Wounds (1)
"...I—I'm sorry. I was wrong."
The very first words out of the girl's mouth as she regained consciousness were more than enough to plunge me into utter bewilderment.
It was neither of the standard textbook questions like Where am I? or Who are you? Nor was it the stunned silence of someone completely disoriented and struggling to grasp her surroundings. I simply never imagined that her reflexive response upon laying eyes on another human being would be to stammer, "I was wrong."
Even less anticipated was the raw terror pooling in the eyes she turned upon me.
"Loo—"
"I'm sorry! I'll be good, I'll obey, I swear I won't run away again, please..."
I couldn't even manage a basic reassurance like It's okay, calm down, I'm not going to hurt you. The moment I parted my lips and took a single step forward, something inside her seemed to snap. Trembling like a leaf, she shrank back toward the far corner of the bed, a desperate, frantic litany of apologies tumbling from her lips.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, I'm sorry..."
"..."
This was bad. Seriously, thoroughly bad.
Whatever reason the girl—or rather, the Hero—had for reacting like this, one thing was unmistakably clear: her current mental state was dangerously unstable. Her frantic reaction compelled me to take two hasty steps back.
Is she... going into shock?
Even after I stopped approaching, she kept burrowing deeper beneath the blanket in the corner of the mattress, shivering uncontrollably. This was anything but normal. It was as though she were undergoing acute shock driven by severe physical or psychological trauma.
The instant that realization registered, I quietly, slowly, and carefully backed out of the room, easing the door shut behind me. In moments like this, trying to force an answer would only do more harm than good; stepping back and giving her time to calm down was the only sensible choice.
The second the door latched, I expanded my sensory field to confirm she remained curled up on the bed. Only after quietly monitoring her for several minutes to ensure she wasn't having convulsions or other critical symptoms did I finally allow myself to exhale.
What on earth triggered that?
I methodically retraced the sequence of events leading up to this moment, piecing together a timeline. I had smashed a wooden plank against her to test her Causality Correction, confirmed she possessed Stage 3, and then begun sweeping up the splinters. Right in the middle of tidying the room, she had opened her eyes. And the very instant she awoke, she had started frantically begging for forgiveness, displaying symptoms bordering on acute shock.
That was the sum of it, but no matter how hard I racked my brain, nothing I had done should have terrified her to such a degree.
"...No matter how I look at it, that's textbook PTSD."
To be completely honest, her reaction was all too reminiscent of the trauma victims I had witnessed countless times during the World War. A specific object or keyword would plunge them into sudden panic or shock, sometimes compelling their bodies to repeat drilled, conditioned behaviors over and over.
Yet assuming that she suffered from PTSD presented a baffling contradiction. From everything I understood, Heroes were existences blessed by the cosmos—beings beloved by the very world they inhabited.
In every tale, the Hero overcomes insurmountable adversity to reach a happy ending. This wasn't merely the naive logic of fairy tales; it existed as an undeniable cosmic law in the form of Causality. The countless anecdotes circulating on the Demon Lord Gallery only reaffirmed that Heroes were existences inherently destined for triumph and happiness rather than wretched despair.
I turned the paradox over in my head, but lacking the necessary knowledge, I couldn't reach a clear conclusion. Naturally, I summoned the community interface and navigated straight to the Q&A board. On the Demon Lord Gallery's Q&A board, the doctrine of "ask first, think later" was always the correct strategy.
Setting aside Heroes who caught PTSD because of you guys, what about when they're growing up?
Do some of them already suffer from mental disorders like PTSD way before they ever run into a Demon Lord?
Within literal seconds of posting, a flood of replies arrived from the no-life veterans who camped the gallery twenty-four hours a day. This wasn't because I carried the "Newbie" tag; it was simply the inherent nature of the Q&A board.
How best to describe that place? In a word, it was an asylum crawling with degenerates who derived twisted ecstasy from forcibly cramming their knowledge down other people's throats.
Of course, given that the source of that knowledge was a cabal of Demon Lords, you had to filter their words with extreme caution. Compared to the users lounging in the General Board, their reliability was slightly—no, substantially—lower. Yet the Q&A board possessed one undeniable virtue: blazingly fast replies offering every conceivable perspective under the sun.
The dozen-odd comments were virtually unanimous: PTSD was rampant among Heroes, psychological damage and the heroic mantle were inseparable, and some radicals even insisted that being a Hero was itself a psychiatric disease.
Having read through all of them, I naturally felt compelled to drop a follow-up inquiry.
Whenever Equilibrium—Leon—posted updates regarding current affairs over at the Hero Gallery, or when Demon Lords on friendly terms with Heroes shared their stories, most Heroes seemed like textbook paragons. They preached morality and justice, standing firm and unyielding before any hardship.
Even in tales told by Demon Lords locked in perpetual mortal combat with their nemesis Heroes, one could occasionally catch glimpses of begrudging affection, a quiet respect for the Hero's unbroken resolve. Naturally, that left me skeptical of the commenters' claims.
The responses shattered whatever idyllic illusions I had harbored about Heroes. They were fundamentally crippled by mental trauma, and those who failed to overcome it were purged by natural selection—either executed by a Demon Lord or dying before they ever reached one.
What kind of sick reality was that? It sounded terrifying. How was that any less ruthless than the law of the jungle among Demon Lords?
"Chilling..."
My shock at discovering the grim reality of Heroes was brief. After scanning a few more comments, I closed the community window. I had acquired plenty of information; lingering on the forums any longer would just be a waste of time.
"Alright, let's break this down."
Synthesizing the intel from the gallery with what I had witnessed firsthand, it was obvious the girl suffered from PTSD. And something I had done had tripped her trigger. Once the causal link was established, the scope of my investigation narrowed considerably.
Could the trigger be that I'm an adult male? Or the bedroom environment itself—
And among all the potential triggers, one stood out with overwhelming probability.
My clothes.
I glanced down at what I was wearing: a combat uniform dyed in drab olive drab and mixed camouflage patterns. Strictly speaking, it wasn't official military attire, but an esper combat suit manufactured decades ago by the Korean Branch of the Esper Association. In appearance, however, it was virtually indistinguishable from standard army fatigues. After the World War erupted, I had frequently been mistaken for an active-duty soldier.
Despite the potential for misunderstandings, my reason for choosing this outfit was purely pragmatic. It held up reasonably well against esper powers, offered excellent mobility, and above all, was easier to wash and maintain than anything else in my possession.
Surviving for twenty years on an Earth stripped bare of running water and electricity had taught me that ordinary civilian clothes were an absolute nightmare to maintain. Cleaning out Gates left fabric shredded, scorched, and demanding meticulous laundering. Furthermore, since I was the sole surviving human left on the planet, wandering around in military garb carried zero risk of causing misunderstandings or complications.
Yet now that this nameless Hero—this snow-white girl—had descended to Earth, my wardrobe was no longer something I could afford to overlook.
Military-related PTSD.
Soldiers.
Given her identified nature as a Bionoid, or perhaps a chimera esper manufactured as a synthetic Hero, such a trigger made eminent sense. A Bionoid forged with state-level budgets wouldn't have been raised in a normal facility; such research installations were virtually guaranteed to crawl with military personnel. If she were a chimera esper, forget ordinary guards—an entire armored brigade securing the perimeter wouldn't be out of the question.
If she had endured horrific trauma in such an environment, encountering someone dressed as a soldier or a lab researcher would easily set off severe PTSD symptoms.
"I'll start by changing my clothes. If that doesn't work, well..."
I would take it one cautious step at a time, slowly easing my way toward her. Compared to the twenty agonizing years I had weathered in total isolation, the time spent bridging the gap between us felt negligible.
Naturally, someone might look at my behavior and scoff: Why pour this much time and effort into a Hero? Just slaughter her the second her Causality Correction drops.
Yet the very thought repulsed me.
I was sick and tired of killing. And I couldn't bear the thought of simply abandoning someone trapped in the throes of psychiatric torment.
"Dialogue is always better. Communication."
Whatever wounds the Hero carried, whatever horrific past she bore—I was confident I could tread lightly around them, help shelter her scars, and draw closer. Though whether this was how a proper Demon Lord ought to treat a Hero remained an open question.
"Ahem..."
Time to test the waters carefully.
Shaking off the awkwardness tightening my chest, I gently rapped my knuckles against the door to the girl's room.