[ THIRIN ]
Sirin stared at the Travel Pass and muttered.
“…This has to be wrong. The name’s spelled wrong.”
“Let me have a look.”
Sirin held it out, and Peter nodded.
“Looks perfectly fine to me. Came out just as I intended.”
“…What?”
Perfectly fine?
This?
Sirin’s blood pressure spiked instantly.
She’d let him handle all the paperwork because it seemed convenient, and this senile old man had gone and pulled something like this!
“Hey, you old geezer! This doesn’t say Sirin, it says Thirin!”
“Heh heh, so you can read now, can you?”
“You demented old—!”
“Now, now. That’s only if you pronounce it hard.”
Peter grinned.
“Say it softly and it reads just fine as Sirin.”
“You crazy old bastard!”
Sirin was on the verge of a full meltdown, but Peter brushed it off and soothed her.
“Names carry meaning, you know. I put careful thought into every single character. There was no ill intent whatsoever, so rest easy. I swear it on the one I believe in.”
“You’re telling me you did this on purpose?!”
Sirin was speechless.
“And what do you mean you thought about it! My name was already decided!”
Peter laughed again, apparently delighted.
“This cost me quite a bit, you know. Just carry it around for now, and if you still hate it later, change it then. Or are you planning to pry out the very foundation stones of this drafty, hole-riddled church? Give me a break.”
“…”
Sirin found herself with nothing to say in the face of his pitiful whining.
Because Sirin had no money.
Sirin was a civilized person, but she had no money.
And civilization is built on money.
Therefore, a Sirin without money could not be called civilized.
If she pushed this any further, she’d be demoted to barbarian.
“Damn it all…”
Sirin deflated.
—Knock.
Knock-knock.
While Sirin sat there crumpled, someone rapped carefully at the church door.
Peter gave her shoulder a light pat and headed toward it.
It was obvious who it would be.
One of Roderick’s subordinates, sent to deliver something.
Cowardly bastard.
Just wants me gone as fast as possible.
A brief exchange of words filtered through the gap in the door, and then Peter returned carrying two long, heavy bundles.
He set them down on the worn table in front of Sirin, still haphazardly wrapped in cloth.
When she unwrapped them, two familiar swords came into view.
One was the crude blade that had belonged to Heres.
Heres’s sword, much like its owner who’d been shattered by Sirin’s sun-strike punch, was chipped and nicked all over.
And the other—the decent-looking longsword Bjorn had left behind.
“…Tch.”
Sirin clicked her tongue.
Unlike Heres’s blade, the edge hadn’t been damaged.
The problem was the dark reddish-brown stain clinging to it.
Sirin’s blood.
These negligent government lackeys hadn’t even bothered to wipe it clean.
‘Idiots.
They were probably throwing a fit about the Witch again.’
Peter had been watching her in silence.
He asked quietly.
“When are you planning to leave?”
“…Who knows.”
Instead of answering, Sirin looked out the window.
The sun had tilted, and the languid afternoon light stretched long across the church’s wooden floor.
Night would come soon.
Sirin made up her mind.
“Nothing good comes from dragging this out. I’m leaving today.”
“I see. Where will you go?”
Peter asked, his tone even.
“The capital.”
Sirin answered without hesitation.
“The Imperial capital. Aquila.”
She had a plan mapped out in her head.
To achieve Body Rebirth through martial arts, Sirin needed a wealth of experience.
Combat, training, or going berserk like a wild foal the way she had last night.
And who knew.
This place was a rootless jumble of ancient, medieval, and early modern empires, kingdoms, and city-states all crammed together without rhyme or reason.
A world where gods dwelt in the Pantheon, mages worked miracles, and druids commanded spirits all at once.
Maybe there was something miraculous out there that could restore Sirin’s body without her needing to go through Body Rebirth at all.
Maybe she could find a shortcut build.
‘Free real estate!’
Sirin was, in truth, a person perfectly optimized for the wuxia lifestyle.
The fact that she thought all she needed to do was raise her cultivation level said it all.
Peter watched Sirin smiling to herself as she daydreamed about training dark arts and spoke up.
“It’s rather unsettling, you know, when someone just stands there grinning in silence.”
“…”
Sirin was struck by a sudden, genuine curiosity.
Her Charm stat was 180.
A number so high that out of a hundred people of the opposite sex, all hundred would feel romantic attraction to her—overflowing to the point where even eighty out of a hundred of the same sex would feel physical attraction.
Even with her mask on right now, it had to be sitting around 90.
So how was it that this man could look at her smiling and say it was unsettling?
Come to think of it, this old priest had seen Sirin’s bare face several times and had never once reacted to her appearance.
What on earth was this old man?
Peter spoke on, as if her bewilderment were none of his concern.
“In any case, having a destination is a good thing. Wait a moment.”
Peter disappeared behind the church’s old altar.
The creak of a wooden box being opened was followed by a small cloud of dust.
A moment later, he returned with a small bundle.
“Take this with you.”
Inside the worn cloth wrapping sat a well-polished whetstone and a small oil bottle with its stopper firmly sealed.
A faint smell of oil drifted from it.
Sirin stared at him blankly.
“Why do you have something like this, old man? Do you sharpen blades in a church?”
“I had my time on the road too, once. Just like you.”
‘Once upon a time.’
Sirin looked at the hands resting on the table.
Peter’s hands were wrapped in rough, frayed bandages he never seemed to remove, no matter the season.
Peter was a man with many strange corners.
Not reacting to Sirin’s face being one of them.
But Sirin didn’t press further.
She herself went around with her face hidden.
She decided to chalk it up to an unusual preference.
Sirin wiped Bjorn’s sword clean with an oil-soaked cloth, working carefully.
She slid the sword into its scabbard and rose to her feet.
Now that it had been said aloud, it was truly time to go.
“Wait by the entrance. I have somewhere to stop by first.”
Peter said this and left the church in a different direction from Sirin.
Sirin watched his retreating figure for a moment, then headed for the village entrance first.
She hid behind a tree so the villagers wouldn’t see her, and waited for Peter.
The wind blew, rolling dry leaves along the roadside.
Smoke was rising from the village as people prepared their evening meals.
How much time had passed.
Peter appeared.
In his hand was a bundle that looked slightly larger than Sirin’s.
“Miss Marta insisted I pass this along. She’s beside herself worrying you’ll starve to death on the road.”
Peter said with an easy smile, holding out the bundle.
The smell of bread tickled her nose.
“…”
Sirin took it without a word.
After a brief hesitation, she pulled a small pouch from inside her clothes and held it out.
Herbs and medicinal mushrooms she’d been collecting over the past few days, thinking she might be able to sell them.
“Give this to that woman.”
“Oh my. Even now?”
“It’s payment for the bread. I can’t live with debts.”
Sirin snapped curtly, turned her head away, and started walking first.
When Peter chuckled and fell into step beside her, Sirin felt oddly embarrassed.
Embarrassed, she picked a pointless fight.
“…Old man.”
“What is it?”
Sirin latched onto something he’d let slip earlier.
“Since when do you call her ‘Miss’ Marta? You didn’t before. Doesn’t seem like a title that suits that woman.”
Peter flinched, but immediately composed himself with dignity.
“Ahem, a person can change how they address someone, can’t they? What’s the fuss about? And what do you mean it doesn’t suit her? Are you discriminating against someone based on their age?”
“…”
Sirin narrowed her eyes at him.
Now that she thought about it, Heres had said something before he died.
“I heard the Order of the Savior is basically a romance cult or something. Don’t tell me you’re personally practicing the doctrine? A priest, going after a widow?”
“…Good heavens!”
Peter bristled.
“What a scandalous thing to say! I must be twice your age and you have no filter whatsoever!”
—Ding!
[ Your understanding of others has increased! ]
[ Deepen your understanding to gain Mind Enlightenment! ]
Sirin fell quiet.
‘He really is out of his mind, this old man.
What a shameless old fool…’
Peter, who had just thrown his fit, smoothly lowered his voice as if nothing had happened.
“Hmm. And the Order of the Savior being a romance cult—I don’t believe I ever said such a thing. You’ve been picking up quite a lot. You’re misunderstanding something.”
Sirin didn’t answer.
‘Funny old geezer.
Nothing to say so he changes the subject.’
She grumbled inwardly and walked on in silence.
Peter walked quietly beside her without another word.
“…”
As time passed, the sun tilted westward and the sky absorbed every color in the world.
From navy blue to violet, and then to crimson.
Clouds scattered like tufts of wool.
The trees, dyed red, cast long trailing shadows.
The nameless grasses of the fields rippled like waves in the evening wind.
The hour when all things faded toward their end.
The old man beside her said nothing, but the silence wasn’t awkward.
“…”
Was this what peace felt like?
Sirin found herself thinking, suddenly, that it might be all right if this moment just kept going like this.
Maybe it would be fine to stay here.
The priest beside her was very old, and Sirin still had so much time.
The old man had no family.
Would there be anyone to see him through his final days?
If she thought of it as repaying what she’d received from him, staying by his side for a few years might be…
“It’s all right.”
Peter said it suddenly, tossing the words out.
Sirin turned to look at him.
“What is?”
“You don’t need to repay the debt. I never thought of it as a debt to begin with.”
At Peter’s quiet words, Sirin stopped walking without meaning to.
“What?”
Peter only smiled at her.
That wrinkled gaze and that smile looked somehow deeper than usual.
Peter walked slowly, and Sirin fell back into step.
“…”
Sirin felt strange all of a sudden.
Something knotted inside her chest was coming loose, threatening to spill over.
“…Why.”
She couldn’t hold it back.
She pulled out the question she’d kept buried in a corner of her heart.
“…Why did you do it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why did you help me?”
Her voice came out rougher than she intended, but she couldn’t stop.
“I was a beggar. Not just any beggar. A raving beggar who couldn’t speak properly—or rather, could only spit curses. Rolling around in mud pits. Not just a little crazy, either.”
Sirin turned her face away from Peter and looked toward the village.
“The kids were little shits about it, and the adults with any standing didn’t even pretend to see me…”
“…”
“But I get it. If I were them, I wouldn’t have gone near a crazy beggar like that either.”
The memories of the past half-year flickered through Sirin’s mind.
The pain that had forced screams out of her, until eventually not even groans would come—the endless agony at the bottom of that cliff.
The wretchedness of rolling in muddy water and smearing soot on her face, destroying herself.
The dizzying moment she’d chewed and swallowed a mushroom without knowing it was poisonous, driven by hunger.
The horrific convulsions that followed.
And words she couldn’t convey.
Curses that erupted on their own.
The children had thrown their malice like stones, and the adults had averted their eyes as if looking at an insect.
A crazy beggar.
Aem-aem.
That had been Sirin’s name.
No one had extended a hand.
No one had met her eyes.
Sirin had accepted it.
She’d had no choice but to accept it.
She couldn’t reach out.
The only thing Sirin could offer was curses.
She knew that.
So she hadn’t reached out.
Every door in the world was firmly shut to a mad stranger, and there was no way inside.
“Why.”
But Peter—why?
Why had he spoken to that filthy, inarticulate creature?
Why had he given her bread and clothes when he barely had enough for himself?
Why had he endured her ravings, her curses, her maledictions, and waited until she could be understood?
Why had he done all of it as if it were the most natural thing in the world?
“Why…?”
Sirin’s tone was blunt.
This wasn’t what she’d meant to do.
This wasn’t what she’d meant at all.
She couldn’t understand herself.
She’d wanted to say thank you to Peter, so why were the words coming out with such sharp edges?
Even at Sirin’s pointed question, Peter only smiled gently.
“Well now. Why did I, I wonder.”
Sirin forced the corners of her mouth up.
“…I’m serious, old man. Your answer will determine what gets written on your gravestone. Whether it’s gold leaf or silver.”
“That gravestone business again.”
Peter laughed at that.
“There was a hungry, lonely soul in front of me, and I happened to have bread in my hands to share. That’s all.”
“…”
That’s all?
That was, that thing, that…
Sirin didn’t know what to call it.
Peter smiled at her silence.
“You were calling so desperately for your mother. How could I not help?”
Aem-aem.
Aemi, aemi.
Eomma, eomma.
Mom.
“….”
Sirin couldn’t open her mouth.
Peter continued.
“You have a habit of thinking of everything as a transaction. The words out of your mouth are always about debts, repaying, demanding repayment… It seemed like whenever you received something, you had to return exactly that much—no, more than that—or you couldn’t rest. Whether it was a kindness or a grudge.”
“…”
“And if you had nothing to give back, you wouldn’t accept anything in the first place. It was always like that. Just now, too.”
Peter smiled at Sirin, whose expression was shifting, as if to say it was all right.
“But you don’t need to do that.”
“…Don’t need to?”
“That’s right.”
He looked up at the sky.
As if searching for someone.
Peter met Sirin’s eyes again.
“Learn to simply accept kindness. You don’t need to try to return everything. You don’t need to refuse because you have nothing to give back.”
“…”
“It’s all right. That’s allowed.”
Sirin felt strange.
Somehow her mood was… her mood wasn’t good.
Her mood…
It wasn’t that her mood was bad.
But…
Peter kept speaking.
“If you want to receive kindness, receive it. If you want to give kindness, just give it. You have a compassionate heart.”
“What compassion do I have.”
Sirin muttered flatly.
Peter laughed.
“You showed it even when dealing with those fool mercenaries. They were bad men, but you gave them a chance before going further, and waited to see if they’d change their minds. Wasn’t that so?”
“…”
“So there’s no need to attach a reason to it. Do what you want to do. Help if you want to help. Receive if you want to receive. You don’t need to find some grand justification for it, or feel compelled to repay a debt.”
“…”
“You’re allowed to receive. Even if you have nothing to give back. That’s fine.”
Peter stopped walking.
They had reached the edge of the village without realizing it.
Sirin stopped too and turned to look at him.
She squinted.
The light was too bright.
She couldn’t see Peter’s face clearly.
The sun, sinking with the dusk, sat behind Peter’s head like a halo, leaving his face submerged in shadow.
The smiling mouth within that shadow spoke.
“You owe me nothing.”
Peter continued.
“If you think what you received from me is a debt, don’t try to repay it to me. Instead, share your piece of bread with the next hungry, lonely soul you meet on the road. Then…”
“…Then?”
Peter’s final words came carried on the wind.
“Then you won’t be lonely.”
The setting sun was too bright, too bright in Sirin’s eyes.
She bowed her head.
She couldn’t look at Peter’s face.
“…Hmph. Who said I was l-lonely.”
Sirin turned away.
It was time to go.
“…Will we meet again?”
A strange sensation, as if her throat were closing.
From behind her, Peter’s warm laughter rang out.
“That doesn’t sound like you at all. If you wish to meet, you will meet. Why even ask such a thing.”
At those words, Sirin nodded.
“Right. If I wish to meet, I will.”
Sirin walked on.
No more words were needed.
She didn’t look back.
She couldn’t look back.
And so, Sirin parted ways with a friend.
.
.
.
.
.
And a year passed.
.
.
.
Sirin still hadn’t reclaimed her gender.
.
.
.
.
.
—Ding!
[ Your actions have strengthened the effect of the title ‘Witch’! ]
[ Your infamy as a Witch spreads! ]
[ Male beings who are hostile to you feel a primal, inexplicable terror! ]
“…Oh, go to hell.”
Sirin, having failed to reclaim a certain important part of her anatomy, was going slightly off the rails.