Meeting - 3
It was a dull morning where nothing of note had happened, and the same grass-scented meal still managed to twist my face into a scowl.
The Holy Knight appeared at my door soaked in sweat, looking as though he'd been up to something all night. He shoved the tray into my hands and bolted, so he must have known how ridiculous he looked. His blond hair, plastered flat against his scalp with sweat, was so thoroughly amusing I nearly snorted out loud.
And then, midway through breakfast, word arrived that the ship carrying the Hero had docked at the harbor.
Already?
I'd known they'd set out before dawn the day before, but this was far earlier than expected. At the very least, they could have given me time to finish eating.
A priest came gasping and wheezing, wiping the sweat from his brow, finally releasing the breath he'd been holding through his sprint. Then he pulled out a sheet of paper and began to read.
Is there someone writing those things in real time or what?
Why do they insist on carrying paper around and reading from it every single time? It's so inconvenient.
They were the sort who prized tradition so highly that even the Saintess was permitted only three attendants — but no matter how I looked at it, this method was pure inefficiency.
The priest before me steadied his breathing and began to read from the paper.
"The Saintess is to prepare herself to receive the Hero."
...That's all you came to say?
It was mildly absurd, but since I'd only just woken up and started breakfast, preparation was indeed in order. Then again, even when the Hero first met the Saintess in the game, she'd simply been wearing her usual nun's habit, neatly arranged — so at least I didn't need to change clothes. That was something.
Come to think of it, after coughing up blood in the prayer room last time, someone had cleaned me up and I'd skipped a bath the following day. That was a little worrying — but purification would take care of it. I hadn't tried it yet, but ever since my corruption rate had risen, I'd felt it instinctively: I can do this.
I drifted over to the window and looked toward the central cathedral. Not a single sign of movement. Silence blanketed the church, and a few priests were creeping out like insects, slipping away from the grounds — no doubt racing to meet the Hero first.
The Pope, it seemed, had no intention of leaving the central cathedral even though the Hero had come in person. I'd always known he was that kind of man, but seeing it firsthand was somehow even more ridiculous. The Hero was a national hero, a guest of state — and yet no one of rank had come out to greet him.
The sight of a few discarded, low-ranking priests scrambling toward the seaside harbor with undignified haste was so thoroughly entertaining that I confirmed I was alone in the room, then allowed myself a quiet smile. I was not so emotionally withered that I could let something like that pass without a reaction.
First things first — the Hero had arrived in the Holy Kingdom sooner than expected, which meant it was already time to start building the party composition.
This was a game where, unless you fielded an elite all-purpose party capable of everything from stealth runs to full frontal assaults on the front lines, reaching the ending was genuinely difficult. Pre-planning your lineup — or running multiple playthroughs — was essentially mandatory.
Through the mid-game, the ideal setup was the Hero, the Saintess, one frontliner, and one fixed artillery mage in the backline for firepower.
My first thoughts went to the fanatical Holy Knight stationed in the Holy Kingdom, and the Pope — but the Pope was a creature of whim who used a fountain pen and paper as weapons, which was a clear minus, and the Holy Knight's performance was rock-bottom tier.
Both out.
The absolute best option was to clear the Tower of Magic side quest and put Tower Master Akan or battle-mage Lloyd in the front and backline slots — but the quest chain was so long that the accumulated fatigue and wasted time simply weren't worth it. All three hundred sixty-five days were packed solid with story content, so getting to the front lines even a single day sooner was critical.
Aside from Spring, the first gimmick boss, the remaining three seasonal bosses were all encountered on the front lines. As long as nothing catastrophic happened — ambush events, defensive sieges, that sort of thing — you could take down all three cleanly, kill the Demon King, and the game would end right there.
Now that this had become reality, I might even be able to kill the Demon King before I died myself. There was no real reason to take them one season at a time.
I had no idea how long I could survive against the corruption rate and my predetermined lifespan, so I reined in the strange urgency rising in my chest and slowly began to reorganize my thoughts.
The Holy Kingdom's capital sat on the coast, so the sea was always visible — and so were the discarded priests scrambling after the Hero, hoping to snatch whatever scraps of glory clung to him.
Pathetic.
The thought rose unbidden.
What broke my expectations, though, was the Hero himself. He still had the handsome face, the black hair and black eyes of a country boy — still looked exactly like the game's protagonist — but he seemed utterly exhausted. As if he'd pulled an all-nighter.
He ignored the priests chattering at his sides with complete indifference and strode forward with a confidence I hadn't expected. A pure, naive boy fresh from the countryside, arriving in the big city for the first time, would never carry himself so boldly while high-ranking clergy swarmed around him. That simply wasn't normal.
Was there an event like this when he arrived in the Holy Kingdom?
I questioned my own memory and kept watching.
The way he propped the Holy Sword against his shoulder with one hand looked precarious, but I knew the Holy Sword was a peculiar weapon whose blade only formed in response to starlight, so I didn't give it much weight. What actually made my chest flutter was seeing the game's protagonist — and the sword that symbolized him — with my own eyes.
A man needs a sword.
I entertained such frivolous thoughts, chin propped on my hand, watching the Hero approach the small church where I lived, heading for its spire.
His entire outfit was black, uniform from head to toe — wait, what?
That's not the starter gear.
I'd already known that events here diverged from the game in various ways, but knowing it abstractly and confirming it with my own eyes were entirely different things. Judging by the black color scheme, it looked like something bought from the black market — but he shouldn't have had enough gold for that yet.
One question after another piled up. My head started to ache.
Tch.
Heal
The sudden headaches that had plagued me ever since I'd entered this body still refused to leave me alone.
When I looked out the window again, another question suddenly occurred to me. The distance from here to the harbor was considerable.
Have my eyes always been this good?
I was picking out the Hero with such precision across that distance — maybe it was the reverse culture shock of being young again. I dismissed it as nothing important.
I was still staring at the Hero's exhausted face as if entranced when, for a moment, I felt our eyes meet. Those dark-circled eyes — I was certain they'd locked with mine. It wasn't a hallucination. He looked straight at the window and smiled, faintly.
Did he notice me?
I was a little worried. Just a little. And then I grew even more worried about how my behavior must have looked to him, so I replayed my own actions.
The moment the Hero arrived, I opened the window, spied on him from afar, got caught by the man himself, locked eyes, and frantically slammed the window shut.
It was exactly the sort of thing a lovestruck girl would do. Realizing this, I turned my head away and scowled. The self-justification came lightning-fast: in my previous life as a man, I'd simply been staring out of jealousy because he was better-looking than me.
Anyway, it looks like he'll be here soon, so I should get ready.
I closed the window and incinerated the leftover salad with holy fire. The beauty of holy fire was that it left neither ash nor trace behind.
I stepped into the bathroom, straightened my clothes, and smoothed every last wrinkle as if pressing them with an iron. Looking into the mirror, I put on a gentle smile and lowered my gaze.
Perfect.
To recreate the first meeting exactly as it was in the game, I mimicked the illustration I remembered. There had been two Holy Knights standing guard behind her — and given that their faces had been cropped out of the frame, it was probably those two.
Right. Time to go fetch them. Perfect reenactment required extras, after all.
I strode toward the door, ready to throw it open — only to find two figures already standing right outside.
One was a female Holy Knight; the other was the same Holy Knight who always brought my meals. The woman kept her head bowed, radiating a gloomy atmosphere, while the man wore the same attitude as always.
Yesterday he'd barged into my room, scowled, and left — and I was still nursing that grudge, itching for payback. Unfortunately, I had no useful method at hand.
In any case, all I had to do now was wait for the Hero to walk into the room. Come to think of it, I still didn't know either of their names. Maybe I'd have them introduce themselves in a bit.
And then, a short while later, I couldn't help but click my tongue inwardly.
"I'm going with him too."
"...Are you insane?"
Watching the two of them start to argue, I thought to myself:
How on earth did it come to this?