My Last Resort
I still had one final trick up my sleeve. Or rather, one last desperate measure that could only be called a final resort. The risk involved was enormous, and the act itself was nothing short of crude blackmail—frankly, outright extortion. It was an extremely extreme method that I had no choice but to keep sealed away on ethical grounds. Self-harm.
Why the Saintess, who didn't bat an eye even if her own body was torn apart, would scream in horror at the sight of a single drop of blood from me was still a mystery. But I had already witnessed its effectiveness with my own two eyes when I restored that petrified light novel priest back to normal. You know that genius who got turned into a statue? Yeah. I've seen it in the flesh.
So if I stabbed my hand with a knife right here and now, just like I did that day, it was clear that the Saintess's bull-like stubbornness would deflate in an instant, as if it had never existed.
Shing.
The moment I slowly drew the blade I had hidden in my Rosario, a hazy fear began to flicker in the Saintess's voice, which had been filled with nothing but rage until now.
Had she vaguely realized what I was about to do? Suddenly the Saintess let out a pitiful whimper and began tugging desperately at my clothes. Her eyes were wide with panic, as if a horrific memory she wanted to forget had flashed through her mind. The emotion transmitted through her trembling hands—small and fragile like fern fronds shaking before a violent storm—was fear. No, it was closer to pure terror.
That heartbreakingly fragile sight reminded me of a child who had done something wrong and was now facing an adult holding a switch.
The Saintess clung fiercely to my waist, burying her face against me as she stomped her feet in place, desperately trying to convey her earnest feelings.
This was the critical moment. If I could show a firm attitude here and rein in the Saintess's discipline, not only could I make her unreasonable demands fizzle out, but it might even pave the way for a much more comfortable future.
If I just closed my eyes and punched a hole in my hand, it might be entirely possible to correct the Saintess's nasty habit of shoving her lips at me whenever she felt like it. After all, there was no emotion that restrained a child's behavior as powerfully as fear.
Fortunately, I had more experience than most when it came to having holes in my hands. My courage to create an acupuncture point in my palm surged up with the same lighthearted resolve a college freshman might have when deciding to get their ears pierced on a whim.
But... was this really the right thing to do?
The question tormented me endlessly. No matter how much it was for the sake of correcting the Saintess's bad habits, was it truly right to intimidate a Saintess whose sense of self had only just begun to form with such violent means? From both an educational and moral standpoint, I couldn't easily shake the worry that this was simply wrong.
Moreover, I was the one who had sternly scolded her when she had stabbed a fork into her own hand without hesitation the moment her demands weren't met. Threatening the current Saintess with self-harm would be no different from pouring what little drinking water remained onto a fire just to put it out—an utterly foolish act. That was the conclusion I reached after long deliberation.
Even if it was a job I might quit in a week, it was still a workplace I had grown somewhat attached to. I couldn't exactly drop a massive bomb as my retirement gift, could I?
Therefore, I had no choice but to put away the ominous option I had been about to execute, along with the blade I had drawn.
The Saintess looked up at me with unusually cautious eyes and asked in a tone far more careful than usual. Having voluntarily discarded my trump card of my own free will, I no longer had any surefire means left to suppress the Saintess's fierce desires. All that remained in my grasp were uncertain methods whose success rate was questionable at best—and which might even invite far greater calamity.
It was a dangerous scheme so risky that I even wondered if it might be better not to do it at all.
I gently stroked the head of the Saintess, who tilted her head in suspicion, and reached down toward the notebook tucked inside my inner pocket.
The story of the genie in the lamp who grants three wishes to the master who finds it. It wasn't exactly the same, but similar tales existed in the Capital as well. That's why occasionally discussing what wish you'd make if you found such a treasure with your comrades was one of the finest forms of entertainment—one that let you waste an abundance of time without spending a single coin.
Gazing quietly at the flickering campfire, each of us holding a drink or snack in hand as we candidly shared our deepest desires... those times had been indescribably enjoyable.
Even now, if I close my eyes, that cheerful conversation I shared with my comrades back then naturally replays in my mind. In that sense, a wish could be called a magical word specialized in stimulating and expanding human imagination in all directions. Moreover, if the number of wishes is limited, most humans—despite knowing full well it's nothing but an empty hypothetical—cannot quickly rein in the wings of imagination that swell up in their heads like waterlogged cotton.
And such a flood of thoughts sometimes dulls even human judgment.
Flutter.
Hoping desperately that my hypothesis would turn out well, I abruptly unfolded the paper I had been scribbling on for a while and showed it to the Saintess.
She seemed to roughly know how to pronounce the words written on the paper, but she tilted her head as if she had no idea what meaning they carried.
1-Time Wish Ticket (Valid only until midnight tonight)
A once-in-a-lifetime gamble—one that could very well decide the course of my entire life—was about to begin.
"There's not much time left..."
Beltein leaned her forehead gently against the firmly closed door of the Audience Chamber and suddenly murmured her resolute determination into the empty air.
She had bought time. She had even received confirmation from the Hero's party that during these seven days while the Grace Bestowal Ceremony was taking place, the priest's safety still belonged to the Cathedral. Moreover, there was no fear that someone as responsible as him would abandon a ritual tied to the fate of humanity and run away.
It was by no means a sufficient amount of time, but it was roughly enough to test every means she had prepared in advance.
Negotiation. Magic. Rumors. Drugs. She held countless cards. It didn't matter if she was denounced as vile or lowly. As long as she could achieve her objective, she was prepared to throw away as much of her own dignity and prestige as necessary.
If he would only move as she desired, she had already resolved herself to strip off every piece of clothing she wore and fawn over him like a street prostitute.
But to Beltein, all of those were merely secondary options. There was a separate, most certain method to bind the priest's person to the Saintess. A scheme that she herself considered her trump card.
It was only several hours after she had finished steeling her resolve that she heard from her fellow nuns the news that the priest already had a woman he was going to marry.