The Priest Wants to Retire

Episode 43: The Bottom Line

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Back in my academy days, I was dragged to a shabby monastery as part of community service.

There was this blind old man, a retired soldier, who kept saying something like:

“Even if I can’t see, I can still speak and walk. There are many unfortunate people in the world who can’t even do that, so I am a happy man.”

Even if I tried to ignore it, his words stuck in my ears like bam, and I remember that one time his voice got louder.

The Sisters praised him as a rare character with a forward-thinking attitude, and whenever my classmates pointed out my pessimistic nature, they would quote that old man.

His positive outlook was rather famous in that monastery.

But back then, I didn’t think that old man was as bright and progressive as others said.

Well, of course.

He would sneak alcohol every night until he was totally out of it and would grab me, rambling on endlessly about how many people were more unfortunate than him.

His disheveled state was the perfect picture of a man trapped in despair.

From oppressed races to those born with disabilities, and orphans who lost their parents in tragic accidents.

He reminded me of someone hanging off a cliff, grabbing at anything within reach.

Those poor souls truly needed help, and the eyes of sympathy should be directed towards them, not him.

To this day, I vaguely recall the desperate thoughts I felt when he spoke passionately, veins bulging in his eyes.

Even though it was just a fleeting connection, the old man’s words left a significant mark on my life’s story.

I learned from him.

That someone out there is more unfortunate than you means this place I’m standing isn’t the very bottom, and realizing that gives you some peace of mind.

It also acts as a good escape from facing your own pathetic self.

That was around the time I started regularly sponsoring an unknown orphanage.

It wasn’t a sudden surge of compassion—for others—but more of a chuckle of pity for stray cats.

It was an action stemming from a pathetic sense of superiority, wanting to look down on those less fortunate than me.

In hindsight, it feels quite childish, and it’s a past I want to erase if I could.

I entered the academy full of dreams and hopes, yet because of my low status, I achieved nothing, merely wasting time, parched with low self-esteem, eager to sip whatever semblance of superiority I could grasp.

That’s when I laid eyes on them.

An abandoned pair of siblings.

I heard that because of the younger sibling’s chronic illness and the older sister’s fiery temperament, they weren’t able to find a suitable guardian.

Apparently, the sister was firm that she wouldn’t accept a guardian unless they took both of them, making them a troublesome pair for the orphanage—quite an intriguing situation.

I could picture the orphanage head, clutching their head in despair.

I too had grown up in an orphanage in this life. I could easily picture that miserable situation.

Raising children costs a fortune, with clothes and daily needs changing by the season, along with food for daily meals, educational materials, and scattered medical supplies.

While the noble cause of taking in those without a home might be admirable, unfortunately, ideals don’t pay the bills.

Thus, the presence of guardians who can throw money at those ideals is absolutely essential.

Fortunately, at that time I was overflowing with financial surplus while attending the academy.

The spare change to feed two kids at an orphanage was an amount I could obtain with just a few flattering words to the noble brats flitting around me.

It was around then that I realized I had a knack for brown-nosing to the powerful.

When I first communicated my intention to be a guardian, I had only two requests:

First, never let the kids know my identity.

Second, have them send me letters every month with their photos and updates.

When I first set down that proposal on paper, I could clearly feel their skepticism swirling in the response.

But not wanting to miss the chance to rid themselves of a headache, they happily accepted my demands soon after.

Hiding my identity was just because I thought it would be more fun that way.

I wanted proof that their lives were getting better because of me, to see them thriving because of my help, in real time.

So, just like buying two chicks for 500 won in front of the school, I became their guardian.

The first letters and photos I received were filled with an unmistakable lack of desire, making me laugh out loud without realizing it.

The weirdly scribbled letters and frowning faces brought me joy, thinking I wouldn’t be bored for a while.

For about four years, I consistently sent sponsorship money and received letters and photos in return.

Well, not consistently.

On some rough days, I’d send only part of the promised amount or delay the remittance, enjoying their confusion like a sneaky ha-ha.

It wasn’t a pure kindness but rather a relationship born from a trivial curiosity and petty sympathy.

To me, they were mere poor souls that helped suppress my inferiority complex. They were fish in a tank, easing my boredom. Nothing more, nothing less.

And then, when the sister turned 11 and the brother just 9 years old.

Their awkward writing style and childish phrases were still there, but the tone of their messages became noticeably obedient, and the photos showed them beaming with joy.

Their letters started asking why I hadn’t written back, they were curious about my name, and they wanted to see my face just once, pleading me to visit on their birthday.

Receiving letters stating one a month is enough multiple times felt bewildering.

However, I didn’t have the luxury to listen to their voices, because I was on the verge of seizing an opportunity that could turn my unstable life upside down.

That was also around the time I began to feel my holy power manifesting.

Though the potential was still uncertain territory, a priest informed me that at the very least, I could wield my holy power about ten times a day.

During the period when my body was getting accustomed to this power, as long as I didn’t get entangled with any lousy curses, I would surely be able to perform miracles equal to that number.

I whooped with joy.

The discrimination and contempt I had received until that moment flipped into reverence and envy in an instant, sending me into a thrill.

With that euphoric sense of superiority rising naturally, I no longer had to hang my head down to stare at the ground.

Before long, I started to methodically sorting out the parts of my life I no longer needed.

Then, one bothersome detail that had been pestering me recently caught my eye.

If I hadn’t helped those kids, they wouldn’t even be alive today.

I had also left the orphanage around that age.

They had grown enough now.

I had done enough.

Under the guise of such disgusting excuses, like tossing aside a toy I was tired of, I callously severed my connection with them.

About a year later, after going through several complicated procedures, when I officially gained recognition as a priest from the Vatican, my memories of them had faded so much that I could barely recognize their shape anymore.

It was unavoidable.

To me at that time, they were just that—a mere existence.

Thus.

Even when I heard the tragic tale of a brother and sister living in an unfamiliar orphanage who were dying from a curse and plague during one of the priest classes in a small village, I merely cast a superficial, sad glance.

Right until the moment before I saw their faces, I couldn’t recall their names at all.

No, I suppose I didn’t want to acknowledge that those ragged clothes, grimy bodies, and unkempt hair, them who had half their bodies rotting from curses and plagues, were the very same people I once knew.

“Given the state of their curse, it’s already hopeless. A first-class priest could heal them without issue, but if we newbies recklessly intervene, we would only deplete our holy power, right? All we can do now is pray for their souls. They’ll probably be gone in the next three to five days…”

The voice of the senior, who had meticulously gone through the type of patients newbies shouldn’t treat, grew increasingly muted as we toured nearby villages.

The brother and sister this senior referred to as a bad example were being pelted with stones by the village kids.

No, to be precise, the sister was shielding her younger brother from the stones with her entire body, arms stretched out.

Even as her own face and one side of her body were stained black from the plague and curse.

“Get lost! Go away! You plague freaks!”

“You little mumble-mouthed brat! Didn’t I warn you what would happen if you bothered my brother again?”

“Wow! An abandoned kid can talk? What a miracle~!”

“Who’s the one getting abandoned twice!? Keep that mouth shut! My guardian just has a pressing issue and can’t contact us! He writes to us every day! Soon, he’ll come here with priests to heal us!”

“Si-sister…”

The memories from that moment are rather hazy.

However, according to my senior who was with me, I was staring intently at the child, who, with tear-streaked cheeks and eyes devoid of light, was shouting loudly that she wasn’t abandoned.

And despite the senior’s advice not to dwell on such thoughts, without giving any reply, I trudged ahead towards our lodging.

Even now, I’m still filled with remorse towards the senior who worried about me back then.

By the time I regained my senses, I had secretly snuck into the room where the children were isolated late at night, placing my hands on the sleeping child, fervently praying as if I was entranced.

Was it guilt? Or was it confidence that I could do this without a hitch?

Since there are no answer sheets for human hearts, I still can’t figure out why I did such a thing that day.

However, I vividly remember the moment my hand touched the child—their body felt colder than the chilly ground, and despite my deep concentration in prayer, I kept whispering “I’m sorry” like a broken doll.

And finally, as the boy’s healing was nearly complete.

“Get your filthy hands off my brother! You bastard!”

The piercing gaze from those innocent eyes I couldn’t bear to meet brought back memories as fresh as yesterday.

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