The Priest Wants to Retire

〈 Chapter 29 〉 Escape

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Everyone has that famous movie they’ve heard about but never seen in person. For me, it was ‘The Shawshank Redemption.’

I had a vague idea that the protagonist, wrongfully imprisoned, struggles and eventually escapes, but I didn’t know the plot development or the character conflicts. Honestly, I wasn’t too curious about it either.

But I vividly remember the very last moment of the film.

The protagonist, having barely succeeded in escaping, rejoices by embracing the pouring rain and shouting to the heavens—it was quite a spectacle.

I thought to myself that if I ever experienced something like that in the distant future, I might do the same. Just a random thought, really.

However, when I actually went through it, I was just left dumbfounded.

The moment I was locked in the Meeting Room and saw the Saintess charging towards me with ominous eyes, I thought I’d be stuck here for at least a day.

But suddenly, without any meaningful context, the Saintess’s unexpected change of attitude—so easily willing to let me go—brought more bewilderment than joy at my impending escape.

Is she in her rebellious phase?

Given that the Saintess’s mental maturity has dramatically increased lately, I thought it was entirely possible, but I couldn’t shake the uncomfortable thorn lodged in my throat.

It was no surprise when the Saintess, with her supernatural powers, effortlessly opened the locked door without even touching it.

I felt oddly unfamiliar with how accustomed I had become to her extraordinary actions.

“Saintess, am I really leaving?”

Having experienced danger when I actually left before, I checked her intentions several times.

But the Saintess’s adamant disposition about wanting to let me out was unparalleled.

As she pushed my back with her delicate hands that seemed incapable of pushing back anything, I felt a bit hurt even though I didn’t show it.

“Ugh~!”

“Okay, okay! I understand! I’ll go! I just have to go, right?”

It felt like a parent facing their child’s first rebellion.

While chewing on such silly thoughts, I surrendered my body to her gentle insistence, which pushed me forward.

◈◈◈

The pleasure of being back in the mundane world after the short time I spent there didn’t bring me much excitement.

I hadn’t been locked up long enough to gain any new understanding, and the scenery I saw right after stepping out was simply a mundane view with slightly altered brightness.

Just, it’s already night. The night air is really chilly. That was the extent of my thoughts.

As I contemplated this modest escape experience, I walked back toward my room at a sluggish pace.

Then, I unexpectedly bumped into someone around the corner of the corridor.

Rather, it might be more accurate to say I discovered someone.

“Sister?”

At first, I thought I was mistaken.

In the dead of night, like a passerby mistaking a black plastic bag rolling in the street for a cat.

It took me a moment to realize that the black figure curled up in the corner of the corridor, blending into the wall, was my acquaintance.

She was the one who had imprisoned me in the Meeting Room and had given me an indescribable sense of betrayal as someone of my age who could easily be hurt.

If this were a movie, she would definitely be considered a mid-boss level character.

However, unlike the protagonists of the numerous righteous films I had seen in my past life, who let their emotions get the best of them or let their anger rise from their core, she was not at all like that.

And it made sense.

The pitiful sight of the Sister slumped against the wall, helplessly asleep on the floor, was far too fragile to warrant such intense feelings.

Like a candle in the wind. A cracked glass. It felt like the perfect phrases to describe the current state of the Sister.

Did she drink or something?

It’s not uncommon for young priests or sisters to sneak some of the wine stored in the cellar and end up in such a state. It’s practically an annual event in any moderately sized monastery.

But I couldn’t fathom that the usually abstemious Sister would indulge in such behavior, and there was no smell of alcohol emanating from her, so those suspicions quickly faded away.

“Hey, Sister… sleeping here will give you scars…”

“Hmm…”

I gently shook her shoulder to rouse her, but it didn’t seem to work.

Forget about asking for explanations; I was starting to think I could just carry her out of here.

I was aware of my own nosy nature, but as a member of the clergy, it was hard not to worry about her lack of awareness of her situation.

“No, how did this hand get hurt… I swear…”

She had hurt herself even in this state.

I recall hearing somewhere that even typically meticulous people have their small mistakes that can be alluring traits.

But from my perspective, where being criticized for mistakes is the norm, it only provokes an inexplicable feeling of injustice. I didn’t find it cute at all.

I carefully placed her snowy white hand on my palm and examined the state of her injury.

From the amount of blood and the depth of the wound, it seemed she’d gotten cut by something sharp like a protruding nail or a wood splinter.

‘It shouldn’t be used by herself or others unless it’s a serious injury that pierces right through.’

At that moment, a sharp saying she once told me crossed my mind.

It was hard to believe that this messy, utterly flawed Sister was the same stern person who had once felt like a porcupine with her every word.

As I quietly looked at the Sister, a rebellious feeling began to rise within me, like dark smoke.

If I can hide it, it’s all good.

I took the rosary hanging on my chest, held it tightly, and began to whisper a prayer quietly so she wouldn’t wake up.

It wasn’t an act stemming from noble feelings like compassion or mercy, but rather a rebellious desire to do exactly what I was told not to do.

“Oh Lord, I am your finger. A mere lamb. Under your authority, I shall grant rest to all things on this earth. All glory shall be given to you.”

As the sacred light gathered in my grasp began to transfer to her hand, the Sister’s wounds healed without any issue.

I was relieved that I discovered her injury in time.

The healing through prayer works only on wounds that haven’t completely healed yet. There’s nothing I could do about scars from already healed injuries.

Scars being tokens of honor are only stories confined to adventurers or warriors.

It’s a well-known truth how significant it is for a woman’s body to bear an unerasable scar, something even a passing dog could understand.

Click.

Just then, the mask resting on the Sister’s eyelids lost its balance and tilted.

As a result, reasonable doubts about why she suddenly started wearing the mask began to seep into my mind like water leaking into a hole-riddled boat.

After considerable contemplation, I logically concluded it was likely due to a stye or acne, but…

At this very moment when I had the answer right in front of me, as a curious creature, it was impossible not to look under it.

How long had it been?

Yeah. Removing someone’s glasses while they’re asleep can actually be considered a gentlemanly act. Or I could think of it as a proper reward for healing her hand.

With such flimsy excuses in mind, I finally took the mask off the Sister’s face.

“Hmm.”

She’s pretty.

Her face, devoid of any common blemishes, exuded the same elegance as always.

Unlike the moon, which can only shine brightly with the help of the sun, her snow-white skin radiated a noble light on its own, and her softly closed eyes emanated such mystery that you could easily fall into the illusion of viewing a piece of art.

I was bitterly reminded of the unsavory nature of humans, realizing that the most important virtues in a superior are not competence, but rather stunning looks that can overlook some incompetence.

At that moment, I was left pondering why she had been wearing a mask. Was it just a fashion statement?

“What is this, Kim Saege?”

“Mmm…”

Just as I was stretching her soft cheeks and trying to placate the lingering emptiness in my thoughts…

“Hmm?”

Sudden changes stirred my consciousness for a moment.

One of the countless patterns that the Saintess had etched on me was slowly melting away in the palm of my hand, like paint touching water.

*