The third time the Sister showed up, even I figured maybe I should listen a bit to what she had to say.
“A holy barrier is activated by releasing magic sealed ahead of time in holy water, holy wood, a piece of paper with a holy crest drawn on it, or even one’s own purified hair. Widgecraft said, ‘The method and the art might be different, but as far as the barriers go, the principle is the same.’”
The Sister started talking about something that boring with a super serious look on her face. Does she actually think I don’t know that? If I give her face another drink, will this conversation get more interesting?
“I heard that unlike magic, where only those with the aptitude can be users, the dark arts can be acquired as long as you study hard. I was thinking that if I could learn them, maybe I could create a more powerful barrier by combining holy magic and dark arts.”
But then she said something intriguing—about mixing shitty church magic with our dark arts. What kind of shit would you get then?
“You don’t know when to quit your sneering jokes, do you?”
My drink was too good for her. She was begging for knuckles. But before I could raise my fist, an old drunk interrupted.
“Hey, Igo. With that girl again? You should let me treat her today.”
I threw my drink in the Sister’s face as I had done every time. But unlike the other times, the liquid was repelled before it reached her face. It splashed back with the same energy I’d thrown it with, and doused the man.
A long hair that had fallen on the table at some point shriveled up.
Come to think of it, every time she got up to go, there was hair left behind. Was that supposed to mean that she could make a barrier whenever she wanted? Or had she just not used it? Was she waiting for her chance to show me what she could do? Of all the cheeky little...
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The drunk took a swing at me, so this time I threw a drink at him. It was a barrier using the drink as a medium. He went flying all the way to the wall, and when I gave him a thumbs down and a glare, he ran away in a pitiful state.
I could shut you up with a drink, too. I was just giving you a chance to apologize. I don’t give a flying fart about the church’s well-mannered barriers.
The Sister bowed her head, her eyes still wide. “That was a wonderful technique. Please, I beg you, make me your apprentice!”
Is she serious? She’s a Sister, but she actually wants my dark arts? For what? Shouldn’t Sisters just heal men like they’re supposed to?
“What would happen if the church found out?”
“I’d probably be excommunicated.”
“So how does that benefit you?”
“I want to get stronger. That’s all.”
“Then what’s in it for me?”
She stiffened up for a few moments and then replied meekly. “I’ll do anything.”
Pretty face, the kind of body men like. So she knew how to use it, huh? “Then I want to try that out before I decide.”
“Yes, sir.”
I told her the location of the cheap inn where I made my home, and to come the next day. I would overlook her hair, but I told her to definitely not bring anything else that could be a barrier.
She said, “Yes, sir,” in a low voice and left.
Honestly, I didn’t think she would come. No woman had ever wanted to fuck me.
But it was only just midday when that serious-ass Sister really did show up, and she even brought tea things along.
“A friend taught me how to make tea.”
And it was even black naeb tea from Seigaya. She poured hot water over toasted black naebs, floated an apple blossom on top, and waited. When the flower had opened up completely, she set the cup in front of me.
That smell really took me back. But it wasn’t the tea I knew. “There’s no tea like this where I come from. We just roast the beans over a fire and steep them in lukewarm water. This is some fancy-schmancy recreation made for city people to drink.”
When the army occupied our village, I saw women forced to remake tea for the soldiers because they said it tasted bad. It took as much effort as turning piss water into fresh water, and the amount you could make was limited. The tea they threw out was a truly precious resource to us.
“O-Oh, really? My apologies.”
This woman was bringing back awful memories, so I thought I’d give her a good slap.
But I did feel some nostalgia. It was the tea I drank as “celebration water” whenever I overcame a trial—an honor I was given along with my tattoos.
It’s true that age makes you sentimental. It wasn’t like me to talk, but I started telling her things.
The smell of the muddy river. The reek of the grass. The sounds of the runty black naebs popping in the fire.
About my first encounter with a demon, the wall man, how I lost my village, and my confrontation with the man called a hero.
I even told her about the times I fought with Widgecraft. It was pitiful, like I was making a confession or something.
It was all the fancy-schmancy tea’s fault.