This Isn’t an E*otic Game?

Chapter 38

{The doubters questioned the prophet again, asking,
“Prophet, should we grant grace even to the wicked? And if so, for how long?” They asked this to test him.

The prophet replied to their question, saying,
“The Goddess of Grace has endowed humans with the ability to discern good from evil. Therefore, devote your hearts and persevere for those striving toward goodness.
But to those abandoned to their depraved hearts by the Goddess, do not spare the rod.
These are the blasphemers, the greedy, the malicious, the envious, the murderous, and those who sow discord.
Those who show no pity to widows and orphans.
Those who hoard grace meant for the hungry to fill only their own bellies.
Those who swallow tears without an ounce of shame.
These are the ones the Goddess despises and curses, decreeing that not only their bodies but also their souls shall meet death.”}

— The Scripture of Grace, Chapter 13, Verse 11

++++++++++++++++++++++++

The factory manager, collapsed on the ground, stared at me with a look of utter shock.

“This... this is assault!!”

He seemed ready to shout, “This is violence!!”

Yes. You’re correct.
Correct in getting beaten.

“There are things you can and cannot say!!”

I flew at the factory manager.

The snap of my belt echoed as it sliced through the air, tearing it apart.

The manager’s well-tailored, pristine suit split open, revealing his overweight, naked body beneath.

His fallen pose looked like something straight out of a DVD cover titled: “Exposed Naked Under Torn Clothes in Front of Everyone AVI.”

Go on. Scream for me as everyone watches.

“Wahhh! S-Stop! Stop it!!”

The factory manager, his swollen lips making his words barely comprehensible, waved his hands frantically at the police and his guards for help. But no one dared to intervene.

“Sh-Should we shoot? Boss?”

“Are you insane? That’s the Saint. The first Saint officially recognized by the Pantheon in 300 years. One stray bullet, and we’re finished too.”

Neither the police nor the manager’s guards made a move. They simply stood there, watching nervously.

Meanwhile, I gleefully kept beating the manager.

“Wahhhh! Ahhh! Stop!!”

“Does it hurt? Huh? Does it hurt? Think about how much more it hurt for those who burned to death in your factory!”

I beat him until he foamed at the mouth and passed out.

Finally, I paused, prompting the police to approach me cautiously.

Their faces bore subtle expressions of satisfaction.

“Saint, it’s enough now. This should suffice—”

No.

It’s not enough, you bastards.

I placed my hand on the manager’s body.

I’m the Healing Saint, remember?
I need to live up to the title.

The manager’s swollen cheeks and the teeth he’d spit out into the air began to mend and regrow.

His bruised, bloated face returned to pristine condition.

Don’t worry—I have no intention of killing you.

I’m going to make sure you survive.
So you can endure this beating over and over again.

“W-Wait. Wait, Saint. P-Please calm dow—Wahhhh!”

Calm down? Ha!
Healing you was only to give me the strength to keep hitting you!!

The brutal sound of flesh tearing filled the air as I resumed the savage beating.

The manager’s screams and the crisp sound of flesh breaking echoed, prompting the onlookers to stand one by one.

“Good! Keep hitting him!”
“Well done! Beat him up!”
“That bastard! He worked us to death for 20 hours a day for a measly 1 Leon (about 1,000 won). Even the dogs he kept were treated better!”

The crowd began cheering for me.

When the manager passed out from the pain, I healed him.
And when he passed out again, I healed him again.

The cycle of endless beating and healing continued.

“Help me! Police, are you just going to stand there? Help me!”

By the third round of healing, the manager clung to the policemen’s pants.

But the officers simply pulled their legs back with smug grins.

“Apologies, sir. By the law, we should arrest the Saint for assault. But... what if we incur divine punishment? None of us want that.”

“What kind of bullshit is th—Wahhh!”

By the fifth round, the manager grabbed at his bodyguards, crying out.

“Money! I’ll pay you! You bastards, I hired you to protect me! Do something!”

“If the Saint gets so much as a scratch, the Lilia Church and the Grace Order will label us heretics. Unless you pay us ten times our current fee, we’re not risking it.”

“I’ll pay! I’ll pay twenty times more! Just help me, please—Wahhhh!”

The satisfying snap of flesh and the manager’s screams were like music to my ears.

I felt lighter, as if all the fear of hell that had weighed me down had been lifted.

This bastard.
This piece of shit.

I nearly killed myself trying to save people, risking everything while you let them burn to death because you didn’t install proper fire safety measures?

You’re dying today.

Seven times.
Eight times.

After the tenth round of healing, the factory manager finally grabbed at my pants.

“Spare me! Please! I’ll do whatever you say! Please, just stop hitting me!”

I finally stopped swinging my bloodied belt.

“This factory. You said it’s run by the Leota Company?”

“Y-Yes! It’s owned by Leota Company!”

“Call your boss. Get your company’s CEO here.”

“...Pardon?”

“The CEO!! Lead me to him, or do you want another round?”

“I-I’ll guide you! Please, get in the car! I’ll take you there immediately!”

“Hurry up!”

I climbed into the car with the manager.

“The Saint is going after the Leota Company’s CEO!”
“Follow him! He’ll be at Baron Hanson’s mansion!”

The crowd that had gathered to witness the beating began shouting and running after the car.

I glanced at them before snapping at the driver in the front seat.

“Step on it, you bastard. What are you waiting for?”

Having witnessed over 30 minutes of relentless brutality, the driver said nothing and slammed on the accelerator.

In less than three minutes, we arrived at the mansion in the affluent 10th district.

“H-Here we are. Baron Hanson is inside this mansion—Guhhh!”

I kicked the factory manager out of the car, clearing the way as I stepped out.

A sturdy iron gate blocked my path.

“Open it.”

The factory manager whimpered.

“They won’t open it for anyone without authorization—Huh? Huh???”

“Then you’ll be the key.”

Strength multiplied by 20.

Fat man, airborne!

The overweight manager flew through the air and crashed into the iron gate.

Despite its sturdy construction, the combination of his speed and weight was too much for it to withstand.

With a resounding crash, the gate swung wide open.

"Keurgh!"

The factory manager rolled across the floor like a character from a children’s cartoon before groaning in pain. As I approached him, tears streamed down his face, and he pressed himself flat against the floor.

"P-Please! Please stop hitting me!"

"Don’t move from here. Stay put."

I don’t intend to kill these guys.
If I kill them, it’ll just be personal murder.

What I want is for the people injured and scarred in the factory to find solace. I want them to witness these men being punished by the law and the system.

Only then can they feel that the world is still worth living in—that, as painful and shitty as it is, they can try to survive tomorrow.

"Y-Yes! I won’t move! I promise—waaahhh!"

The factory manager was hurled to the ground again, scattering metaphorical corn kernels as my belt struck him.

With his eyes rolled back, foam bubbling from his mouth, and urine staining his pants, it seemed he had truly passed out this time.

Don’t worry.
I’ll make sure the Lilia Church, the Pantheon, or even the Emperor himself ensures you’re punished.

I’ll charge you with heresy or something. You’ll pay for this.

But first.
I still had to deal with this Hanson Baron or whatever his name was.

With my blood-and-flesh-enchanted belt in hand, I marched into the mansion.

Inside, maids and butlers froze at the sight of me.

Not surprising.
My pristine white clergy robe had long since been sullied.

My hair was disheveled, and my belt was soaked with blood and bits of flesh.

"Where’s Baron Hanson?"

As I muttered those words, a trembling response quickly followed.

"H-He’s in the study, working..."

"Show me."

A maid gestured toward the study’s location, and I strode in that direction.

The guards armed with pistols spotted me, but most wisely stepped aside at the sight of me.

Those who didn’t?

"No matter if you’re a saint, this is private prope—waaahhh!"

They collapsed to the floor with screams like pigs being slaughtered.

The red corn kernels they vomited and their swollen, dumpling-like cheeks were the price they paid.

No one could stop me, and soon enough, I stood before the study of the so-called Baron Hanson.

The door was locked tightly, but that was no issue.

I kicked it open in one swift motion and stepped inside.

A gaunt man in his fifties, sitting at his desk, jumped in terror as though he’d wet himself.

"Wh-Who are you?! How did you get in h—Saint?!"

"You’re the CEO of Leota Company?"

"Y-Yes, that’s correct."

"Did you know about the fire at your factory?"

Baron Hanson’s eyes darted nervously.

He forced a sycophantic smile as he rose from his seat.

"Haha! I sent one of my employees to handle it. I’m sure it was dealt with appropriately. Was there some dissatisfaction?"

"Just one question."

I smiled brightly as I cast an absolute hypnosis spell on him.

"When workers were injured or killed at the factory, how did you handle it? Don’t lie. Speak only the truth."

"I paid compensation equivalent to 1 Sared. But that was just nominally. I had ways to reclaim the money. For example, sending enforcers to intimidate them into returning it or demanding they work for free for four months under the pretense of advanced wages. These beggars fear losing their jobs more than anything, so a little threat was enough to get the money back."

Baron Hanson chuckled as he answered.

What was even more shocking was his complete lack of guilt or remorse. Usually, people freeze in shock or stammer after revealing inconvenient truths.

But this bastard?
He felt no shame or embarrassment. He didn’t even realize he should be ashamed.

"In fact, I’m rather decent compared to others. There are plenty of factories that don’t pay any compensation and just kick people out. Why do you ask? Surely you’re not bothered by some charred beggars—waaahhh!"

"You filthy, inhuman piece of shit!!"

My belt snapped through the air with a crisp crack!

Baron Hanson flew gracefully through the air like a swan.

And I, too, flew after him—an elegant swan ready to pummel him senseless.

"Waaaahhh! N-No! Why are you doing this?! This is illegal—waaahhh!"

Crack! Crack!

I answered his protests with my hands instead of words.

Even as he was beaten to a pulp, Hanson kept babbling.

"This is illegal! Y-You’re the Saint, but do you think you’re above the law? Even a Saint can’t assault a civilian without consequences! The High Court will arrest you! You’ll end up in jail!"

I laughed at that.

Jail?

Sounds great.

I’m the guy who’s been contemplating going to jail just to quit being a saint.

Do you think that kind of threat scares me?

In fact, it sounds perfect!

If I get life in prison, I won’t have to keep up this fake saint act.

I’d love it!

"Send me! Take me to jail, you bastard!!"

"You lunatic—waaahhh!"

"Yes, I’m crazy! Crazy, you son of a bitch!!"

When a person is furious beyond reason, tears can flow.

I wept openly as I kept beating the bastard.

People had died, burned to charcoal in that factory.

And yet, neither this scumbag nor that factory manager I’d left outside seemed to feel an ounce of remorse.

"I’m the lunatic of the temple!! You bastard!!"

Even if it meant going to jail, I would ensure you and that factory manager faced punishment.

Heresy, corruption—whatever charge it took, I would ruin you both.

With that thought fueling my rage, I doubled down, beating the Baron even harder.

"Y-You damn—aaaaghhh!!"

Perhaps the pain had become unbearable.

Baron Hanson, in a last-ditch effort, summoned a black aura in his hand and hurled it at me.

...Huh?

Wait a second.
A black aura from his hand? Did he just throw a curse?

"Why... why isn’t the curse working?"

Both the Baron and I stared at each other, dumbfounded.

"Why? Why isn’t it—"

"Are you... a follower of the Evil God?"

I burst into incredulous laughter as I asked, and Baron Hanson answered with sincerity.

"Yes."

Let me repeat that.

"Yes, I am a follower of the Evil God. I was assisting the Collector by gathering grudges."

The power of absolute hypnosis was, indeed, absolute.