Erosion Rate 50%
After we returned from the restaurant, the conversation went no further.
He never asked why I had said those words, and he gave no sign of curiosity either.
Only the smile he had shown me felt so trustworthy that it seemed to move my heart all by itself.
Wait—come to think of it, how long has it been since I took the penalty?
The penalties from the Erosion Rate included deteriorating health, heightened senses, coughing blood, and the like.
What had once struck roughly once a day now seemed, if only slightly, to have stabilized and stopped.
But the game system was absolute, and its unconditional activation was part of the “common sense” I still carried.
Ever since I had been transferred into this world, my common sense and the game system itself had often shattered with a dry crack—yet the Erosion Rate was something I had learned through my own body.
Which meant that today’s Erosion Rate penalty would arrive without fail, and I had to prepare for it.
The Hero only noticed that something was wrong with the Saintess’s health after we had subjugated Spring in the Imperial Capital, right as summer was drawing near.
If he realized it this early, the story would go off the rails.
It had already twisted beyond anything I could easily predict, yet there was a clear limit to how many variations I could still handle.
A butterfly’s tiny wingbeat may summon a typhoon—but what does the typhoon itself bring?
Just imagining it brought the headache back.
Heal
Watching the healing holy magic I had grown so practiced at thanks to the headaches that stabbed me at every opportunity, I let a small, hollow laugh slip inside.
Was it even right to call this “thanks to,” I wondered—such a pointless thought.
Anyway, I did benefit from it.
With that, I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes.
I simply entrusted my body to the ship’s motion, rocking gently as if following the waves, and let my consciousness sink slowly, as though drifting through outer space.
The Hero watched the Saintess for a long while before he, too, fell asleep.
The Saintess rose in the deep hours of dawn, when pitch-black painted the sea.
A sensation like invisible chains choking her body, as if her breath itself were being cut off, forced her eyes open.
She staggered upright and moved carefully, terrified the Hero might wake.
The nun’s habit, soaked with sweat as though she had been thrashing through a nightmare and clinging tightly to her skin, left her feeling sticky and unpleasant.
Simply unable to sleep, she staggered along looking out at the dawn sea.
Her head ached, her legs creaked, her esophagus burned.
God, this is miserable.
Yes—that was what she thought.
Hot liquid ran from her nose.
Because the habit she wore was white, any stain would show.
If she regarded her own blood as impure, she could wash the impurity away with holy fire—yet it was hard to believe a Saintess’s blood could ever be impure, so there was no way to erase it.
She felt, keenly, how convenient it must be for mages to spam living magic like Clean.
Purification, holy fire—flames and starlight that burned only what she herself judged wicked—were far too inconvenient to use.
A sudden laugh escaped her at the realization that the only thing she had ever used them for was burning the healthy meals provided by the Holy Kingdom.
“Aha… ahaha.”
Without a single word, in the silent corridor of the ship, only a woman’s laughter rang hollowly from one end to the other.
And that laughter turned into a scream, scattered, then gathered again into blood.
It was not long before the sound became coughing.
“Kehek… kehek.”
The choking sensation ought to have grown familiar by now, yet enduring a sensation that could never become familiar—feeling the oxygen drain from her brain in real time—was terrifying, and terrifying again.
A wet, rattling sound rose in her throat.
“Grrr…”
Death wore such an ugly face.
The Empire sang of noble death and sacrifice, yet on the front lines only those who died ugly existed.
They held parties and praised heroes, yet on the front lines only humans who were not heroes existed.
They blessed Superhumans, canonized them, and called them stars—yet on the front lines only an endless night sky stretched out, with neither star nor moon nor sun.
Why do I remember these things?
Memories of dying while singing of love beneath a night sky full of countless stars—why?
Death slowly tightened around her throat, cutting off her breath, dimming her consciousness, until at last she vomited blood.
From throat to stomach ran the esophagus, yet what came out was black, dead blood.
From nostrils to lungs ran the airway, yet what flowed was blood that glowed with light.
To keep it from staining her clothes she dropped to her knees, buried her face against the floor, and emptied everything.
Blood on the skin could be wiped away if she acted quickly enough.
The next morning the dried, hardened stains might bother her, but she would simply wash them under running water and let them go.
She must not be found out.
Not because she hated making others worry, but for thoroughly selfish reasons alone she hid her pain, endured it, and bore it.
I… I… I… I… yes, it was meaningless after all.
Silently she simply vomited dead blood from every opening.
Blood flowed from her mouth, her nose, her eyes.
Suddenly she thought she looked exactly like a ghost from a horror film.
The scream became a nasal sound, then laughter again.
“Ahaha.”
She simply laughed.
Laughter, laughter, laughter—repeating laughter was contagious, and it was the same for an individual’s mind.
A person’s mind was like an extremely difficult glass craft, and an extremely fragile glass craft at that.
Being unable to speak was the severing of communication; being able to produce laughter was the connection of emotional expression.
In the empty corridor only one mad woman remained, laughing.
A mad woman— a woman? Honestly she was not a woman.
But her outward appearance was unmistakably a woman’s! And soon the inside would change as well.
Her own form was miserable, miserable, and miserable once more.
If she cut off her nose, would she at least escape looking miserable? Wouldn’t she end up looking as ridiculous as a pig?
It was only wordplay.
It hurts.
I want to live.
I want to live.
But… who was I?
I am me.
I am me. I am the Saintess, the Hero’s companion, the woman most loved by the stars, a completed Superhuman—just me.
Erosion Rate 50%
Draw a line. Draw a line.
Draw the line that separates me from the Saintess.
We must not mix.
A line in the empty air—why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
The thin dividing line she had drawn in the air no longer existed; it had been broken into fine dots, as if someone had scrubbed it away with an eraser.
The imaginary line she had drawn inside her own head had been so fragile, and the end of anyone who relied on it so obvious.
puella, esto stella.
Girl, become a star.
Someone’s whispering voice, then inversion, mixing, ecstasy.
Yes.
From the very beginning there had never really been a way for me not to mix.
Hmm. The next Erosion Rate penalty was clearly supposed to be at 55 percent, yet somehow, now that it had reached half, what had been faint grew clear and what had been clear grew faint.
Hmm-hmm~
I can hear humming.
A pleasant nasal tone.
I’m relieved it isn’t a scream; I think it sounds truly lovely.
Don’t you agree?
No answer comes.
Being ignored is a little annoying, but whatever.
Anyway, even though I can’t even properly distinguish myself, the silver lining is that the Erosion Rate has only risen by a single percent.
I need to get to the black market for the Madman’s Notebook as quickly as possible.
If I could obtain drop items from random encounters instead of dungeons, nothing would be better—but expecting that kind of astronomical luck from me is impossible.
Wasn’t my life’s creed always to consider only the worst-case scenarios and possibilities, then choose and edit efficiently?
Yes. That’s right.
First, once I reach the Imperial Capital, the priority will be killing low-mental-stat thug mobs.
If you don’t get caught, it isn’t a crime.
That was the saying, wasn’t it?
I try snapping my fingers in the empty air.
I am a completed Superhuman, the woman most loved by the stars.
Let’s have some confidence.
Snap—
With a bright, cheerful sound, my blood vanishes.
If I regard myself as something wicked, then holy fire and purification work even on my own body and its parts; applying that principle makes this possible.
I simply burn only the blood until it disappears.
Ahaha—
I laugh quietly inside.
And in the distance I see the Hero’s face approaching me.
I can rest a little now.
I close my eyes. It is time to sleep.
The sight of him panicking and rushing toward me is quite something to watch.
It feels as though it confirms his affection for me.
Even though I am not a righteous enough human to deserve affection, the guilt turns into needles that poke—poke—into my chest.
And then, blackout.