Chapter 13

〈 Chapter 13 〉 Discipline

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There might be some parents who say you should never scold a child, but I doubt there’s anyone who claims you should absolutely never do it. If such a person exists, shouldn’t we scold them?

It’s pretty clear what kind of disasters can occur when a child, raised without proper guidance, is unleashed into society. Just looking at that green baby dinosaur using its powers with fingers in that cartoon gives a clear idea.

Discipline is not a right of the guardian, but rather an obligation.

This was a point emphasized with great insistence by the author of a recently burned book, “The Essentials of Parenting: Raising a Child Without Being Shaken by Tantrums,” devoting a full ten pages to the topic.

“Stop this right now, Welna.”

“Uh, uhh…?”

The Saintess, as if facing an incredibly difficult truth she wanted to deny, backed away from me, stammering.

It’s quite astonishing that a voice as cold as this could come from me, so I can only imagine how shocked she must be.

I’ve heard that there’s nothing scarier than anger expressed occasionally by someone who usually never gets mad. I never thought I’d have to prove the credibility of that theory with my own life.

Of course, I wasn’t actually angry. I was just putting on an act, hastily crafting a mask I deemed appropriate for the occasion.

In fact, I could barely remember the last time I even got angry. I’ve lived such a powerless and ineffectual life.

I’ve never been able to provide a proper rebuttal to the surrounding comments that pinched at my soft nature, like how I seemed to forget how to get mad.

So, what now?

In order to escape this corner, I threw a gamble, hoping for the best. Perhaps it would lead to the worst possible outcome, but it might not be an exaggeration to say that a bit of divine fortune was on my side.

The real issue was the next move. Having spent my life avoiding the emotion of anger, I wouldn’t be able to create a serious atmosphere to pressure someone while still grimacing like this.

Honestly, if my face hadn’t gone stiff from repeated anguish, even that immature acting would have failed.

“U, uh-uh…”

But surprisingly, that seemed to work.

Could it be that my inner talent as a great actor was finally coming out? Or maybe the Saintess’s insight was dull enough to fall for my pitiful act.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have the mental luxury to leisurely grade that answer.

Now that I confirmed that this crude anger was somewhat effective, using this advantage became my top priority.

“Welna. First, untie this thing on my body right now. And promise me here and now that you’ll return the priest that you froze before as soon as possible.”

“U, uh…?”

“Welna.”

“I, I won’t…”

“Welna!”

“I, I won’t! I won’t…!”

As the Saintess flinched at my firm tone while stubbornly gripping my clothing with both hands, she looked rather pitiful.

However, those painful memories from my youth, where I often got hit by my elders, reminded me that now was the time to put my foot down.

Corporal punishment.

While it’s a somewhat outdated notion that the whip is the remedy for a disobedient child, there are few parenting techniques that offer such immediate feedback. Even the kindest of parents would end up raising the whip at least once, making it a nearly magical means.

I didn’t want to resort to such rough measures, but at this point, one precious life was on my shoulders—my own. Along with a not-so-precious life—the life of the Ranobel Priest. That’s roughly 1.5 lives worth of fate resting on my shoulders, so there was no time to be picky about methods.

Due to the interference of the guardian’s powers, my body’s sensations were slowly wearing away with time, but at least I could still move my upper body as I wished, which separated life from death.

Click.

I grabbed the rosary hanging around my neck and pulled it apart, revealing the concealed blade as I drew it out like the blade of a balisong knife.

Using an enchanted rosary is considered a barbaric act, almost a taboo among priests from the capital; however, most adventurer priests like me preferred and utilized these for self-defense when necessary.

In battle, whether one has a weapon or not can mean life or death.

Even if it’s just a palm-sized knife, it’s undeniably better than having nothing—this is something even a child outside the system knows.

“…?”

Just as the Saintess looked at me, a mix of mild surprise and suspicion blooming in her eyes, she tilted her head slowly.

Crack.

With a chilling resonance as the blade pierced my skin, blood flowed profusely.

“…Huh?”

A breath escaped the Saintess’s lips, filled with shock.

Wide eyes. Rapid breathing. Trembling little lips.

These movements clearly conveyed a single emotion.

Horror. Perhaps even fear.

And rightly so.

What lay before the Saintess was more than sufficient to evoke those dark feelings.

I had plunged the blade into my own hand.

Just as the Saintess had once done in front of me.

◈◈◈

A flick on the head. The switch. A thinking chair.

There are all kinds of corporal punishment in this world, but coming up with something effective for the Saintess was no easy task.

There’s no way a coward like me, who flaked out even at Berserk’s brutality, could devise a punishment that would scare someone into submission for the trivial reason of not offering my lips.

Moreover, even if it was for the sake of education, my first duty as a guardian priest is to keep the Saintess safe. The very thought of causing her harm is already a grievous sin; thus, I had to abandon any idea of inflicting painful punishment.

After a long period of contemplation, a thought suddenly crossed my mind.

If I can’t hurt the Saintess herself, why not take something else she treasures hostage?

At first, I fumbled to recall what she might cherish and hesitated due to concerns about the method’s roughness on someone already emotionally unstable. Ultimately, I hadn’t gone through with it.

But now.

Now that I clearly understood what the Saintess values and had no other proper means to resolve this situation, wasn’t it time to execute my wicked plan?

Phew…

Due to the interference of the guardian’s powers, was my mind and senses crumbling, or were they just muddled?

Absurd logic and concepts swirled chaotically in my brain.

Even arranging the sparse thoughts in chronological order felt like an insurmountable challenge.

The pain in my hand was bearable, even somewhat insignificant.

It felt like my consciousness was awake, yet my body was in a state of anesthesia—a peculiar sensation. The boundaries between dream and reality blurred, and the vague presences of the foreign metal piercing my skin gently reminded me I was still intact.

I hesitate to say it, but stabbing was quite well done.

While self-harm was indeed a planned action, the initial plan was merely to simulate the act without actually stabbing, so recklessly plunging the blade into my hand should technically count as an accident.

Yet my intuition, honed through dozens, perhaps hundreds, of life-and-death scenarios, told me that unless I created some form of stimulus right now, a breech of the calm would consume my very state of being.

Like a spinal reflex, by the time I regained my senses, my right hand had already buried the blade into my left hand.

“Ouch… Now that my hand’s in this shape, I can’t give Welna aah or even pet her head anymore… What do I do…?”

“…”

A moment later, the Saintess stood frozen, as if buffering, her eyes fixated on the blood flowing from my left hand without even a single blink.

With warm droplets cascading down the blade, each drip landed on the floor, leaving crimson stains on the pure white environment.

My eyelids grew heavier. The pain faded. I then realized that aside from my left hand, I could move nothing else above my neck.

In the end, I decided to pull out my last resort.

I brought the blade protruding from my palm closer to my neck.

I had once thought an action hero pulling a blade from their hand looked cool in a movie when I was young.

But now, how unremarkable it seems when I do it.

It seems one cannot just be a hero.

“Welna… This is the final warning… Untie this and fix the Priest right now…”

As those words left my mouth, my consciousness was already half-submerged in darkness. I had no way to know what kind of expression the Saintess would have in response or what reply she might give.

Would she shed tears in disappointment? Would she be angry at feeling betrayed?

Perhaps she’d express disappointment at my reckless attitude for weighing my own life so lightly.

Girding myself for whatever her reaction might be, I struggled to keep my consciousness, by the skin of my teeth.

A familiar yet somehow strange voice emerged.

“M-Mistake… sniff! This is a mistake…”

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