The Yellow-Haired Villain in Soaring Phoenix's Novels Also Desires Happiness Chapter 342: Secret Tryst

After parting with Lynn, the Saintess walked toward the confessional.

Her posture was elegant, back straight, hands folded over her lower abdon. With her steady steps, pale-gold hair and white hem swayed together—like sunlight and white clouds stirred by the evening breeze.

"Good afternoon, Your Holiness."

No matter how busy the nuns and clergy passing by were, the instant they saw that breathtaking figure, they could not help slowing down to bow with respect. "Good afternoon."

Smiling, the Saintess nodded back to each one, then her clear gaze shifted and she stopped a young novice who was about to hurry off.

"Please wait a mont."

"Eh?"

Flustered, the novice hadn’t expected Her Holiness to call out to her personally. She assud she’d done sothing wrong, or committed so breach of etiquette.

But just as her anxiety swelled to the point of tears, a pair of hands—warm even through white silk gloves—reached over and carefully straightened the front of her bodice.

"You’re new, aren’t you."

"Eh... y-yes!"

So close to the Saintess she’d always worshiped, the novice felt heat rush to her head. Her cheeks burned, and she could barely stand.

"Reporting to Your Holiness, I’m a new intern nun. I only started at the Emile Grand Cathedral last week. I-If I’ve done anything poorly, p-please punish !"

"Don’t be so nervous. I don’t eat people."

The Saintess’ smile remained gentle. Holy radiance seed to spill from every strand of her hair, as if lifting one into the clouds, dazzling and dreamlike.

"There."

She fastened the first button that—through carelessness—the novice hadn’t realized had co loose, then smoothed the creases along her collar.

"Even if the work just now was complicated, you must still mind your appearance before the Goddess."

"Y-yes!"

The novice’s face was scarlet. The thought that she’d just been granted the honor of having Her Holiness fix her clothes herself made her tremble with excitent—she nearly fainted.

When she returned to her senses, she could only see the Saintess’ retreating back, exquisite beyond compare.

"Her Holiness the Saintess... how gentle she is."

Hands clenched, the novice felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes.

Gentle, sacred, strong—people said rely hearing her voice would bring longevity, seeing her face would bring happiness.

And yet, even worshiped by all, she was not aloof.

Even to an insignificant intern nun like herself, she patiently offered guidance; any supplicant’s plea would be t with a response.

Every day, at the sa ti, she would go to the confessional and, before the Goddess, confess the sins of humankind.

Such a person was simply... perfect.

A perfect Saintess.

Though no one knew why such a perfect Saintess had suddenly announced she would step down soon, the successor chosen by her...

Would surely be just as perfect.

"As expected of Her Holiness."

The novice vowed blissfully:

"This garnt that you touched—after today... I’m never washing it again."

...

The confessional.

The Saintess paused before the door.

As the Saintess of the Life Church, burdened with leading countless believers, she spent one hour each day in this confessional that belonged to her alone.

Though called confession, in truth it was more of a quiet contemplation.

Here, she could beco calm.

But this ti, before this door she knew by heart, she suddenly hesitated.

Her gaze slid over the doorknob, then, without leaving a trace, swept the surroundings.

At last she reached out and opened the door.

What greeted her was a statue of the Goddess—the sort seen throughout the Holy City—yet more exquisite here, more lifelike.

Only, in the dim light of the confessional, a drifting smoke of unknown origin curled up along the Goddess’ compassionate face, wafting heavenward.

The Saintess’ expression did not change. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

The room grew dimr.

Hands clasped over her chest, the Saintess devoutly confessed to the Goddess.

"O Great Goddess, please forgive my sins..."

Then.

She released her hands.

Turned.

Fisted her palm.

And swung!

A sharp, driving straight punch!

In one fluid motion.

With a gust that scattered the smoke around her, the punch crashed down—striking squarely... the Pink Bear who was lying to the side, dozing with a cheap hand-rolled cigarette clamped in his mouth.

Squish...

The Pink Bear’s belly visibly caved, wobbling like jelly. Pain yanked him out of his pleasant dream; he opened his eyes in fury.

"Who—"

But he didn’t finish even a single word. All his anger evaporated the mont he t those ice-cold eyes.

"Turning my confessional into this—do you want to be hanged right now from the Apostates’ Gate with a rope woven from sinners’ hair, Mr. Pink—Bear."

The smile at the Saintess’ lips was utterly different from her usual gentleness—one could even call it cruel. She enunciated each word, spilling out a threat that should never co from a Saintess’ mouth.

"I-It’s... you."

The Pink Bear rolled to his feet, pinched out the cigarette, rubbed his paws together, and offered a fawning grin.

"Ha, if you wanted to wake , a couple casual kicks would’ve done. No need to be so enthusiastic."

"I was only afraid of disturbing your lovely dream."

"Now that’s distant talk. However lovely the dream, it’s not as important as seeing you."

"..."

Amid the drifting smoke, the Saintess’ long, narrow, beautiful eyes narrowed further, as if trying to see straight through the clownish suit to the man inside.

But she soon gave up and simply held out her hand toward the Pink Bear.

"What?"

"Give one."

"Huh?"

"I said, give one." The Saintess’ gaze grew colder.

After a brief silence, the Pink Bear trembled and handed over a hand-rolled.

One glance, and the Saintess’ face twisted with disgust.

"This? Have you really fallen so low?"

"Heh..."

The Pink Bear gave an awkward chuckle. "For certain reasons, this is all I’ve got right now..."

"Is that so?"

The Saintess fixed him with a long look, then—catching him unprepared—snapped out another perfectly practiced straight punch, slamming into his gut.

She seized his warped bear face, thrust her hand into his mouth, and groped around.

"Wait... mmph... s-so thick... so deep... it’s too big... I can’t... pull it out..."

Over his muffled, inarticulate howls, the Saintess withdrew her hand—now holding an aluminum cigarette case.

"So you do have the good stuff."

She flicked it open with a glance, then, ignoring the Pink Bear’s heartbroken stare, took out the top-grade cigar he’d gone to great lengths to hide from Professor Prang and had saved until now, unwilling to smoke it. She clipped it, lit it, and drew in a deep breath.

Tendrils of smoke gathered into rings, leaping playfully from her tender pink lips. Mixed with the faint holy glow around her, it looked both sacred and demonic.

"Talk."

The Saintess dropped into a chair, spreading her bare white thighs in an unseemly posture that would shatter countless believers’ faith on the spot, and lazily asked:

"What did you co to see for?"