Sword Saintess (3)

A girl walks through the village charred black. As she trudges through the ruins that are already far too late to save, she suddenly misses her family more than ever that day.

"Mom...?"

The voice she calls out, choked back and suppressed to the brink of tears, is met only by the mocking caw caw of crows. After the heretics swept through like a storm, there's not a trace of life left anywhere.

In the square stands a pyre of logs where the villagers were piled up like trash and burned. Her childhood friend she'd played with just yesterday, the neighborhood grandpa who hobbled around on a cane because of his bad left leg, her cousin sister who had been so excited about leaving for the city next month. Everyone, everyone, blackened and charred, gathered in one heap.

"Ah... ah—"

Upon facing it, nausea hits, vomit follows, and then she staggers to her feet on trembling legs to search for her family again. Fortunately, none of the faces match who she's looking for, so with a sliver of hope clinging to her tattered heart, she keeps moving.

'Don't go.'

Someone tries to stop her in her nightmare, but there's no chance she'll listen. Using legs shaking like a newborn fawn's, the girl somehow reaches her destination—and what she faces there is the corpses of what were once her family, cruelly hung on the church's symbol.

Dizzyingly, endlessly far she falls. The moment one person's ego plummets.

.....!

She cries, wails until the world seems to tear apart, loses consciousness, regains it when her breath returns. Then curses and resents the world again until her breath fails once more.

For a single girl, the collapse of her mind is that easy.

What remains for the girl afterward is the label of the village's sole survivor—or lucky one. A frail little body, discarded worthless in this harsh world.

That day, the child who bore the fate of the Sword Saintess burned to death in her village due to the undead forces. Instead, the Heir of the Lost Star decided to bet one more chance on Herien, the village's sole survivor, rather than abandon her extinguished fate.

Offering half her lifespan and a few human emotions as the price, the once-ordinary human Herien became the somewhat unstable Sword Saintess, using revenge on the village and a new conviction as her pretext.

Her ordinary brown hair dyed sky-blue under the influence of holy power. Her physical abilities grew incomparably stronger than before.

"...Ah?"

And now, she was defeated all too easily by this woman she had no doubt was an apostle of the Black Sun.

'How...?'

Her entire body a wreck inside and out. Internal injuries from the overwhelming difference in holy power.

"....?"

Even Lisia, who had blocked Herien's attacks, looked bewildered. She never imagined it would end this quickly.

Then the problem traces back to one devotee's ignorance. Charging in like a puppy before a tiger, blind to the gap in power—her pathetic display.

Herien's ears burn red with shame as she lies sprawled on the ground.

"A-Are you... okay..."

"I don't want pity from an apostle of evil...!"

At this point, even Lisia feels wronged. No, there's only one she's devoted her life to loving and serving—how could she be linked to that filthy lot?

So she furrows her brow, guilt staining her face, and speaks.

"Why on earth do you lump me with those wicked fiends?"

"Because you wield their holy power...!"

"Ah."

The throbbing pain vanishes like it was washed away, replaced by surging vitality.

"Do the Black Sun scum use holy power like this?"

The benevolent holy power freshly received from her beloved lord. It's impossible to imagine it resembling that horrific breed.

"Then what."

"You said you sensed the Black Sun's aura from my lord."

"...Yes."

Herien had definitely sensed it, and her ability had succeeded countless times before.

"There must be some profound ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠reason."

Lisia believed it without doubt. Her lord was the beacon illuminating the world, the true justice. It had to be some noble purpose beyond her meager comprehension.

"What the hell kind of..."

Herien grew flustered instead by this devotee's boundless faith. Normally, such doubt would make anyone hesitate. Especially from her, bearer of the Hero's constellation.

But Lisia didn't waver; she enveloped her with even firmer love and belief. Truly, love's weight was heavy.

"S-Still. I..."

But Herien was the Sword Saintess. She had to fulfill her duty. Especially if the target threatened the Hero.

"...Still."

Lisia gazes at Herien with exasperation.

"I can't let you go—you who bear that constellation's aura."

Recovered thanks to Lisia's aid, Herien brazenly charges again. Or tries to.

"....?"

Until a bizarre change surges from deep within her.

# Suddenly dumping the Hero and his devotee on me.

"No. What is this, a clearance sale?"

Sudden random devotee toss.

"What flow?"

Followed by the Heir of the Lost Star openly spouting ominous prophecies.

"...."

Still a string of incomprehensible words. This was how constellations talked. Acting all lofty like sages—were their brains broken or something? Cloud-grabbing nonsense or water-grasping rhetoric came standard-issue.

'Where do they learn this crap.'

Or maybe remnants of the game devs dead-set on their concepts. Anyway, interpretation was all on me.

"Explain so I get it."

"Skip."

"All that buildup just to say that."

So it was all just a show. Sprinkle some star dust, flash a shooting star. Tada! Here's a shiny holy sword—cool, right?

"So basically, you just don't wanna die."

Devotees are a constellation's lifeline. Without worshippers crying out to them, constellations lose all power and fade from the world.

Already short on devotees, and the few she has are in bad shape. So she's shoving some my way to secure safety.

"....Hmm."

I pondered briefly.

'Change perspective.'

Gaining new devotees—especially collections—is welcome for me. It opens new possibilities in this world, new fun to chase. Progress ticks up too.

"I know."

First thing the system spat out. Not my choice to vanish, but some opportunists seized the vacancy.

'Help, sure.'

Holy sword, Hero, Sword Saintess. Drool-worthy jobs and items bundled ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as a set.

'No beef then.'

If those signals were flirtations leading to alliance, I'd welcome with open arms. Any other player would've dived headfirst.

'Still.'

I'm different. Extreme plays for extreme gains—that's my style.

"One more thing."

"Friend request."

The clueless constellation tilts her head; the one who knows everything groans in terror. But there's no advice my Black Sun can give her.

"Constellation chat window. You're the second one—anyway, it's good."

I cross my arms confidently, gauging her reaction. From her view, a chat window popped up from empty air.

"Cool, right?"

As expected, curiosity sparks at the system window; she reaches to touch it.

"Hit accept if you're in."

'Shut it.'

Holy sword's a risk; constellation connections win. Obviously.

"Duh."

And now, alongside my Black Sun chatterbox, 'Heir of the Lost Star' joins the list.

'Nice.'

Two constellation friends already.

'Oh.'

Sweet skill acquired. Details later.

'One slot empty?'

The Hero's name—the holy sword's owner—is missing. Like a Hero-less Hero party.

Puzzled, scanning status, I spot an item softly glowing in inventory corner, appealing itself.

"Ah."

The recruitment ticket I'd saved from a past reward. Confirming it, unease floods me.

'No way.'

Dopamine crash from lost gacha blues, but 'higher grade' tempts me back.

'Fine. Hero.'

Has any player ever recruited the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Hero as a devotee? Nope.

'I'm first.'

This is my ultimate, one-of-a-kind achievement.

And so, with rewards more lavish than expected, I return to the human realm.

#

Clack.

Clack.

A hollow, hard something colliding. The source: a moving corpse.

Its eyes hold only deep darkness, empty sockets; the draped mana grotesque and eerie—death itself.

『Eldritch』

Into its hollow skull whispers an otherworld entity.

"Th-Then."

The Absolute. Once enemy to all constellations, holder of the strongest devotees.

The constellation recalls the hidden 'Black Sun' to heighten vigilance. Hesitate on this perfect 'now,' and other lurking constellations steal the chance.

Eldritch creaks its stiff skull to continue.

"E-Even so. My lord. They still hold remnants of the Absolute's forces."

Undead. For them, defeat and death produce more troops.

Beings that can meaningfully strike constellations. Their loathsome power turns even death-defying might to naught. Not one or two constellations saw them as thorns—hence allying now to check them.

Holy sword, Hero, even Sword Saintess.

"Yes..."

One was Eldritch itself, upholding constellation will by wiping a village to seal her fate.

If touching a Hero's devotee is trouble, eliminate before she becomes one. Reading fate isn't exclusive to Hero handlers.

'Now's.'

The perfect timing to spark events and revive forces.

Only then does Eldritch grasp the grand design.

'Our era returns.'

Immortality. A power all dream of, defying reason. Granted by him and the constellation.

Even if a grotesque, corrupting trait—it would make all worship their cult in the end.

"What must I do, my lord."

Humans: prime sacrifices and resources. Flesh remnants make ghouls. Bones alone: skeletons. Strong lingering thoughts: higher undead.

"Then the target."

Eldritch rises from its bone throne. Mana for a portal already gathers in its hand.

"I shall serve."

With steadfast faith, two skulls, and undead legions, it plots the kingdom's invasion.