Chapter 32
As a child, reading was a difficult and painful task for Wakako. The first time she ever felt any interest was when she came across the scriptures about the Saint.
She held those scrolls in her hands, engrossed in them for a long time. Some contained information she already knew from her daily service to the Saint, but other parts were filled with knowledge that was obscure to her.
It was also the first time Wakako learned about the concept of acute perception.
The scriptures described it as, “…a divinely bestowed gift, allowing one to perceive with unwavering clarity, able to discern truth from falsehood, right from wrong.”
It was said that five hundred years ago, during a great drought on the continent, the Saint at the time led the people to find water. Relying solely on acute perception, she was able to sense a river buried deep underground.
“Is it really that powerful?” Wakako was curious. When she returned, she pestered Miki to demonstrate this ability.
The Saint then played a game of chess with her.
It was the most devastating loss Wakako had ever experienced. Every move she made was anticipated by Miki, who crushed her completely.
“It’s not right,” Wakako admitted her loss without resentment but insisted, “This has nothing to do with acute perception; you’re just naturally good at chess.”
Miki then suggested Wakako pick a flower from the ground and hide it anywhere in the courtyard while she, blindfolded, remained inside the house to see if she could guess where the flower was hidden.
They played three rounds in a row. Wakako racked her brains, devising increasingly clever hiding places, but Miki, after only a brief moment of contemplation, effortlessly revealed the flower’s location each time.
“Is it really that magical?”
For the final round, Wakako decided to hide the flower in her own chest. She reasoned that the most dangerous place was also the safest, and Miki would never suspect it.
But Miki simply stared at her for a moment, then lowered her eyes and reached into Wakako’s collar, pulling the flower out.
As the petals and fingers brushed against Wakako’s skin, it was light and ticklish yet seemed to carry a deeper meaning as they slid over a sensitive spot.
At that moment, Wakako wished Miki would do it again—repeatedly taking the flower out and putting it back. No, not just once—it should be many times, with firmer movements, enough to make her entire body tremble.
Wakako never voiced this nearly insane thought, but Miki merely sniffed the flower’s scent lightly and calmly said, “You want me to spank you with the stem, don’t you?”
Yes, every word was accurate.
That day, the flower stem rose and fell countless times, leaving Wakako’s skin flushed and swollen, like ripe cherries. With each petal that fell, Wakako felt a surge of arousal, ultimately blossoming in Miki’s hands like a flower releasing its nectar.
From then on, Wakako no longer doubted the extraordinary acute perception Miki possessed.
Acute perception is, after all, a judgment purely based on instinct.
And this time, Miki instructed her to ride up the mountain on horseback as the flood approached. Anyone else would see this as a death wish, but the calm and steady voice ahead of her, like a single flower in a storm, gave Wakako the confidence she needed to stay focused and find her way through the chaos.
“Are you sure?” she asked for confirmation.
Wakako saw the Saint slowly nod.
“Then be careful.”
Wakako placed her hand on Miki’s waist, protecting her from the bumpy ride, and without further hesitation, she sped up and charged forward.
No one else would have made such an impulsive decision under these circumstances, but Wakako knew that their path to survival lay on the mountain. It wasn’t based on logic or reason, but on the unique trust that existed between her and Miki.
Wakako knew that Miki would never lead her to death, and Miki knew that Wakako would surely trust her judgment.
Not far ahead was a mountain, not too tall but not too small either, covered in thick forest. But the trees and flowers were coated in mud and grime, making the whole place look like a patch of gray from a distance. It wasn’t exactly the best place to take shelter, and even the horse seemed hesitant, letting out a nervous protest.
Wakako dismounted and reached up to help the Saint down from the horse.
“We’ll have to go on foot from here,” she said.
The ground was thick with mud, forcing Miki to stand on the tips of Wakako’s boots, leaning on her for support. “It’s alright,” she murmured.
Wakako bent down. “I’ll carry you.”
The Saint slowly settled onto her back. The added weight of another person felt almost negligible.
It seemed like Miki had lost even more weight; Wakako could now feel the shape of her bones, with not an ounce of extra flesh to be found.
Had she not been eating well lately?
The two of them continued up the mountain. The path wasn’t particularly rough, but Wakako, fearing a landslide would catch up to them, quickened her pace, wanting to reach higher ground as soon as possible. However, the person on her back gently tapped her shoulder.
“Slow down,” Miki said.
“Is it too bumpy?” Wakako misunderstood. “I’ll hold you tighter.”
Miki paused for a moment. “No,” she replied.
She said, “I just like being carried by you. I want to walk like this for a little longer.”
Wakako didn’t quite understand, but she instinctively slowed her pace. “If we go too slow, we might both die here.”
Miki rested softly against her shoulder, leaning close to her neck. “The first time we met,” she whispered, “we walked like this.”
The warm sunset bathed them as thirteen-year-old Wakako carried twelve-year-old Miki along a stream. Though they had been strangers, they had talked about everything, with endless things to say.
Of course, Wakako hadn’t forgotten. But she had assumed Miki had long since forgotten. For a moment, she felt at a loss. “…So you remember too.”
It wasn’t just a precious memory for her alone.
“Of course,” Miki chuckled. “I thought back then that if I died like that, it wouldn’t be so bad. I still feel the same now.”
These words made Wakako tighten her arms around the Saint.
“We won’t die,” she said, turning her head to see the Saint with her eyes half-closed, looking very tired. “Isn’t your acute perception never wrong?”
Miki didn’t answer the question directly. Instead, she abruptly changed the subject.
“You remember the scriptures about the Saints, don’t you?” she asked. “Do you recall a Saint from over a thousand years ago, who was unusually healthy?”
Omegas were inherently delicate and frail, and each generation’s Saint was the weakest among them, destined to pass away young.
But the Saint from over a thousand years ago was an exception. She was strong and agile, with rosy cheeks and surprising strength… as healthy as any ordinary person.
“I remember,” Wakako replied after a moment of thought. “When I read about her, I found it strange. Despite her good health… she still died quite young.”
A faint, bitter smile crossed Miki’s lips. “Yes, at twenty-five. She hanged herself on her twenty-fifth birthday.”
This was the part that would never be recorded in the scriptures.
“Why?” Wakako asked, bewildered. “She could have lived longer.”
“Because a Saint must look like a Saint.”
What was the appearance of a Saint? Ethereal beauty, purity, otherworldly grace… If one didn’t meet these standards, they couldn’t be called a Saint.
“Why would God bestow such a fragile body upon the Saint? As long as she lives, there will come a day when her beauty fades, but a Saint must never grow old.”
“So, a Saint should leave at the peak of her beauty. That’s what it means to die a proper death,” Miki said.
Wakako’s fists clenched involuntarily. “That’s not true,” she muttered. “That’s complete nonsense.”
In the distance, the disaster finally reached the mountain, blocking out the sky and turning the once azure sky turned a dull gray. The wind howled fiercely, threatening to uproot even the largest trees.
Just before the most ferocious surge of the mudslide hit, Wakako whirled around, disregarding everything else, and threw herself over Miki, shielding her with her own body from the impending onslaught.
Mud and water surged over her back, filling her ears and muffling all sounds.
Yet, she could still hear the frantic beating of her heart as she pressed her face close to Miki’s.
The Saint’s delicate features, like those of a porcelain doll, were right there in front of her. She could even catch her own reflection in Miki’s clear eyes.
A cool hand suddenly slipped between them, covering Wakako’s eyes. “Don’t look at me,” Miki said, her voice laced with a sigh. “I must look terrible right now.”
“Then we’ll look terrible together,” Wakako replied.
“But I don’t want you to see me in such an ugly state.”
Wakako was confused. “When have you ever looked ugly?”
Was there anyone in the world more beautiful than Miki? At least in her twenty-odd years of life, Wakako had never seen one.
More mud and debris roared past them, and Wakako felt her strength failing.
“Wakako,” she heard Miki’s weak voice, “If I were to become ugly one day, would you still protect me like this?”
Wakako opened her mouth to speak, but her words were drowned out by the sound of rushing water.
Wave after wave crashed over them. At first, she managed to shield Miki, but eventually, the mud seeped through the cracks, staining the white cloak and the skirt beneath it a muddy black.
Just a little more, and Wakako would have been too exhausted to hold on, rolling down the cliff with the mud. But she held on, her fingers clutching at a nearby tree root, the skin peeling away from her hands.
It seemed she didn’t have that much strength, yet somehow, the desire to protect Miki had unleashed a courage within her that didn’t belong to her, making her grit her teeth and endure.
She didn’t know how long had passed—perhaps it felt like a hundred years—but the flood finally began to recede, and then it stopped altogether.
Wakako felt her entire body go numb as she slowly released her grip, rising from Miki’s side before stumbling to the ground.
“Will there be another one?” she asked wearily. “I don’t think I can hold on…”
Before she could finish her sentence, Miki crawled onto her, once again covering her eyes with her hand.
“It’s over now,” Her voice was calm and soothing.
Only then did Wakako finally relax. Yet, the hand covering her eyes stayed in place, preventing her from seeing the light.
“I’m very dirty now,” Miki whispered. “I really don’t want you to open your eyes.”
Since childhood, she had hated the shackles imposed on the Saint—the endless rules and rituals, the constant need to maintain a poised and immaculate appearance.
But now, as she looked at her dirty face reflected in the muddy water, she realized that those shackles had long since sunk into her bones.
She looked so unsightly, so far removed from the image of a Saint, that she couldn’t stand the thought of Wakako seeing her like this. To Wakako, she was supposed to be perfect…
Wakako gently removed the hand from her eyes. Her gaze fell upon Miki’s mud-stained face, but her expression remained unchanged.
She lay on her back, looking up at the Saint sitting atop her and answered the question from earlier.
“Even if you’re no longer beautiful, even if you become an old woman, I will still protect you.”
Miki was stunned.
Then she leaned down.
The two of them, soaked to the bone, survivors of a disaster, shared a gentle kiss beneath a tree that had withstood the flood. Just like on countless lonely nights at the Saionji Estate, they found solace in each other’s embrace.
