The Taste of Freedom Tastes Like Confusion
Everyone has at least one masterpiece they've only ever heard about by reputation but never actually watched. For me, that film was The Shawshank Redemption. I knew the basic premise—that the protagonist, wrongly imprisoned, eventually escapes after countless hardships—but I had no idea how the plot unfolded or what conflicts arose between the characters. Honestly, I wasn't even that curious. Yet the final scene remained crystal clear in my memory. The protagonist, having finally broken free and seized his long-awaited freedom, standing in the pouring rain with his arms raised to the sky in triumph. It was an incredibly striking image. I used to wonder, half-jokingly, if I ever found myself in a similar situation someday, would I end up doing the same?
Now that I'd actually experienced it, though, all I felt was utter bewilderment.
When I was first locked inside the Audience Chamber, watching the Saint lunge at me with those ominous, gleaming eyes, I'd assumed I'd be trapped there for at least a day. But then, without any warning or context whatsoever, she suddenly decided to let me go. Her abrupt change in attitude left me more confused than overjoyed.
Was this some kind of rebellious phase? Given how rapidly her mental maturity had grown lately, it wasn't entirely impossible. Still, I couldn't quite swallow the uneasy thorn lodged in my throat.
I was no longer surprised when she opened the locked door from the outside without even touching it. The only thing that felt slightly strange was how accustomed I'd become to the Saint's transcendent antics.
"Saint? Are you really letting me leave?"
Having been burned more than once or twice after taking her words at face value, I asked for confirmation several times. But her attitude remained unusually firm—she genuinely seemed to want me out of the Audience Chamber. Those slender hands that looked too delicate to push anything were earnestly shoving at my back. Though I didn't show it, I actually felt a little hurt.
"Mmm~!"
"Alright, alright! I'm going! I'll go, okay?!"
Was this how parents felt when facing their child's first act of defiance? I chewed on that ridiculous thought and let her feeble nudges guide me forward.
The taste of the secular world I'd savored after several hours of confinement brought me no particular emotion. After all, I hadn't been locked up long enough for any profound new realizations, and the scenery right after leaving the room was only slightly dimmer than when I'd first arrived. Nothing special. All I could think was, It's already night. The night air is pretty cold.
While I mulled over those meager impressions of freedom and trudged toward my room with heavy steps, I encountered an unexpected figure around a corner of the corridor. Or rather, "encountered" might not be the right word—perhaps "discovered" would be more accurate.
"Sister?"
At first, I thought I'd seen wrong. Like that one person who mistook a black plastic bag rolling down the street for a cat in the dead of night. It took me a moment to realize that the dark shape huddled in the corner of the hallway, blending into the wall, was actually someone I knew.
She was the very person responsible for locking me in the Audience Chamber. The one who'd inflicted an indescribable sense of betrayal on me, a man in a rather vulnerable stage of life. If this were a movie, she'd probably qualify as a mid-boss. But unlike the protagonists of all those "good triumphs over evil" films I'd watched in my previous life, I didn't feel my emotions surge or rage boil up from my core.
The reason was simple. The way she sat slumped against the wall, fast asleep on the floor, looked far too fragile to provoke such intense feelings. Like a candle flame flickering in the wind. A cracked glass cup. The phrase "one touch and she'll shatter" seemed tailor-made for the current state of the Sister.
Had she been drinking? It wasn't uncommon for young priests and nuns in monasteries of any decent size to secretly swipe some of the stored wine, get thoroughly drunk, and pass out. It was practically an annual tradition. But the Sister had always been so ascetic that I doubted she'd do something like that. Besides, there was no smell of alcohol on her, so that suspicion quickly faded.
"Um, Sister... Sleeping in a place like this will give you a stiff neck..."
"Mmm..."
I gently shook her shoulder, trying to wake her, but it didn't seem to work very well. At this rate, I thought, I might have to carry her on my back before I could even ask what had happened. I wondered if she wandered around outside like this too. I knew it was meddlesome, but as a fellow cleric, I couldn't help worrying about her lack of self-preservation.
"And what happened to this hand... Good grief..."
She'd even injured herself in the process. I'd heard somewhere that the occasional small mistakes made by an otherwise meticulous person could be charming. But from the perspective of someone who got called out for mistakes on a daily basis, it only stirred up an indescribable sense of injustice. I didn't find it charming at all.
I carefully placed her snow-white hand on top of mine and examined it. Judging by the amount and depth of the blood on the wound, it looked like she'd cut herself on one of the protruding nails or sharp wooden splinters scattered around.
'Unless it's a serious injury that actually pierces through somewhere, you must never use it on yourself or others.'
Right then, a stern warning she'd once given me flashed through my mind. It was hard to believe this was the same person who'd spoken those prickly, cold words. As I quietly observed the Sister in her current state—so careless it would be fair to call her full of openings—a rebellious feeling, like acrid smoke, began to rise from a corner of my thoughts.
If no one finds out, what's the harm?
I pulled out the rosario from my chest, held it in my hand, and began quietly reciting a prayer so as not to wake her. It wasn't born from noble feelings like love or mercy. It was closer to the childish urge to do the very thing I'd been told not to.
"O Lord. I am but Your finger. A mere lamb. Under Your divine power, I shall grant rest to all things upon this earth. All glory shall be offered unto You."
By the time the divine light gathered in my grasp had fully transferred beyond our joined hands, the Sister's wounds had healed without issue. It was fortunate I'd found the injury before it was too late. Healing prayers could only mend wounds that hadn't yet closed. Scars from old injuries were beyond my ability to fix.
The idea that scars are like medals only applied to adventurers and warriors. It was common knowledge—even a passing dog would know—how serious a matter it was for a woman's body to be permanently marked with an indelible scar.
Click.
That was when the mask resting on the Sister's eyelids lost its balance and tilted.
Suddenly, a reasonable question about why she'd suddenly started wearing a mask began to flood my mind like water leaking into a sinking boat. After considerable deliberation, I'd previously concluded it must be because of a sty or acne—my own logical deduction. But now that the answer was right in front of me, it was impossible for a curious human being not to take a peek.
How much time passed after that? I don't know. Well, removing someone's glasses while they're sleeping is actually a gentlemanly act, right? Or I could think of it as fair compensation for healing her hand. Using those pathetic excuses as justification, I finally lifted the mask from the Sister's face.
"Hmm."
She's beautiful.
Her face, without a single common blemish, exuded the same refined elegance as always. Unlike moonlight that could only shine brilliantly with the sun's help, her skin glowed with its own sublime radiance—like white jade. Combined with the mystery of her gently closed eyes, it was enough to make one foolishly mistake her for a work of art.
Perhaps the most important virtue for a boss isn't competence, but an outstanding appearance that makes people willing to overlook a certain degree of incompetence. It was a bitter moment that reconfirmed humanity's ugly nature—how anger naturally subsides at the sight of a beautiful person.
Why on earth had she been wearing that mask? Was it just a fashion statement?
"What the—why is this happening?"
"Mmmuuu..."
I was pinching and stretching the Sister's soft cheek, trying to soothe the hollow feeling that had bloomed inside me, when it happened.
"Huh?"
My mind briefly jolted at the sudden change. One of the countless patterns the Saint had engraved on me—the one on my palm—was slowly melting away like paint dissolving in water.
One of the Saint's binding patterns is melting from your palm.