Hosanna, Blessed Be (4)

Apostle Bartholomew, Han Seoyeon Margarita, had two teachers.

Of course, her way of fighting was closer to a chimera, every technique she could find grafted onto the last, and so by one reckoning she might be said to have had hundreds of instructors, or thousands. But the people she herself called teacher were two alone, and they were also the ones who had picked her up as a child and raised her.

One was the modern Apostle Thomas, Holy Communion: Giacomo Marchisio Bonaventura, born in Italy. An authority on the Benedictine Twin Swords, one of the Fourfold Gospels of the holy knights, he was the reason Seoyeon—however many miscellaneous arts she wielded—had made twin-swordsmanship her greatest specialty in close combat.

The other teacher was a man of contrasts. Asian, and never so much as a Gravekeeper, let alone the holder of an Apostolic Seat. The arts he taught her were the inverse of Marchisio's as well, honed entirely for battle at a distance.

"In practice, that teacher—no different from a stepfather—left me three great precepts. Iron rules that truly became my flesh and bone."

Seoyeon murmured it as she hauled back on her hand, and a metallic clack rang from the large-bore shotgun she held.

"Uh, hold on. I can't speak to a teacher, but that really doesn't sound like something an adoptive father ought to tell his daughter."

Not so much a lesson that becomes flesh and bone as a lesson for tearing flesh into scraps and bone into splinters. Holy Knight Sanjou Miyuki said it plainly aghast.

"Anyway, that settles this shrine's business."

Seoyeon said it as she slid the shotgun back into the guitar case she had brought. Silver two-gauge slugs, if one recalled. Even on a second look, the size was far too vicious to be meant for a human being. Then again, that would be why a single shot could knock a spirit-wolf several meters long clean unconscious.

"Still, I'm glad it was only that he wouldn't cooperate."

He had stepped forward insisting they could not be allowed to investigate, and she had wondered whether he was hiding something. It seemed, in the end, to have been nothing but the arrogance peculiar to gods who had never much suffered in their lives. One silver round was enough to quiet the wolf spirit, and to make the middle-aged shrine priest who served him cooperative with the Church.

"I-I'm with the moderates, I definitely said so..."

A man still trembling after everything was finished. Seoyeon looked at him as she slung the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠guitar case onto her back.

"Well, the line between moderate and radical isn't drawn by the means one uses, you see."

Her face asked why he would bother stating something so obvious.

"If anything, the usual measure is how many casualties you produce in the end... and in the Japanese Church in particular, the words are used in a rather different sense."

Generally, among holy knights in Japan, the distinction between the radical faction and the moderate faction referred to how far one was willing to trust an anomaly. They had done nothing particular yet, but they held enough power that the matter would turn grave if they strayed, and so you took measures in advance. Or else, even knowing that, you trusted them and let it pass for the time being.

Being the latter did not mean you stayed your hand against someone caught in the act, or someone under strong suspicion. Nor did it matter, for the sake of the distinction, whether the means that followed were violent or not.

No. Even so...

Watching, Miyuki smiled bitterly. If anything, the violence turned upon a confirmed enemy tended to run worse among the moderates. A full storehouse makes for a generous heart, or so they said. Plenty of holy knights belonged to the moderate faction because their natures were upright and kind, and yet no small number of them were also the strong, able to answer even if the matter truly grew large.

Fool. Squaring up to an Apostle head-on.

The result of that mistake was the pair of two-gauge slugs buried in the wolf's skull. Frankly, had it not been a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠spirit, there would have been nothing strange about that blow killing outright. Seoyeon promptly gathered the rounds back up and tucked them inside her coat. Apostle or not, silver of that size and purity seemed a little too precious to waste.

"Anyway, we're finished, so let's head back. Miss Sanjou Miyuki."

"Ah. Yes."

As she spoke, Seoyeon drew her phone from her pocket... and her expression brightened, radiant.

"Um... did something good happen?"

"Yes. An acquaintance who was in an accident contacted me. Fortunately, it all worked out."

"...Ninomae Hitomi, isn't it?"

"That's right."

She hadn't particularly meant to reveal that it was Ninomae's matter, and she had been seen through at once.

No—looking at that face, did this woman actually think she could hide it?

It was only a traffic accident, at most. Not even one in which she herself had been hit, nor a car colliding with a car: a case of her hitting someone else, one-sidedly. Even then, if it were a close acquaintance, worrying over how the accident would be handled wouldn't be strange... but it ought to weigh less than if she had been the one struck. And yet, if the person was someone who could leave none other than that Bartholomew Margarita this unsettled, who could it be but a VIP? The look was nearly the equal of her face just before she went into battle with the resurrected Bartholomew of two generations past. Asking her not to notice was unreasonable, and Miyuki sighed inwardly.

"I've only heard the stories, but she really must be precious to you. Precious enough that if I ever met her, I'd be thinking I mustn't hurt her even by accident."

"Yes. She is a precious person. Truly."

Seoyeon declared it so. The sentence was short, but Miyuki was not someone who would miss the feeling held inside it, and she found herself tensing for no good reason. She knew, as a matter of knowledge, that the one precious to an Apostle invariably became the object of an obsession just like this. Even so.

"And she... by what occasion, exactly?"

"We were in the same department, sitting the same lecture, and by chance placed in the same group for an assignment. That was how it began."

"No. I don't mean the first meeting. I mean... how did she come to be someone that precious to you, Miss Bartholomew..."

"Ah. That was what you meant."

Surely it wasn't that she had fallen in love at first sight the moment they met and sworn to live the rest of her life for her. Only after hearing Miyuki out did Seoyeon nod.

"Well. Hmm, how should I explain it..."

She seemed to consider for a moment, then opened her mouth again.

"I see. Then I shall say that I owed Iris a chicken."

What came out of that mouth, however, was something exceedingly abstract, and entirely beside the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠point.

Naturally, Miyuki's expression went blank along with it. She couldn't get even a hint of what any of it meant.

"Iris, iris... Ah, did you perhaps mean that in the sense of Hitomi? The iris of the eye?"

Rather than answer aloud, Seoyeon replied with only a faint smile. It was a smile with that usual uncanny chill, and yet, for this once, a subtle tenderness could be felt in it. The wordplay, it seemed, had been the right answer to some degree. Even granting that, it remained a Zen riddle too difficult to grasp, and Miyuki could only stay perplexed.

Five days had passed since an unintended traffic (?) accident added the Princess on a White Horse to the nicknames by which Ninomae was known at university. Or, counted another way, five days since Seoyeon had taken an inspection mission in the early dawn—not because the matter was so very urgent, only a problem of time zones—and made a swift circuit of the whole country.

For the first time in a long while, Ninomae and Seoyeon paid a visit to the café of their first-generation senior, Guroyuki Sui.

…

Akane had come along as well.

Already in their debt, she had no intention of intruding on the pair's date, and under ordinary circumstances she would never have accompanied them. This time, though, there was something she wanted to confirm. Not as a VTuber under Anathema Production, but in her concurrent post as interim manager to the second generation.

"Your drinks, as ordered-DA!"

The one setting the drinks down one after another, in a bright and lively voice, was a maid with muddy blonde hair that could nearly pass for light brown. She was not in the black-and-white miniskirt so heavily shaped by otaku fashion, but a long skirt in shades of green. With a frilled bonnet besides, the costume called to mind a maid of the thoroughly traditional sort.

It might easily have looked plain, or dowdy, but perhaps because her face was the very model of a Western beauty, even that attire felt considerably attractive. ...Or perhaps it was the curves that a loose, full-covering costume had still failed to hide. Of course, if one entered into a direct comparison (?), it would be Ninomae's overwhelming victory. That didn't mean hers—Osean's—beauty was any less for it.

"...Miss Shion, you're staring quite a hole through her."

"A-ah, no. Miss Ninomae. It isn't like that..."

Then she realized Ninomae, seated beside her, was gazing steadily this way, and grew a little flustered. It probably wasn't anything she had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠done wrong, but that sullen expression somehow had her making excuses all the same. A moment later, as if the strength had gone out of her, Ninomae let out a deep sigh. It seemed less that she had truly had some complaint, and more that Seoyeon's manner had simply nagged at her a little.

"...Shall I wear one sometime? A maid outfit."

And then, as if it were nothing, as if she were only murmuring some passing thought, she let it slip. Putting on a calm front, she turned her face from Seoyeon and looked elsewhere. Even she thought the words and the manner a little too blatant... but the brazenness seemed to have paid off, for Seoyeon flinched for an instant.

"Th-that is. Do you truly mean it?"

"No. Well, if it's something you wanted, Miss Shion, I don't imagine there'd be any reason I couldn't wear one...?"

"...Please do."

What a complicated way to say she wants to put on a maid outfit and seduce her properly one of these days.

Watching them, Akane drew a long sip of strawberry frappé up through her straw. Truth be told, Ninomae's heart wasn't incomprehensible even to her—wanting to seduce, and yet too embarrassed to admit it outright.

"Miss Ninomae's maid outfit? I want to see it too-DA!"

The one who cut into the conversation was the maid herself.

"I've just had a wonderful idea-DA! Since you're here anyway, you should simply wear our uniform-DA! Tout de suite!"

"W-whaa?! Miss Anri...?"

"Come, this way!"

Anri was, so to speak, a nickname. Even after the accident there had been a few occasions of contact with Ninomae, and she had been asked then to call her Anri-chan, on the grounds that anything too stiff was unwelcome. Word was that her real name was Osean Lee, and so Anri.

The lack of distance so typical of foreigners—no, Seoyeon wasn't like that, so more precisely of Westerners?—left Ninomae a little at a loss, but she accepted the offer all the same. She had, of course, refused to let the honorific become -chan a mere few days after they had met.

At any rate, she seized Ninomae's arm and began hauling her steadily along. The initiative on display was considerable.

"Stop. You're making Ninomae-chan uncomfortable."

The one who cut her off was the owner, Guroyuki. Expressionless as ever, she caught Anri by the nape and held her back.

"Ô, Boss! Madame Ninomae also has it in her heart to try a maid outfit once-DA!"

"Then don't drag her off so suddenly. Let her walk there on her own feet. You'll need to give her time to prepare herself."

"Kuh! Cowardly Japanese orthodoxy...!"

"No, this isn't a matter of Japanese or otherwise..."

Anri clenched her fist tight, as if indignant. Guroyuki only regarded her as calmly as ever.

"More to the point, when do you plan to drop the act? And why were you doing it in the first place. Your Japanese is perfectly good."

"...An act?"

At the words that followed, Akane found herself murmuring it without thinking. Naturally, her gaze went to the maid, who was laughing with all her energy.

"——No, Boss. When a person's working hard to commit to the bit, isn't it manners to play along a little? Well?"

"...?!"

And with that, Anri instantly let the bright, shadowless smile collapse. What remained in its place was a face quite full of discontent. Of course Akane could only be thrown by the change. It wasn't merely fluent for a foreigner. The pronunciation was accurate enough to rank in the upper tier even among natives.

"Do you have any idea how perfect a likability scam it is, being a cheerful, kind, slightly awkward blonde, blue-eyed, beautiful white woman, trying so hard to speak this country's language?"

"Setting aside you calling yourself a beauty with your own mouth... your intentions are obviously impure."

"Excuse me, what did I even do?! What's wrong with taking my turn as the accident victim, getting them to go easy on me, stocking up a ton of goodwill, and then sweet-talking my way into bed!"

"Sorry. I'm taking back what I said about your Japanese being fluent. Clock out right now, look up the meaning of 'impure' in the dictionary again, and come back."

"Krrgh..."

Anri put on an indignant face once more. Unlike the one a moment before, this expression was just a little more convincing. Lined up side by side, it really did seem the earlier one had been nothing but acting.

"Hmm."

Only then, as if realizing the air around them had gone awkward, did Anri dart her eyes this way and that. And then, all at once, she put on a smile of spotless innocence.

"This is the owner of our café-DA! A person I truly respect-Yo!"

"No. You think that's going to work now?"

"...Tch!"