Chapter 16
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 16
Chapter Title: Boundaries of the Heart
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"...Before that, let's make one thing clear. Do you like me?"
My voice, breaking the silence, was lower and more subdued than usual. Her shoulders, buried against my chest, twitched noticeably. Like a robot creaking into motion, she lifted her body and glared at me with blazing violet eyes.
"W-what? Why would I like a con artist priest like you!"
Her shout was close to a scream. Her face, flushed as ripe as a strawberry—or like the red wine she enjoyed—spoke volumes.
Was she that angry? Did she hate me that much?
In the original novel Empire's Flower, she was the epitome of unwavering devotion, her eyes fixed solely on one man: the Male Protagonist. To protect that noble love, she had carved away her life, worked miracles, and faded away with a smile, hadn't she?
Knowing the weight of the tragic fate she bore, and aware of the object of her sublime devotion, this warmth pressing against my chest felt utterly foreign and uncomfortable.
I'm just a passing extra.
I was merely a tool to suppress her brand, not the protagonist who could make her heart race.
A chill settled in one corner of my heart for no reason. I rose from the floor and flashed a gentle smile at her, still flustered and at a loss.
"Saintess. Then stop doing things like this. Anyone else would misunderstand."
I knelt before her knees and began carefully straightening her disheveled silver hair. The sensation of the strands slipping through my fingers like dazzling threads was as dizzying as the smooth skin from yesterday, but I kept my expression as neutral as possible.
"This is something you only do for the person you love."
Like a guardian soothing a sulky child, I whispered softly yet firmly.
Under my touch, Elysia stared at me blankly. The moisture gathered in her violet eyes sparkled in the sunlight. She parted her lips as if to retort, but soon bowed her head as if her strength had drained away.
"...Love."
The short word she uttered melted into the smoke of the Moonlit Herb. She gazed down at her fingertips, still faintly trembling on her lap.
I brushed her silver hair behind her ear, grooming even the last strand neatly. This intimate act, which the Saintess of the original story would never have allowed, now unfolded with excruciating naturalness in this corrupted sanctuary.
"You're the Saintess, after all. Don't you have a public image to maintain?"
I wiped the cold sweat from her forehead and continued. I could feel her ragged breathing steady with each touch. Dependence. This was dependence born of a desperate survival instinct, not love. I brainwashed myself with that thought, ignoring the strange thrill brushing her nape.
Elysia fell silent for a long while before lifting her head to stare at me intently. The playfulness from earlier was gone; her gaze was hollow yet predatory, craving something fiercely.
"...Then you stop too."
She snatched my wrist and murmured lowly.
"If it's only for the person you love, then don't do this to me. Just serve me as a priest."
Her grip tightened. The heat of the brand seeped through my wrist.
"You can't, right? You need me too, don't you, you con artist priest?"
She sneered, leaning close to my face. A languid, decadent smile played on her lips.
I accepted his touch in a daze. Ian's fingers, meticulously gathering each strand of my silver hair, were tenderly gentle— a stark contrast to the rough pressure that had pinned my chest moments ago.
"This is something you only do for the person you love."
His low voice tickled my ear. Love? I nearly scoffed at the unfamiliarity of the word. To me, it was more incomprehensible than ancient script, more unrealistic than the cathedral's dusty doctrines—a mere noise.
In countless regressions, I had been nothing but a sacrifice.
A tool to be offered up for the world. That was all.
No grand sense of mission, no fairy-tale love.
Love was a fantasy farther than death itself. So why did my heart pound so chaotically at that one word from this worthless priest?
"...Don't make me laugh."
I tried to swat away his hand from my hair but let it fall limp and bowed my head.
"What would I know about love? You're just a tool to suppress my brand. I told you already—it's because you're my medicine that you can touch my body."
I spat harsh words to convince myself. Yes. This wasn't love. When the brand on my back screamed, his touch was the only way to stop the pain. I was simply making a ruthlessly practical choice.
But when he looked at me like a child being soothed and drew the line at "only for the person you love," a nauseating pain—worse than the brand's agony—surged from deep in my chest.
Like me? As if something so absurd could happen.
I denied the rising emotions with the numbness I'd guarded for centuries as my shield. This thirst for him was mere addiction-like dependence, not some ticklish feeling.
"Saintess, then stop doing things like this."
Ian smiled and chided me leisurely. That composure drove me madder. I was burning up with shame, pain, and an unidentified possessiveness, yet he pushed me away with a face like he knew everything.
I clutched the hem of his robe tightly.
"Stop? Who are you to order me around?"
I stared him straight in the eye. My gaze trembled with embarrassment, but I didn't look away.
"If you're my medicine, hand over your touch whenever I want. Love or whatever—I don't care. Just stay by my side and do as I say."
My voice shook, but it carried ruthless obsession. I didn't know what love was. But one thing felt certain.
If this con artist priest left me and gave that gentle touch to someone else, I might burn the entire cathedral to the ground, even if it meant giving up this life.
Before the silence could even settle, Elysia shot up as if she couldn't bear it and strode toward the door. Her hand, laced with shame and irritation, yanked the heavy doorknob roughly.
Bam—!
"Ack?!"
With a yelp, the white-haired old man who had been pressing his ear to the door tumbled spectacularly into the prayer room. The Pope— the most noble and dignified figure in the empire— was rolling on the floor. I gaped at the sight, while Elysia narrowed her eyes in disdain at the fallen elder.
"...What are you doing here?"
"Oof, my back... The situation looked fun, so I got carried away."
The Pope sprang up as if nothing had happened and dusted his clothes. His eyes sparkled not with prior embarrassment, but with the eager anticipation of a child discovering a fascinating toy. He glanced between Elysia and me before asking with an innocent smile.
"So, are the Saintess and Priest Ian dating? I'll say this upfront: our church doesn't forbid love between men and women. Priests or saintesses alike. We even encourage it, you could say."
The Pope's bombshell froze the prayer room's air once more.
"No."
My answer was firm, without a second's hesitation. I knew my place in this world all too well. I was an uninvited interloper trying to avert the original tragedy, a mere "medicine" to briefly ease her pain. I had no qualification to be the Saintess's lover.
"As if."
Elysia's follow-up was oddly sulky. She crossed her arms and whipped her head away, but her lips were pursed more than usual. I tilted my head at her reaction. Why did the woman who had just called me a "con artist priest" and told me to stop look like that?
"...What a shame. I was looking forward to it. Do kids these days do that even without love?"
"P-Pope! Watch your words...!"
My face burned as I stammered incoherently. Elysia, ears red to the tips, floundered for where to look.
"Even if you allow it, it's not like that makes it okay. Those strict old fogeys in the church will glare."
Elysia grumbled, and the Pope snorted, puffing out his chest.
"I'm the boss—who's gonna say anything? Ignore those old fogeys."
The Pope's gaze mirrored the one Elysia had used to pressure the clergy earlier, ruthlessly alike. It hit me: they weren't just Saintess and Pope; they shared a similar grain. Before the Pope, Elysia dropped her saintly facade for a far more relaxed, roguish self.
"Are you and the Saintess... actually blood-related?"
My question made the Pope's eyes light up. He looked at Elysia expectantly.
"Oh? Do we seem that way? We do make a pretty good grandpa-granddaughter pair, huh?"
"No."
Elysia's curt reply visibly deflated the Pope's shoulders. The old man looked about to cry, then remembered I was there and cleared his throat, regaining his gravitas.
"Ahem. I came in person not to joke around. It's to inform you of an important upcoming event."
The Pope's demeanor shifted instantly. The playful elder vanished, replaced by the heavy pressure unique to the empire's religious pinnacle filling the room.
"An event? You could've just sent a messenger..."
To my puzzlement, the Pope gazed at the cathedral square outside and murmured lowly.
"It's rather important. Not just our church's prestige, but the fate of this world is at stake."
He slowly turned to look at Elysia and me.
"The Hero parties will soon set out. Saintess, you must head to the front lines with them."
That one sentence sent my heart plummeting.
The Hero parties' departure. It was the signal flare for the true start of the original novel Empire's Flower that I'd read. The prelude to Saintess Elysia's tragic fate: meeting the Hero, the Male Protagonist, sacrificing her life for him, and marching toward death.
I stared blankly at Elysia. As if she'd known, she gazed out the window with dry, emotionless eyes.
It's finally beginning.
The wheels of the original story had started turning. Remembering the warmth of my palm on her back, I gritted my teeth. Hero saving the world or not, I would derail this track. I would never allow that "beautiful ending" where she faded smiling.