cold sweat trickled down my spine, soaking my back. The stabbing pain in my stomach was my body's way of announcing that the mental burden on my mind had exceeded its limit.
I was even on the verge of letting out genuine admiration from the bottom of my dantian for Priest Ranobel, who could devise new ways to torment me even while unconscious. So this was what they called post-mortem resentment?
"What will you do, Priest Regis?"
The nun, who had glanced briefly at the back of my left hand, asked for my intentions. The pure white pattern on my hand was glowing brilliantly, as if coated in luminous paint. However, both the intensity of the light and the sacred holy power contained within it were gradually growing fainter with time.
And that meant there was a time limit to this borrowed miracle.
Refilling it would probably be impossible. If I recalled the moment right after the Saintess engraved it, she had repeatedly urged me with words that gave the clear impression: this was a one-time thing. I had to hurry.
It was the moment that confirmed she hadn't simply put Lobel to sleep for a while but had truly intended to finish him off. I had simply pretended not to notice.
"Lobel! Sob sob! Lord Lobel! Please! Please wake up!"
While I was deeply lost in thought, another sorrowful cry leaked out from beyond the door. The weeping came from a shabby-looking maid girl who seemed young and inexperienced enough to be clearly identified as a novice.
"God! If God truly exists, He wouldn't allow this! Where in the whole wide world is there another person as good as Lord Lobel! He's so kind and wonderful that when I accidentally dropped a flowerpot and it hit another priest on the head, he covered for me to the very end, saying it was entirely his responsibility!"
So it was you.
I barely managed to swallow the shout that had nearly burst from my lips. It was rather surprising that the nameless maid who had planted a flowerpot on my head was a real person, and it was somewhat interesting that the accident—which had seemed quite intentional—had actually been an accident. None of that, however, improved my opinion of Priest Ranobel. After all, out of roughly a hundred evil deeds, only one had turned out to be a misunderstanding.
I was the type of reader who, even when enjoying manga or novels, never forgave characters who glossed over their previous evil deeds and tried to sneakily worm their way onto the protagonists' side. One's nature is already formed by the time a person's personality solidifies, and such traits do not change easily. Especially not for the better.
Priest Ranobel was a rotten human who incited and carried out harassment toward anyone who fell out of his favor. If such a person died, I wouldn't feel the slightest pang of conscience. Besides, it's not as if I had killed him.
Honestly, if the circumstances had been different, I would have simply ignored the situation. Ah, should I just let the bastard die?
Just as that tempting option floated into my tormented mind, the nun suddenly spoke.
"By the way, if you save Priest Lobel's life here, I will strongly recommend to the kitchen staff that you receive ten outing permits along with specially prepared meals at every mealtime from now on. Furthermore, every other day will definitely include a meat dish...."
Right after that, I kicked open the slightly ajar door and stepped into Priest Ranobel's funeral hall, proclaiming in the loudest voice I had ever produced since birth:
A few days later, the newspaper would run the headline in enormous letters:
But at the time, blinded by self-interest, I had no thoughts left to judge the gravity of the situation.