Only I Can Handle the Yandere Guild - Chapter 9
Chapter 9: The Gospel of Sacred Agony
The sound that woke me wasn’t breaking furniture.
It wasn’t the high-pitched squeal of Elara begging for punishment, wasn’t Valeria sharpening her sword at four in the morning, wasn’t even Seraphina doing whatever dark magic experiments she did when she thought I was asleep.
It was chanting.
Low, rhythmic, disturbingly devoted chanting coming from outside the guild hall—I stared at the ceiling for a solid ten seconds, hoping I was still dreaming. The chanting continued, steady and ominous, very real.
I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled to the window.
Outside, at least thirty people knelt in the dirt, wearing rough brown robes—the kind that screamed “I’ve given up on comfort in pursuit of higher meaning”. They were hitting themselves with leather straps, blood streaking down their backs, faces twisted in expressions that looked disturbingly close to Elara’s usual look.
“Oh no.”
One of them held up a hand-painted banner, and the words made my blood run cold.
“THE CHURCH OF ETERNAL PENANCE: BLESSED BE THE SAINT OF THE GOLDEN FLUSH.”
They were praying to Elara.
My healer—the woman who deliberately stepped on pressure plates for fun—had somehow inspired a religious movement. This was bad, monumentally bad, the kind of thing that required so much paperwork I could feel my soul leaving my body just thinking about it.
I got dressed in record time.
The chanting grew louder as I walked downstairs, seeping through the walls like a curse. The common room was empty except for Elara, sitting at the kitchen table with her hands clasped in front of her, face crimson—not the usual flush of excitement but something different, deeper, more intense.
“Guild Master.”
Her voice trembled like she was about to confess murder.
“I need to tell you something.”
“I know—there’s a cult outside worshipping you.”
“They call me a saint.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, her whole body shaking.
“They say my suffering is divine, that I’ve shown them the path to enlightenment through pain.”
“That’s not enlightenment, Elara—that’s just your concerning personal habits being misinterpreted by people with worse judgment than you.”
“But Master Rian—”
She looked up at me with those desperate eyes.
“I don’t deserve their devotion—I’m filthy, sinful, I only seek pain because it feels good, not because it’s holy.”
“I’m aware.”
“This burden is too much, the weight of their prayers, their adoration—”
Her breathing got heavier, flush deepening.
“It makes me feel things I shouldn’t feel.”
Of course it did.
I grabbed my coat off the back of the chair—this situation required immediate action, specifically going to the Guild Association to fill out whatever forms existed for “my healer accidentally started a masochist cult”.
“Get your cloak—we’re going to see Beatrice.”
“Will she punish me?”
“Probably not in the way you’re hoping.”
We stepped outside.
The cultists noticed immediately, the chanting stopping as thirty pairs of eyes locked onto Elara—then, as one horrifying unit, they prostrated themselves with faces pressed into the dirt, arms stretched toward her like she was the sun and they were dying plants.
“The Saint walks among us!”
One of them screamed.
“Blessed be her sacred flesh that endures all suffering!”
Another voice joined in.
“Grant us the strength to bear our mortal agony as you bear yours!”
Elara made a noise that was half gasp, half whimper, her knees buckling—I caught her elbow before she could collapse into the crowd.
“Keep walking.”
“Master Rian, they’re so devoted.”
“That’s not a good thing.”
We pushed through the crowd, and I tried to navigate around them—that lasted about ten seconds before one cultist threw himself directly in my path, sprawling on the cobblestones with arms spread wide.
“Please! Let the Saint walk upon my unworthy back—let me feel her divine weight!”
“Get up.”
“I am not worthy to rise in her presence!”
Three more cultists joined him, creating a human carpet of religious fervor and questionable life choices. I looked down at them, then at Elara—who was trembling so hard I thought she might vibrate out of her clothes.
“We’re walking around them.”
It took twenty minutes to travel three blocks.
Every step attracted more attention—windows opened, people pointed, normal citizens saw the procession and immediately closed their shutters. Smart people, I was jealous of smart people who made good decisions.
The Guild Association building loomed ahead like a promise of bureaucratic salvation.
We climbed the marble steps, and the moment we crossed the threshold, the cultists stopped following—the Association had wards against religious extremism, probably installed after some previous incident I didn’t want to know about.
The lobby went quiet when we entered.
Every adventurer, every clerk, every random person filing paperwork stopped what they were doing—they stared at us with that specific look, that uncomfortable sympathy mixed with “thank god that’s not my problem” relief.
“Guild Master Rian.”
The receptionist’s voice was carefully neutral.
“Grand Guildmaster Beatrice is expecting you—third floor, executive wing.”
Of course she was expecting us—Beatrice probably knew about the cult before I did, probably found it entertaining.
We climbed the stairs in silence.
Elara’s breathing was still ragged, hands kept clenching and unclenching—the attention of the cultists had done something to her, made her hyperaware of her own existence in a way that was deeply uncomfortable to witness.
Beatrice’s office door was open.
She sat behind her massive oak desk, surrounded by stacks of paperwork that probably detailed every crisis in the kingdom—her white hair was pulled back in a neat bun, eyes sparkling with that calculating amusement that meant she was about to make my life harder.
She was eating candy from a skull-shaped bowl.
“Rian, Elara—do come in.”
I walked in, Elara trailing behind me like a guilty child.
“Let me guess—you already know everything.”
“About the Church of Eternal Penance? Oh yes, fascinating development, really.”
Beatrice popped another candy in her mouth.
“They’ve been causing quite the stir—blocking trade routes to the capital, claiming they need to ‘experience the hunger of the saints’ to achieve enlightenment.”
“They’re starving people?”
“Not deliberately—they’re just lying across the main roads, refusing to move, merchants can’t get through, food supplies are backing up—it’s becoming a logistical nightmare.”
She said it like she was describing a mildly interesting play, not a potential famine.
“This is a civilization-ending PR disaster, Rian—the nobility is getting nervous, starting to ask questions about who this ‘Saint of the Golden Flush’ is and why the Guild Association hasn’t dealt with her followers.”
Elara made a small sound of distress behind me.
“So you want me to disperse them.”
“Disperse, relocate, convince them to find a new hobby—I don’t particularly care how you do it.”
Beatrice slid a document across the desk—official Guild Association letterhead, crimson border, the words “Correction Quest” stamped at the top.
“Consider this a priority assignment—failure to resolve this situation will result in—”
She paused for dramatic effect.
“—significantly more paperwork for everyone involved.”
I picked up the document, my eye twitching as I read the details—estimated cultist count: fifty and growing, location: concentrated around guild hall and spreading to trade districts, threat level: moderate social disruption escalating to major economic impact.
The familiar throbbing pain started behind my eyes.
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I’ll be forced to send in Iron Vanguard to handle it—Kaelen would love the publicity of ‘saving the capital from religious extremism,’ though his methods tend to be rather—”
“Violent.”
“I was going to say theatrical, but yes.”
Beatrice smiled that mischievous smile that made me want to jump out the window.
“You are the safety pin on this grenade, Rian—these people worship your healer, they’ll listen to you… probably.”
A soft thud interrupted us.
Elara had dropped to her knees, clutching at my coat with both hands, face buried against my leg—her whole body trembled, and when she looked up, her eyes were glazed with that familiar desperate hunger.
“Master Rian.”
Her voice cracked.
“This is all my fault—my filthy reputation, my sinful habits—I’ve caused you so much trouble.”
“Elara—”
“Please, punish me—discipline me for this transgression, I deserve your harshest judgment.”
Her grip on my coat tightened.
“Strike me down, cast me out, make me suffer for bringing shame to Crimson Rose.”
“Get up.”
“Not until you promise to correct my wicked behavior.”
She pressed her forehead against my knee, breathing hard.
“I am a burden, a blight, a walking disaster who attracts the worst kind of attention.”
Beatrice watched this entire display with obvious entertainment, leaning back in her chair as that smile grew wider—she was enjoying this, the Grand Guildmaster of the entire kingdom treating a potential social collapse like dinner theater.
“You know, Rian—”
Beatrice’s voice dripped with false sympathy.
“—if you don’t handle this cult, they might decide to escalate—start a holy war in Elara’s name, declare the capital a sacred site—these things have a tendency to spiral.”
“I’m aware.”
I looked down at Elara, still clinging to me like I was the only solid thing in her chaotic existence—her flush had spread down her neck, breathing hadn’t slowed at all.
“Elara, stand up—we’re taking the quest.”
“Will you punish me properly when it’s over?”
“We’re not having this conversation in front of Beatrice.”
“But I need to know—”
“Stand. Up.”
She rose slowly, reluctantly, hands finally releasing my coat—she looked at me with those wide, pleading eyes, the eyes of someone who genuinely believed they deserved punishment for existing.
I took the Correction Quest document from the desk.
“We’ll disperse the cult, relocate them somewhere that isn’t blocking vital infrastructure—and then I’m filing a formal complaint about how this Association handles religious extremism.”
“Duly noted.”
Beatrice waved her hand dismissively.
“Do try to avoid casualties—the paperwork for martyrs is absolutely dreadful.”
The headache was getting worse, that specific throbbing pain that came from knowing I was about to spend the next week managing a situation that shouldn’t exist. A cult worshipping my masochist healer—of course, why would my life ever be simple?
I turned toward the door, Elara following close behind.
“Oh, and Rian?”
Beatrice called out as we reached the threshold.
“Try to have fun with it—it’s not every day you get to play prophet to a religious movement.”
I didn’t dignify that with a response.
The door closed behind us, and the hallway felt quiet after Beatrice’s office—empty. I looked at the document in my hand—official guild business, priority assignment, my signature required at the bottom.
“Master Rian?”
Elara’s voice was small.
“I really am sorry.”
“I know.”
“The cultists—they just started appearing, I didn’t encourage them, I swear.”
“I believe you.”
“But I understand if you want to punish me anyway.”
I started walking toward the stairs, Elara matching my pace and staying close—too close, her shoulder brushing against mine, breathing still not returned to normal.
We had a cult to disperse, a PR disaster to manage—and somehow, I had to convince fifty religious fanatics that worshipping my healer’s pain tolerance was not a valid spiritual path.
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