Chapter 17
The Retired Saintess Raises House Prices Episode 17
Episode 17
Mikhail is no easy mark.
But if a tree doesn't topple after ten strikes, just yank it out roots and all, right?
With single-minded determination to seduce Mikhail and flee this empire-on-the-brink-of-ruin, I fussed over him attentively.
"Captain, I soaked a towel in cold water. Press it to your face."
"Oh, thank you. Saintess. My throat's sore, but my face is swelling up too."
"What a vicious ghost."
I drooped my eyebrows and personally pressed the towel to his cheek.
Considering he'd set me ablaze in one of my past lives, I wanted to shove it down his throat, but I gritted my teeth, held back, and applied it just cool enough to feel on his skin.
"Ah. Saintess. I could've done this myself..."
"But you got hurt. Protecting me like that."
"I get injured often during training. This is nothing compared to that."
"Still."
Mikhail replied curtly, staring elsewhere.
But for a guy starved of female contact from years of training, it seemed plenty stimulating.
Not just his swollen red cheeks—his forehead and nape started flushing too.
Pretending oblivious, I startled and placed my other hand on his forehead.
"Oh no. Captain Severino. Your fever's rising too! You're burning up!"
"I'm fine, really."
Mikhail snatched the towel from my hand and hastily backed away, standing up.
"Thank you for looking after me. I'll handle the rest."
He retreated from me like fleeing.
You sly fox.
I'll tame you for sure.
If I leave for purification prayer at 4, you'll be waiting from 3.
I clenched my fists tight, eyes fixed on Mikhail's back as he hurried off, my face brimming with worry.
If I came on too strong, this lifelong celibate cult zealot might brand me a witch and burn me again, so I approached gradually.
Couldn't look possessed by an evil spirit, clinging to him.
For safety, he had to confess first, no question.
On the way back to the Temple, I kept up morning and evening prayers as always, emphasizing my devout saintess act.
And nonstop concern and care toward Mikhail.
Late at night, I walked past Mikhail's tent, sighing loud enough to hear.
"O God. Please protect this brave soul."
"...Saintess?"
"Oh!"
I deliberately tripped with a loud thud.
Mikhail in pajamas flung open the tent flap and appeared.
"Are you alright?"
"Ah... I think I twisted my ankle."
"Let me check."
Mikhail lifted my nightgown hem slightly by moonlight to examine my ankle.
"Doesn't seem swollen yet. Does it hurt here?"
"Ow..."
"Here?"
"Ow, there too..."
"Must be a bad sprain."
As Mikhail seriously inspected my ankle, I grabbed my skirt hem with both hands and pulled it down to cover it.
Of course, I didn't shake off his hands holding my ankle, so his hands slipped inside my skirt too.
"Saintess?"
"...Bare legs, it's a bit..."
"Ah!"
Only then did Mikhail pull his hands from my skirt.
He yanked them out so hastily the skirt fluttered up, flashing my legs to mid-calf.
Deliberately, of course.
I didn't forget to clutch the white skirt fabric with both hands like Marilyn Monroe, reigning over an era.
Dying and regressing a few times had steeled my resolve—I could pull off this cringe-worthy acting to survive.
But my acting chops weren't enough to blush my whole face, so I just bowed my head.
Glancing up slyly, Mikhail's face burned double red, covering for me.
Success. Marilyn Monroe sunbae. Are you watching from the afterlife?
Mikhail coughed awkwardly a few times, then bolted upright, fetched his coat from the tent, and returned.
"Let's head back. Saintess. It's late. I'll escort you to your tent."
"...Yes."
Now, silence was key. Create an awkward vibe on purpose, squeeze out an unusual atmosphere.
That's how they do it in dramas.
Under faint moonlight, only the quiet, slow footsteps echoed as Mikhail supported me.
Where we touched felt scorching, like lit aflame.
Mikhail, fighting!
Your young hot blood, fighting!
Burn brighter!
Say we'll escape together!
Graciously, my freedom-craving heart pounded wildly from tension too.
Loud enough for Mikhail to hear, surely.
But he showed no sign.
Just escorted me to my tent and said goodnight.
"...Thank you for praying for me. Goodnight."
"Yes, sleep well."
Not time yet, huh.
What to do. We'd reach the Temple in days.
Just a few rookie Holy Knights now, but once back, Mikhail's type would steel his shaken heart.
Time's short.
What now, Casanova sunbae. Help me.
I clasped my hands in the tent and murmured.
"Please. Ghost-filled worldview, right? There must be at least one seduction expert ghost. Help me out. Please."
I'd never prayed sincerely to Moandalla before. This time, I meant it desperately.
But all around stayed deathly quiet.
Fine, whatever. Ghosts I've never seen won't suddenly appear now.
I kicked off the thin blanket, lay down, but frustration boiled inside—no sleep came.
Eventually, I slipped out quietly toward the nearby lake.
This time, no intent—just pure stuffiness driving me out.
Pathetic, flailing to impress the guy who'd killed me multiple times.
Even I, after a dozen regressions, felt exhausted and trapped.
How pissed must Lavel be. Unable to advance no matter what, no hope in sight...
"Poor guy."
His choice to raze the empire and self-destruct made a bit more sense.
Deeper empathy than just reading words. Those red eyes, gazing down indifferently at everything.
But?
That didn't mean I wanted to meet those red eyes right now.
Lavel stood by the lake.
Stark naked, no less.
"Eek! Mr.!"
I yelped for real, stumbling back and tripping.
"Ah!"
Hunched, clutching my ankle and groaning, footsteps approached.
Thankfully, clothes nearby—he draped them over his wet body and stood before me.
"Didn't peg you for a peeping tom spying on baths."
"Ow... If I wanted to peep, I wouldn't make noise."
"Wouldn't trip so obviously either."
"You know it. Still haven't left the forest?"
"Mind your own business."
What manners.
Lavel grabbed my arm, hoisted me up like luggage.
Even that ruthless cult hunter checked my ankle when I fell. This guy lacks basic humanity.
No wonder he burned the whole country.
