Night of the Imperial Capital - 5
Think. Think. Don't stop thinking.
The Hero had never once imagined, in all his past, that he would feel the same taut tension he knew from the front lines coming from one of his own companions.
Still less that the source of that tension and threat would be the Saintess herself.
In the end, he had no choice but to decide.
Somehow subdue her, then run.
If he drained every last drop of her strength, she would have nothing left to chase him with.
He believed without a shred of doubt that this was better than letting her discover he had been tailing her.
Getting caught stalking the woman he liked by the woman herself would, without question, make him look like a complete piece of human garbage.
First, he needed to gauge the Saintess's combat ability.
The way she closed the distance in an instant with movements so unnatural they looked like physical enhancement, trying to force close-quarters combat, combined with her habit of pre-stocking spells—it was enough to create the illusion that he was facing a textbook completed battle mage.
And even though it was clearly holy magic, that Arrow of Light had been so fast it could only be called a "ray," proving beyond any doubt that she was the Saintess.
To be honest, if three or more of those were fired at once, he couldn't guarantee he would be able to bat them all aside and still dodge the ensuing melee.
His body still wasn't complete; he had only just stepped into the threshold of Superhuman.
Even with the limitations of a cleric, a Superhuman was still a Superhuman.
He realized, with fresh clarity, that during their travels together the Saintess had never stepped forward herself—so that he could grow.
I was that weak back then. But now it's different.
First, the Holy Sword was an extremely sharp weapon; he had to be careful.
If he so much as injured her, he would never be able to forgive himself, so he had to move even more cautiously.
Fortunately, from her reactions, it seemed she still hadn't realized he was the Hero.
With recognition inhibition obscuring his face, it was only natural she would take him for some mysterious assailant rather than the Hero.
That, at least, was a silver lining.
Even if his identity were exposed, as the Hero he would still be obligated to head to the front lines with her—but if things between them turned awkward, the shame might drive him to bite his own tongue off.
First of all, the Saintess possessed infinite starlight, so a war of attrition would clearly put him at a disadvantage.
Using the Holy Sword properly risked revealing who he was.
A lightning-fast strike from behind, so quick she wouldn't even notice, knocking her out cold—that was the best plan.
Unlike mages, clerics could not fly.
It was as if something deliberately prevented them from reaching the heavens.
Yet earlier she had overcome that limitation by compressing enormous holy power into footholds of mass in midair.
Starlight, the so-called holy power, was originally closer to massless fuel; only through prayer and incantation did it manifest as miracles with physical force.
But "infinite" holy power had thrown that entire law straight into the trash.
The Saintess was still human, so there was a limit to how much holy power she could use at once—and for that, he was profoundly grateful.
The Hero gripped his sword and poured starlight into it.
Praying that the Saintess would not get a clear look at the blade.
She won't notice... right?
A flicker of worry, but this was the only path left.
Abandoning the high ground and coming down was far from ideal, but unless I was a mage, I had no way to attack one-sidedly.
Clerics had zero flight capability, after all.
In the first place, no sane person would go solo NPC hunting as a class that only needed to clean up undead, slap on buffs, and heal.
So I had no choice but to give up the rooftop advantage and descend.
Tak—
I landed lightly, elegantly, and surveyed the surroundings.
True to the heart of the Imperial Capital, luxurious residences lined the streets, and the arched columns made a striking impression.
Long shadows stretched by the moonlight faintly obscured my vision.
In a world where only the dimmest starlight remained as a light source, a faint glow appeared far ahead.
No—that was artificial light.
Arrow of Light
I loosed the arrow toward the blade that had flashed and moved for an instant.
Thinking it was aimed at him, he tried to parry with his sword—then looked startled when the arrow flew past him into the open air.
Idiot. For a ranged class, securing vision comes first.
Once I'd created a light source outside, there was no reason I couldn't hit him in this straight corridor...
Eh?
I couldn't hide my shock at the familiar light that entered my vision.
A face so smeared by recognition inhibition that I couldn't make it out, a blade faintly glowing with starlight.
A mysterious man wrapped in a black robe.
In his hand, a greatsword radiating blue light.
Anyone could see that was the Holy Sword!
Is that the Hero? No, wait—why would the Hero even be stalking the Saintess... wait... wait... would he?
Why does nothing ever go according to plan?
I wanted to wallow in self-pity for a moment, but now was the time to use my head.
Personally, I really hate using my head.
Using my body is so much more comfortable and pleasant, isn't it?
Hah. If the opponent is the Hero, everything changes.
Against an ordinary magic sword I'd just overwhelm him with sheer volume of holy magic, but the Hero's own reserves aren't anything to sneeze at either.
If we both pour out infinite starlight at the same output, this fight will never end as a war of attrition.
First, there are several questions that need answering.
Why did the Hero tail me?
Why is the Hero's strength this absurd?
Don't tell me... he found out?
That I'm not the real Saintess?
Ah, that can't happen.
You promised you'd kill the Demon King for me, didn't you?
It can't go like this.
Promises have to be kept.
It's your duty.
No, no, no—right.
Maybe he hasn't found out.
If he had, he would have killed me already while I was sleeping.
But he didn't.
I soothe myself with positive thinking.
Then I shift my thoughts to the second question.
Strength. Why is a Hero who should be level 1—or at best around level 10 even if he grew well—this strong?
Don't tell me it's that ridiculous "reality correction" again?
The idea that the Hero who will save the world can't be weak, so the settings changed when the game became reality?
It feels like the entire world is moving just to kill me.
I just... hate it all.
Everything.
No. I am the Saintess who must love everything.
I'm not allowed to harbor feelings like this.
First I'll subdue that adorable little Hero of mine. I have a lot of questions for him.
A Superhuman's accelerated vision makes the world slow and boring.
Only now did I seem to recall my own epithet.
That other name of mine, buried deep in my innermost self for reasons I couldn't explain.
Every Star received a name and tempered its body in starlight, after all.
Well, that's neither here nor there.
I only had a handful of attack spells, so close combat with physical enhancement was the answer.
If the opponent were an ordinary melee class it might be different, but against the Hero the story changes.
A near-max-level cleric under body-enhancement buffs competing in pure movement speed would require the Hero to have cleared at least half the game, or a little less.
In that case, pecking away with long-range harassment wouldn't deliver a finishing blow.
The Hero, who becomes a jack-of-all-trades depending on skill-point allocation, also possessed means of self-recovery.
So—fists!
Pang—
Two black silhouettes began to tangle in the middle of the corridor.
With enhanced vision I tracked the tip of the Hero's blade.
...!
With a whoosh, the Hero whose face I still couldn't properly see dropped out of my field of view downward.
No—he had bent his legs.
Bent his legs and was about to thrust the Holy Sword straight in.
I twisted my body to the right and dodged.
Still twisting, I spun once and kicked the Hero away.
No—he dodged.
And easily, just by stepping back.
My pride took a little hit.
This was the game I poured my entire childhood life into.
Then the Hero's attack again.
Diagonal from upper left to lower right, followed immediately by an upward slash combo.
The counter: one backstep, then a left-hand punch.
Tsk. Not enough.
The Hero lightly danced his feet and dodged that too.
In the game there was post-delay so it would have hit for sure.
So he can cancel motions mid-way as well.
The game transferring straight into reality was certainly a strange thing.
It was a battle composed of movements I knew, attacks I knew, angles I knew—yet I couldn't land a single effective hit.
A little angry, I threw a preemptive strike.
The Hero hadn't expected it; he raised his sword to block, and carried by inertia I punched the blade.
More precisely, I threw my fist at a blade that was simply standing still.
And then—fresh blood.
Crimson blood.
What split in half was my arm.
From fist to elbow it had been cleaved, a grotesque red lump of meat hanging downward—truly nauseating to look at.
Uwek.
Well, I didn't actually throw up.
Krrrk. My teeth ground together.
Ah. So this is how much it takes for me to feel pain.
I felt better than expected.
Because it created the illusion that I wasn't a dead doll, but something alive.
The Hero's face in front of me was twisted beyond recognition.
Whether that was the recognition-inhibition magic or genuine distortion, I couldn't tell.
Maybe both.
Silence.
It hurt, so I pulled my arm back to extract the blade embedded in it.
It hurts like hell.
Ahaha.