The club looked remarkably well-balanced, even to Liston's eyes.
'A martial artist's weapon?'
'Pardon?'
'From the handle to the tip, the center of gravity is perfectly aligned... it falls exactly right for the user. You couldn't procure a custom weapon like this just by swinging one for a day or two...'
'Is that so? But if that were the case... their bodies are far too intact, aren't they?'
If they were only hit occasionally with that club—like briefly during prayers or when confessing sins—that would be one thing. But if they were beaten with it regularly...
By now, they should probably be half-crippled.
However, the monk standing before my eyes was far too robust.
'What are you talking about?'
'Well... Couldn't they be hitting themselves while repenting?'
'What nonsense are you spouting? Look at the marks left on that weapon. They're obviously beating other people.'
'Why would a monk beat someone else?'
'If someone has done wrong, they'll beat them, of course.'
'Is... is that legally permitted?'
'It's not murder, so, whatever.'
'Ah.'
Right, this is the 19th century.
Moreover, it's Liston, isn't it?
Whether it's a weapon or something else, he's someone who's highly skilled at beating people, that's what that means.
Implying that what he's saying now can't possibly be wrong...
"The Abbot is in here."
"Ah, yes. Thank you."
"Yes, then, I hope you have a fruitful time."
We had been walking and talking, and before I knew it, we were at the Abbot's office.
The inside of the Abbot's office...
Was quite different from what I had imagined a monastery to be.
'What is this?'
The furniture, and even the carpet on the floor... Even someone as ignorant as me could tell at a glance, 'Ah, this is luxury goods.' It was that level of splendor.
And yet, it didn't feel tacky or like nouveau riche.
Frankly, Liston's house... really gives off that 'ah, this is nouveau riche' vibe, you know?
But here, it feels like visiting a wealthy, old-money household.
Even the liquor bottles displayed in the back were all high-end.
"Ah... I've heard much about you. Sword Saint Liston, and this must be... Pyeong...-sin, correct?"
"Yes, Abbot."
"That... yes."
Calling 'Yeong' not as 'Young' but twisting it to 'Yeong' made it feel even stranger.
It seemed unlikely he was doing it on purpose, as he clearly didn't know Korean, and his smiling face looked so benevolent that I probably shouldn't be suspicious... but still.
"So, this is the... cursed person, then?"
Anyway, the Abbot looked at us, then turned his head towards the chef.
His expression changed completely; I thought I was watching some psycho drama.
Intimidated by the pressure, the chef took a step back.
But even that wasn't easy.
Without us noticing, a sturdy monk holding a club had positioned himself behind him.
"It's less a 'curse' and more that he's a person from whom Miasma emanates."
"That 'Miasma' ultimately is a curse, isn't it? It seems this person has many sins."
"No, no."
Wait a minute...
Why is this happening...
Why does this feel so different from the religious figures I imagined...?
'Pyeong, I think the chef might die?'
'That seems... right?'
Why is even the Abbot so naturally pulling out such a massive club?
That alone is bizarre enough, but why is he slapping his palm with it?
My head is spinning trying to find a reason, but my gut feels like it knows.
-Uwaaaaaah!
Actually, for a while now...
I've been hearing something like screams from somewhere.
I thought it was just the wind or something from the forest, but after seeing two clubs, my thoughts changed.
"What do you mean, 'no'? Doctor Liston, Pyeongsin. You are both excellent doctors. But medicine alone cannot cure every patient. Because illness originates from sin."
"That..."
What should I say?
If I say no, will I get beaten too?
Given my reputation and status, it probably wouldn't happen immediately, but...
I had a strong feeling that significant difficulties would bloom when we returned to London.
"For light sins, the help of doctors might be enough to escape them, but in the world... a person from whom Miasma, toxic energy, spreads everywhere? How great must his sins be? You've come to the right place. We will take responsibility and 'correct' this lost lamb."
"That..."
Correction?
It seems less like correction and more like murder.
Well, even if they don't kill him, it seems like it will be extremely painful.
If the patient actually improved as the Abbot said by doing that, it might be a different story, but...
'As if that would happen!'
Where in the world is there a disease carrier who gets better from being beaten?
No, does a disease that improves from beating even exist?
Usually, if you get beaten, you get worse.
Of course, there are people who seem like they need a beating...
We call those people prisoners, not patients!
"Abbot?"
Whether he knew my feelings or not, Liston called out to the Abbot.
Lately, I've been building a reputation quite rapidly, being called Pyeongsin and all, but...
Still, 'London Liston', 'Sword Saint Liston'—his fame is widespread throughout Western Europe, isn't it?
In response to his call, the Abbot's face became solemn as he answered.
My reaction probably seemed a bit strange already, so that was even more likely.
"Yes? Surely you aren't displeased with this place or something, are you?"
"How could that be?"
"Ah, it's just that Pyeongsin's expression doesn't look too good."
"He must be like that from the carriage ride. Haha. Anyway, may we see this 'correction' you perform here?"
"Ah... That would be fine. Haha. I believe our monastery's correctional facilities are the best, at least in the London area. Hahahaha. Hey, Danny. Please give them an introduction."
"While we're at it, may this friend come along as well? It would be good for him to see what kind of treatment he'll receive."
"Aah... As you wish."
However, at Liston's follow-up words, the Abbot laughed heartily and sent us out with Danny—that is, the thug-like monk who first greeted us.
Danny led us back the way we came, then turned sideways about halfway.
'Brother, what are you planning to do?'
'Perhaps they might not beat him?'
'Ah... So you believe that beating someone doesn't cure them, right?'
'Hmm? Isn't that obvious? Does that make any sense? It's tantamount to denying the theory about Miasma we've established so far.'
Judging by the looks of it, it seemed like it would be quite a long walk.
I'm not saying this because I have some divine energy or anything, but you can tell just from the screams.
Faintly, they come from afar.
Probably not from this building either.
Well, logically, anyone in their right mind wouldn't live in the place where torture is conducted.
Anyway, with time to spare, I exchanged opinions with Liston.
Fortunately, Liston did not agree with the Abbot's methods.
'That's right, that's right! So what will you do? What about that chef?'
'If the monastery is going to beat him... we'll have to get him out.'
'Aha.'
'It seems we must get him out. I'm hearing a very familiar sound.'
Yeah, these screams...
They're unusual.
And I've long since become familiar with them.
After being around Liston, I've become able to tell exactly what kind of scream a person lets out based on how they're hit.
"Ugh..."
Looking ahead, I saw the chef being dragged along by a monk.
Until just a moment ago, he might have been uncertain.
It might not have been the case, but there was no way for me to know that.
Anyway, the closer we got, the clearer the screams became.
"Now then... That building is for consumptives (tuberculosis), and that one is for the mentally ill."
Around that time, we had exited the building where the Abbot was and faced two other buildings.
The building where the Abbot was—that is, where the monks ate and slept—wasn't shabby even as an empty compliment.
For starters, the exterior walls were made of stone, meticulously laid, and the inside was incredibly cozy.
Every room had a fireplace, the furniture was quite nice, and above all, the tableware I glimpsed here and there was silver.
In contrast, these...
"Where will this friend be going?"
"Ah, the mental illness side, most likely. A disease that emits Miasma... Haha. It must be a fearsome curse, mustn't it?"
The place for the consumptive patients still looked somewhat better.
In its own way, there were people with pale complexions out in the yard, getting sun... or rather, being hit.
Even so, it's still England, so the sun is weak compared to places like France... but still.
Compared to that, the place for the mentally ill patients was...
'I'd rather be in a London prison...'
The building...
was full of holes.
As I've said repeatedly, London is a cold country; for it to be in that state...
Even if they just locked people up without beating them, many would probably die.
"Shall we take a look at the mental illness side, then?"
"Yes, let's do that."
Despite being in charge of such a place, the monk knew how to put on a very kindly looking smile.
He was doing it now too; with an extremely warm smile, he strode over and bang bang pounded on the building's wall.
Then, the noise coming from inside noticeably decreased.
'What is it?'
'The result of discipline, it seems. It must have been quite severe...'
Even Liston's expression hardened, but the monk chuckled and pointed inside.
"These bastards don't respond to words. You have to beat them to make them listen. Fortunately, the ones here now have been somewhat corrected, so they shouldn't cause trouble. Hey! Get inside!"
"Ugh..."
With the same smiling face, he shoved the chef inside and then,
"Come, come, please come in."
Called us in.
The inside of the building we entered was...
'Fuck...'
'This is truly the den of Miasma.'
It was hell manifested in the present world.
I feel like I've been overusing the word 'hell' since coming to the 19th century, but...
This is the real thing.
I'm spontaneously filled with remorse.
To think I called a mere 19th-century hospital 'hell'...
The real hell was right here all along.
"Hueeeee."
"Uuuuuuu."
"Uwaaaaaa!"
"Be quiet! Have you gone mad, you son of a bitch?!"
First, a spacious corridor came into view.
Straw was spread on the floor, seemingly to prevent filth from being too conspicuous.
21st-century youngsters might not understand, but I know now.
Anyway, along the corridor were doors with bars.
Behind the doors, multiple people were confined together, not just one per cell.
In some rooms, people were slumped, standing, or lying down, their limbs bound.
They seemed to be wearing the same clothes they had on when they arrived; it didn't look like they were changed, let alone washed.
With feces and urine dried on them to the point that... well.
Squeak squeak.
Rats scurried among them.
Rustle.
Insects crawled too...
Creeeak.
Holy shit, that startled me.
Just then, a door opened.
"Ah, it's mealtime already. It's a shame to give food to these wretches... but what can we do? They are all children of the Lord, after all."
Should I be grateful that they at least call them children of the Lord?
Or should I question why they are doing this to the children of the Lord?
While I was pondering that, a monk pushing a cart with a large pot began scooping out its contents with a ladle and throwing them into the rooms.
"Eat your food, you bastards!"
He said things like that.
Even Liston and I were on the verge of panic...
"Hee, heeeek!"
The chef was, needless to say, no exception.
'Sorry about this...'
Looking at that scene, I felt like I had pointlessly saved someone who was meant to be killed and dragged him here.