23. The Lame Priest (IV)

Watching that limping figure from behind, Anchorite felt a rare flicker of amusement—how could this be? I was lame, and so was he? How could there be such a coincidence in the world?

The thought circled in his mind like a vulture. He gripped his cane tightly, his gaze lifting slightly.

It might have been a coincidence, but it might also have been deliberate. At that moment, his eyes settled with unerring precision on the priest's exposed nape.

Be more careful. That was what he told himself. Even so, rage continued to roar within him, forcing his grip on the cane to tighten further.

Anchorite had a thorough understanding of his current condition. After so many years, his physique was no longer as strong as it had once been. The strength praised within the Legion, the vitality that had astonished Apothecaries—both had declined to a degree he found laughable.

He was like a machine rusted through and through. Whenever he tried to carry out the duties he had been designed and made for, he could hear strange, muffled sounds coming from within his body.

The near-eternal warfare brought by the long passage of time had reduced him to this state. It also meant that his genes remained pure, that he had not surpassed the limits imposed upon humanity, unlike certain others. He was proud of that, but it often angered him as well.

Yet from another perspective, the faith he had followed for so long had naturally given him other forms of strength in return. Such strength was unremarkable when it came to the material world, but it could still lend him a little aid.

He watched the priest in silence, merely observing him calmly.

He saw clearly the strain in every step the priest took, the agony in every