The Super-Fast Holy Kingdom Build

At noon, when the sun hung at its highest point, the Saintess had already risen from bed and was gazing out the window.

Finally.

Her eyes held a vivid light — a complicated blend of anticipation at seeing the opening scene of the game she'd grown up with, the thrill of a story at last beginning, and a faint undercurrent of unease. Those eyes, so transparent and white that only a thin black rim had ever marked the boundary between sclera and pupil, now clearly belonged to a living human being.

Like a child who had just found a favorite toy and could not hide her joy, she watched a line of pure white light stretch from the sky down to the earth — then slowly fade away.

Even after the light vanished, she kept staring at the window as if entranced.

If you're coming anyway, you might as well get here soon.

Thirteen days remained until the Hero's arrival, and she had no desire to spend them in the same dull, crawling monotony. A life of identical days, of sameness repeating itself — for some people, that was torture. There was a limit to how long she could sit and stack her thoughts into neat piles while she waited.

Every plan still rattling around the holes in her head required the main story to advance before it could work. Actually putting anything into practice, devising a halfway-decent countermeasure for the erosion rate, leveraging her knowledge of the game — all of it was still a story for the future.

As her mind grew tangled, a stabbing headache began to find her. She pressed a soft hand to her throbbing forehead and muttered inwardly. The unfamiliar pain — as if a knife were pressing down on her thoughts — was utterly foreign to someone who had always had a healthy body.

...[Heal]

A faint haze of light drifted around her body, and the headache washed away clean — like oil swept off by water.

Just how fragile is this body, anyway?

She had clearly spent years waking before dawn to pray, day after day. The thought that this body had survived all that time by leaning on healing magic left her with a strange feeling. This was only her second use of holy magic, but she was already far more practiced than the first.

Being able to trigger a skill just by thinking its name was an enormous advantage in this world — and it was exactly why the Saintess, spamming cooldown-free heals and buffs, was a core character who carried the early-to-mid game. Even the auto-attack mage build, which staked everything on silent casting, needed every skill point dumped into basic attacks just to spam them every 0.2 seconds. That put the absurdity of her kit into perspective.

Too bad the story kills her no matter what.

She let out a hollow laugh inside. The thought that this future was coming for her soured her mood at once — but she crushed the distinctly feminine emotional swing, reassured herself that she would be different, and climbed back onto the bed.

The soft white mattress was so pleasant she almost didn't want to get up again. She tried to sleep through the headache that was already starting to throb once more — until the sound of several sets of footsteps approached, and she dragged her heavy body upright and composed herself.

[Heal]...

An unpleasant sensation kept crashing over her skull as if someone were digging a knife through her head — but the moment she used holy magic, the pain vanished with unnatural abruptness.

The door opened, and the figures who appeared looked like the sort who held real positions in the Holy Kingdom. By "the sort who held real positions," she meant old men with greasy, porcine faces that inspired an instinctive revulsion. They fattened themselves, shut the ignorant Saintess out of politics by citing church tradition, draped themselves in gold thread and expensive cloth, and played at being human. Beasts in costume. The sight of them was deeply unpleasant.

She nearly grimaced before she could stop herself, and repeated inwardly, Face control. Face control, as she looked at them.

Ugh. Physiologically repulsive.

A few exceptions aside, their faces were almost impossible to look at with open eyes. The Holy Kingdom's named NPCs — aside from the handful who could later become companions — were infamous for being spectacularly ugly. Players had even accused the game of looks-based discrimination.

I hope they just drop dead.

The curse slipped out before she could catch it, and she meant every word. In the game, there had never really been a way to kill them, which only made the hate worse. Common sense said villains ought to be something ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you could personally put down, didn't they?

She entertained the idle thought and waited for them to speak. Her head was starting to hurt again.

The Hero sat inside a rattling carriage bound for the Empire, his parents beside him. The carriage had been built for four from the start, was famous for needing no horses, and rolled on wheels driven by circuits unique to the Empire's Magic Tower.

His parents had never ridden anything like it. They kept glancing around the interior with open curiosity, a little restless.

"I always knew you'd amount to something big someday."

Hearing the words his father had spoken just before he left — now delivered right beside him — felt strange and deeply satisfying. It meant his actions had genuinely changed the future.

"And now we're even riding a carriage like this."

"All thanks to our son."

So now you're living large off your son, huh?

The overlapping conversation sent his emotions lurching, but he had already shown enough of an ugly crying face that morning. He swallowed it down and smiled. Wedged between his parents' conversation, the Hero laughed awkwardly — Ahaha...

Looking like a country bumpkin on his first carriage ride, a good-natured sucker of a fool, would play better for the Empire's eyes. The servant sitting across from him, already watching for cues, seemed to have noticed something was off — but aside from that growing wariness, his parents had been completely taken in.

The Hero deliberately tracked the servant's darting eyes and forced their gazes to meet in empty air. The man hurriedly turned his head aside and pretended to study the scenery. Finding it amusing, the Hero kept staring straight at the servant seated in front of him.

"Is there something you need, or...?"

Unable to endure the stare any longer, the servant finally opened his mouth and started fishing for a reason. The Hero's father and mother knew ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that a servant of the imperial household was likely a noble scion of higher rank than themselves; when their son spoke to him without hesitation, they were privately startled — though they didn't show it.

"I'm fine."

Afternoon sunlight poured in from outside and painted the carriage interior gold. Warm light touched his hands, melting the cold from them until they matched his own temperature.

If he saw those welcome faces again — if he reunited with the one he loved — what should he say first? He turned the question over and found no answer. They would have forgotten everything about him, after all.

He had never been a man of plans. Impulsive. The type who saw people in front of him and saved them all, no questions asked. The one who always made the plans, who held him up, had been her.

What should he say first?

That guy had always said first impressions mattered most in romance. He decided to figure it out when the moment came, and slowly let his consciousness sink beneath the surface of sleep.

It would be a long journey. A very long one.