Help

What had drawn her gaze toward the donations was a sense of wrongness she had felt for a while now.

Even for a hardcore roleplayer… there was too much raw emotion packed into it. No ordinary person could put on a face that haunted while declaring they would hold a boss alone.

"Dangerous, you said?"

So, with Outpost A right in front of her, Ara turned on her heel.

Out of nowhere, a donation burst in, a video rose beneath the donation message, and then some random viewer she had never seen before was name-dropping another streamer and begging for help.

In her three years as a broadcaster, Ara had never experienced anything like it.

Even so, she could tell well enough that this was no ordinary situation. Viewers who had materialized out of nowhere were shouting for her to help.

So Ara ignored the regulars trying to hold her back and opened a broadcast window.

"Military Grad High School Girl…?"

She spread her thumb and index finger at a right angle, and a translucent window bloomed between them. Her fingers flew across the keys, and a small stream with around a hundred twenty viewers came up.

Chat flooded with noise beside her, but she had no time to spare for any of it.

Because beneath a screen drowned in blood-red and the endless chime of alerts, a girl was fighting a boss.

Only then did she understand the true nature of the wrongness she had felt from the girl.

"Ugh…?"

Just watching the stream made her head throb. Everything was so searingly red that even narrowing her eyes left afterimages burned into her vision.

She couldn't just sit still.

If Immersion Rate crossed ninety percent, the pain of the virtual world could induce fatal shock in reality.

It meant the boundary between real and virtual blurred until you died believing the game was real.

However little she knew this person—however little Ara had ever thought of herself as a good person—someone was about to die, and she was supposed to look away?

Absolutely not.

Life was precious.

"But…"

So what exactly could she do?

The thought struck her out of nowhere.

She couldn't call the police. She couldn't force the game to stop.

The only option was to kill the boss and end the match as fast as possible.

Once the game ended and she returned to the lobby, the Immersion Rate would ease off little by little.

"How am I supposed to do that alone…"

But the team was already setting up defenses at Outpost A.

Even if she charged in yelling they should throw themselves at the boss, nobody was going to listen.

And if she tried to explain that she was live and that the girl was in real danger? There was no telling whether the girl would last that long.

She was only holding on because she was a Siberia War veteran. An ordinary person would already be dead.

"And compared to her, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I…"

Someone who had lived a peaceful life ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in a peaceful world.

What could she do—she who couldn't even scratch a boss?

And still the seconds marched on with ruthless precision.

Her viewers were watching her, and she had nothing to offer them. Death was simply too alien a thing for someone who had only ever lived in peace.

So all she could think was to beg anyone—anyone at all—for help.

Even knowing there was no one left who would hear her voice.

And the moment that thought landed, a spark flashed through Ara's mind.

"…Ah?"

Wait.

Was it really true that no one could hear her?

Right. Now that she thought about it, this game had a few people who could hear her—and who understood this situation better than anyone.

She was not completely alone in Front Line.

Ara turned back the way she had come and shouted.

"Hey! You bastards who were sniping me! You're watching the stream, right?!"

Honestly, it was half a gamble.

Not all stream snipers were the same breed.

Some just wanted a dopamine hit. Others were bottom-feeders who genuinely hated streamers. If the ones here were the latter kind, there was no way to save the girl.

She didn't even know how many snipers were in this match. She had no real confidence this would help.

But…

Better than doing nothing.

If she did nothing, the girl died either way.

Ara clenched her resolve and adjusted her grip on her gun.

"If you're listening—tank, APC, attack chopper, I don't care—just grab whatever heavy hardware you've got and get to coordinates 40.1, 15.7!"

In Front Line, heavy equipment carried enormous weight.

Every player was stuck in the body of an E-rank Awakened who couldn't cast large-scale magic, so tanks and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠attack helicopters were critical for holding an outpost.

Unlike players, who respawned, heavy equipment was gone for good once it blew. For a team that needed to win, it was priority-one gear.

Which meant if the heavy equipment came, the teammates would follow.

"Anyone I banned from the stream, I'll unban you! I won't ban you going forward, just get over here—now!"

She shouted ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it urgently, waiting for her viewers to react.

But nothing useful came back. All that filled Ara's desperate eyes was the cold indifference of chat.

And so, just as a disappointed Ara was about to charge off alone—

Along with the donation message, a massive transport helicopter packed with teammates roared overhead.

"Hahah…"

A nickname that would normally make her cringe felt strangely reassuring today.

Even among the hazy memories of my past life, one line still rang clear.

Life is precious.

Around the age of six. The day I had crushed an ant for fun, someone had scolded me half to death with those words.

"So I'm going to stop you."

Clatter—my half-shattered helmet hit the ground. Pierced through by the thing's scythe-arm, it could no longer serve its purpose.

The whole world was blood-red.

My vision blurred and snapped back into focus over and over, and my heart hammered at a pace that was anything but normal. It was no condition to fight in.

"I will never give up."

Even so, I could not quit.

Pressing my left hand against my throbbing eye socket, I looked at the boss closing in.

It was in no better shape than I was.

Three of its six legs were gone. A bullet was lodged dead center in its grotesque left compound eye, and the wings it had once flaunted hung in tatters, torn clean in half.

"Protecting everyone—that's my job."

At this point, it was doable.

If I burned my own life, I could at least take it with me, right?

Trading an E-rank Awakened's life for a D-rank dungeon boss was absurd on paper. Between a dungeon's top combat unit and an ordinary soldier, a towering wall stood.

But the name Sword Saint had let me vault that wall in an E-rank body.

"I'm done running."

I gripped my sword, vowing it to myself. The blade, drinking in the wind, flared a brilliant blue.

Bwoooooom—!

As if answering, the boss's wings began to thrash violently.

The trajectory of its charge unfolded before my eyes. In a prediction that bordered on precognition, I saw the insect's scythe-arm take my head.

"So…!"

I reset my grip. This had to be the deciding blow. Instinct said so.

So I poured every last scrap of mana I had been saving into the blade.

What I needed was one overwhelming strike. An attack that would smash through the insect's armor and split the thing in two.

I didn't even consider dodging.

Thoughts of surviving were a luxury. For a stupid little girl who had done nothing but run in front of the people she cared about, no death could suit her better than a heroic one.

So I wrung every drop of mana I had.

.

.

.

At the exact instant the wind condensed to its absolute limit was about to fire—

From the sky, missiles poured down without end.

"Kieeeeeek!!!"

The boss's belated scream tore through the air as it finally registered the helicopters' intrusion, and a searing red flash swallowed the ruins whole.