Saint’s Prison Novel Chapter 136

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Look.

I will always be by your side, till the end of the world.

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Yominagare.

It was the most feared phenonon in Ryohomura. The ritual ended in failure, unable to seal the Kegare, leading to Yominagare – likened to a miscarriage where Yomi flowed from the mother’s womb.

Yomi refers to Tokoyo or Higan, the world of the dead. A world beyond human reach, filled with danger and chaos, collectively known as “the Otherworld”.

The Otherworld is a broad concept. It includes mountains and forests with many unknowns, water bodies, and in human history, space, the world before humans, or even the world after our extinction can be considered part of the Otherworld.

What does it an for Yomi, the Otherworld, to flow into this world?

If we move away from the fixed concept of death and adopt a spatial, more personal interpretation, it might an that the region of Ryohomura has been swallowed by the Otherworld.

Originally, Ryohomura was an isolated village, far removed from the secular world. In that sense, the land of Ryohomura itself was already an Otherworld, perhaps with a groundwork more receptive to the stronger “Yomi” Otherworld.

To put it more simply, Ryohomura served as a vessel for the Otherworld, into which the denser Otherworld of Yomi was poured.

The vessel is Ryohomura, but its contents are from a different world. Such a mismatched realm was created. The fact that the term Yominagare is recorded in the ancient texts of the Ando family suggests that Yominagare had occurred before.

“A vessel, huh?”

Like drowning in water filled in a vessel, perhaps Shizuyo also drowned in Yomi. Or maybe she beca sothing else, sothing that could adapt to the Otherworld.

Vessel.

Shizuyo.

Amal.

Lord Oyaza.

Amal’s sister.

Rebirth.

Thinking this far, I looked up at the sky.

Tightly, I gripped the rosary.

Ah, who decided that there should only be one inside the vessel?

“—Who am I? You asked that, didn’t you?”

Since coming to Stonehurst, those words were whispered to

nurous tis. Perhaps, more than wanting to be found, they carried the nuance of wanting to be chosen.

Furthermore, maybe it’s about wanting to be nad, to be recognized as an individual.

I ruminate over the words Amal once muttered.

“There’s no need for past, present, or future. We stand on a vague boundary line. If we are to eventually blend, lt, and vanish, what aning is there in living?”

Blending, lting, vanishing.

Why didn’t I realize sooner? No, I certainly felt sothing off. Amal often said, “We”. I should have caught on.

A muffled sound erged from the depths of my throat. Gritting my teeth, I suppressed the turmoil within.

“Caelum, it’s you. You invaded my mind, hiding everything. That’s how you’ve sched against my heart, over and over. Mocking , damn it, you beast!”

A raging passion smoldered deep in my chest. My rationale crumbled with a crack.

Ah… This is bad.

Calm down, calm down, just calm down.

Once more, I adjusted my grip on the rosary. As if to suppress the squirming heart, I pressed the sacred symbol against my left chest.

Breathing in and out, I repeated this several tis until I finally regained my composure.

“Haah, no good. I must control my emotions, or I’ll be carried away.”

I shook my head, rallying my spirits. Now, let’s think further.

Blending… aning, there’s sothing within Amal that can blend.

The first thing that cos to mind is dissociative identity disorder, colloquially known as multiple personality disorder.

It’s a neurosis where, due to severe pain or traumatic experiences in childhood, multiple distinct identities develop within a single person. Considering Amal’s past, it wouldn’t be strange if she developed dissociative identity disorder from extre stress.

Another self of Amal.

Thinking of this, I rember one night, unable to sleep, I left my bed and t Amal in the silent corridor.

At that ti, I vaguely felt she was Amal, yet not Amal. And she—

“—Called herself Amalthea.”

Amal dislikes her na for so reason. Therefore, she always refers to herself as “Amal”. When I called her Amartia, she frowned. “I am not Amalthea, I am Amal,” she said.

“Who are you?”

As if throwing the question into the void, I muttered. Not expecting an answer. Yet, precisely because of that, I am.

“…Who are you all?”

I couldn’t help but ask.

Author’s Note : Whoa, sorry for the delay!! (Prostrates)

Tln : really man, almost 4 month delay ??

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