Answering God's Call - Chapter 1

【 Exorcist Priest and Nun 】

⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁣⁠⁣⁠⁣⁠⁠⁣⁠⁣⁠⁣⁠⁣⁠⁠⁣⁠⁠⁠⁠⁣⁣⁠⁣⁣⁠⁠⁣⁣⁣⁠⁣⁣⁠⁣⁠⁠⁣⁠⁣⁠⁠⁣⁣⁣⁠⁣⁠⁠⁠⁠⁣⁠⁠⁠November 1958.

A long, relentless drizzle poured down over the place where autumn lingered.

The man who had been quietly staring at the heavy sheets of rain shook his head as if he were sick of it. With autumn fading away along with the fallen leaves, it was hard to welcome the rain that came late like a monsoon. The night had grown so deep that it was stepping closer to winter than to autumn.

Ruslan drew hard on the cigarette that had already gone damp, his cheeks hollowing, then slowly exhaled pale, frozen smoke. The sensation of the rain-soaked air stealing the warmth from his fingertips wasn’t particularly pleasant.

In the end, he threw away the cigarette that was still nearly half left without hesitation and pressed the ember that remained like a snowflake under the tip of his shoe. As he checked the extinguished spark, his lowered gaze slid quietly.

The carefully tended flowerbed couldn’t withstand the heavy raindrops, and the soil was collapsing like clay. Perhaps wary of touching the rainwater pooling without being able to rise over the shallow mound of earth, the man took half a step back, his lips twisting slightly.

In truth, it wasn’t only clay that could block the rain.

His eerily gleaming blue eyes lifted again. Though it couldn’t be seen from here, the checkpoints set up at every major base of Dochen were so tightly guarded that not even an ant could slip through carelessly, let alone raindrops. The fact that they were controlling the surroundings without regard for this foul weather said enough.

It was a bit ridiculous that they had opened the way because they couldn’t even ferret out a single Lytton operative disguised as a researcher. With a mocking smile of regret, Ruslan looked out at the dark, dreary street soaked in the night.

Three years had passed since the defeat of Dochen of the Axis and the Allied powers led by Lytton and Lubyanka declared the end of the war. The Rattingen University in Dochen where he had briefly stayed, and the surrounding city streets, still bore the heavy traces of war.

The Balder Great War that had laid the continent to waste was over, but a Cold War, taking on a different shape from open warfare, simmered beneath the surface, quietly flaring up.

If it was going to be like this, why end the war at all?

Even now, three years later, he couldn’t understand it. Neatly adjusting his clothes, Ruslan picked up the briefcase and black umbrella he had set beside him.

He had achieved his purpose in crossing the border to visit Dochen. Catching up with an old friend he hadn’t seen in a long time and sharing what he hadn’t been able to say had delayed him a little. He was going to stay nearby tonight anyway, so it was about time he returned to the hotel. Now that the list of Lubyanka’s illegal agents scattered throughout Lytton was in his hands, there was no need to rush.

That was when it happened.

The moment Ruslan opened his umbrella, a woman was violently thrown out from a pub across the way, its side door flung open. Jazz music from Lytton that had once been popular a few years ago before fading with the war swelled with the opening door and then died down again.

“How many times have I told you to stay in the kitchen! What, do you want to act pitiful? Think carrying that face around will get you more tips? Huh?”

The man’s harsh shout rang out as he threw the woman onto the street, and Ruslan, who had been about to walk on, found his legs stiffening without realizing it. At the sudden disturbance cutting through the darkness, his senses sharpened instinctively. It was a response carved into his bones through countless experiences, something that could be called instinct now.

Beneath the wide canopy of his umbrella, his eyes swept the surroundings with practiced subtlety. Dust-streaked windows, the uncouth voices of men raising their volume inside the pub, flippant gestures urging for more beer, a faint Dochen radio broadcast drifting in….

It wasn’t much different from what he had seen earlier while checking the meeting place before seeing his friend. Even after concluding there was nothing particularly wrong, the stiffness didn’t leave his face—

“Take the tips you skimmed and get lost. Don’t come back until the bruises fade! It’s raining and there are barely any customers, and you still manage to piss me off….”

It was probably because of that.

The woman couldn’t get up, as if waiting for the beating to end. Her blouse, left exposed to the heavy rain, quickly grew soaked. The man kicked her as if to make a point, then raised his fist high. Even though she was already collapsed and rolling on the ground, it didn’t seem to be enough for him.

When the woman coughed harshly from the man’s kicks, Ruslan flipped back his umbrella to reveal his face and kicked the flowerpot on the curb. At the heavy crack as it fell onto the road, the man, who had been about to resume hitting her, turned to look at him. As if to say that there were eyes watching and that was enough, Ruslan tilted his head slightly.

The man’s face twisted viciously at the sudden interference, but Ruslan didn’t care. If it came to it, he intended to step in and drive the man away… drive him away? The thought that flashed through his mind made Ruslan flinch, and he licked his lips.

Drive him away?

A dry laugh slipped out through his slightly parted teeth, as if the thought itself was absurd. It was hard to believe that he had not only forgotten he was on a mission for a moment, but had even considered rushing at a man he didn’t know.

He must be out of his mind. This was all because of the rain.

Irritation sharpened in Ruslan’s gaze as he idly blamed the weather. Whether the man misread that look or not, he dropped the fist he had raised with a snap of annoyance and soon turned around and went back inside. The way he shoved the side door open and shut was rough, as if venting his anger.

Crazy bastard. At this rate, the door’s going to come off.

Muttering a low curse, Ruslan pulled out a new cigarette and put it between his lips. The woman who had been sprawled on the ground scrambled to gather the money scattered over the wet dirt the moment the man’s presence disappeared.

Only after stuffing what she had gathered into her pocket did she manage to push herself up, her limbs trembling finely, clear even to his eyes. The woman stood in the rain for a while as if catching her breath, then, as if the more she thought about it the angrier she became, suddenly kicked the trash can placed by the side door.

Well, look at that….

With a cigarette pinched between his index and middle fingers, Ruslan’s thumb moved slowly as he scratched at his temple. Now that he looked, her temper was no small thing either.

The tin trash can she kicked went clattering loudly as it tumbled away. Startled by the unexpectedly loud noise, the woman flinched and darted off like a frightened dog. It seemed she was avoiding the possibility that the man from the pub might come running out again to hit her. The place she fled to, at best, was under a streetlamp that didn’t block the rain at all.

And yet she’s got a temper like that.

He was about to step closer but stopped, watching her quietly. Under the flickering streetlamp, her striking face came into view. He told her not to come out until the bruises faded, and yet. Ruslan clicked his tongue in irritation as he flicked off the long ash that had built up.

Her face was, in the most literal sense, vividly colorful. Bright red, green, and purple bruises spread across it. Some were just healing, some not yet healed, wounds of various shapes formed at different times….

His hand, brushing his hair back in irritation as he kept his eyes on her, grew cold and stiff at the fingertips. At a glance, it was a face that had been exposed to violence over a long period, not a one-time incident. And was it only the injuries decorating that face that unsettled him?

Shoulders that sagged, soaked as if they could no longer bear the weight of life, an expression so numbed that even pain no longer registered after yielding to violence, and eyes that looked dry and brittle in contrast to her rain-soaked cheeks.

The naked resignation laid bare under the streetlamp, like a scar, tore mercilessly through Ruslan’s insides. The man had gone back into the pub and the disturbance had ended, yet Ruslan couldn’t leave. His feet wouldn’t move.

He could just walk away like this. There was nothing more to see. And yet the woman, her whole body plastered with wounds, seemed to cling to his steps. Standing motionless in the rain, she pulled at him again and again with an invisible hand. At the moment when the hand gripping the umbrella whitened at the knuckles, not knowing what to do—

The woman, who noticed him belatedly, turned her gaze toward him.

Their eyes didn’t meet. Rather than the umbrella that could shield her from the rain, the woman stared fixedly at the cigarette hanging from his lips, as if she craved a drag more. But only for a moment. She smacked her lips lightly, then turned her body. The moment she tried to slip out of Ruslan’s sight—

“…Ah.”

Her foot stepped on a rain-slick stone and she slid. Because her shoulders were hunched tight, her arm couldn’t extend properly, and it scraped long against the ground as her body fell forward.

Ah. Ruslan frowned.

With a cry that sounded painful even to hear, the woman collapsed and couldn’t get back up right away. Her clenched fist trembled, and though she was in pain, it also looked like she wanted him to pretend not to see and quickly leave. But with eyes to see and ears to hear, it was hard to keep pretending any longer. Ruslan quietly swallowed a sigh.

Maybe this was bound to happen anyway.

A late autumn night like today, a downpour lashing like a whip, legs that wouldn’t obey even when she wanted to stand, a cold that felt like it would freeze her solid, a dark red whip coiling mercilessly around her back… a desperate voice that jolted her fading mind awake, and hands that wrapped around her shoulders to support her.