Spring of the Imperial Capital - 1
How did it come to this?
I stared at her as she dangled an arm split cleanly in half before my eyes, gazing back at me with hollow emptiness.
She couldn't look straight at my face, and yet somehow it felt as though our eyes had met.
The feeling that washed over me as I watched her was guilt.
The knowledge that I had harmed, with my own hands, the very person I had sworn to protect was sticky and agonizing, clinging to me without mercy.
In that moment, more than anything, I wanted to run.
But I couldn't. Not from this moment, and not from her.
I had sworn to face reality without fleeing. So I would not run from what I had just done.
Whatever she was thinking, she smiled at me.
The soundless laugh was deeply unsettling, and yet her face itself seemed to shine.
She lifted the arm that had already knit itself back together and snapped her fingers.
Snap.
At that sound, every bloodstain that had soaked one side of her vanished as cleanly as if an eraser had wiped them away.
What kind of magic that was, I couldn't tell.
Holy arts existed to cleanse filth — so why would bloodstains disappear?
Could it be that she was wounding herself out of self-reproach, treating her own body as something unclean?
How little did I truly know about her?
Thoughts and worries churned together, and one particular fear rose to the surface.
Did the Saintess realize that I'm the Hero?
Maybe she had.
In this cycle she had never once gotten a proper look at the Holy Sword, and he himself was thoroughly wrapped in a robe meticulously embroidered with recognition-impairment circuits.
No matter how distinctive the Holy Sword was, she wouldn't easily jump to the hypothesis that someone of the Hero's stature had been tailing her.
The possibility that she might grow suspicious because the Holy Sword looked similar couldn't be dismissed entirely — but if she ever saw his sword, he could muddle through it somehow.
Having quietly dug himself several escape routes in his mind, he began planning his getaway.
Being a Hero meant knowing the right moment to run.
And that moment was right now.
He tore his eyes away from the Saintess, who was staring blankly at him after recovering her arm, and fled.
It wasn't running away, he told himself. It was simply preparation for what came next. Rationalization, pure and simple.
And so an incident too pathetic to even be called a battle came to an end.
Once the Hero returned to his room, he burned the clothes he had been wearing without delay.
The lingering smell he erased with magic; the ashes he cleaned up with practiced skill and dumped in the trash.
Fabric permanently woven with recognition-impairment circuits was rare and expensive, but ever since becoming the Hero he had thoroughly grasped — and actively exploited, both last cycle and this one — the elevated social standing that came with the title. So he didn't particularly care.
I'll have to ask the Emperor for one more.
He might have been trash.
...What?
You're seriously just leaving like that?
Ah — formal speech. Formal speech.
Whew. Almost slipped.
You're seriously just walking away?
Does that make any sense?
Have you lost your mind?
You're supposed to be the protagonist of a game.
How do you just run from a situation like this?
I was speechless.
I was furious.
Part of me wanted to storm straight into the Hero's room and demand answers.
Why did you run?
Why were you following me?
But with a body like this, I can't even speak.
Writing is all I have.
Raising my voice would have felt better, but that option didn't exist for me either.
If I opened my mouth, all that would come out would be something like euh, euo, uo~ — the kind of cooing a pet makes. A red-faced creature throwing a tantrum like that would only look cute.
Haa—
A sigh escaped inside me.
How was I supposed to fix this?
Where was I even supposed to start?
Was it fixable at all?
For now, pretending I didn't know the Hero had been tailing me seemed like the best move.
Confronting him might look like a strong hand in the short term, but I always had to keep in mind that the questions could turn back on me.
If he figured out I was a transmigrator, I had no idea what would happen.
It didn't seem like the Hero harbored any special feelings toward the Saintess — but you never know.
Anyway, I needed to get back to my room before sunrise.
I moved quickly, heading for my quarters with the leather notebook clutched tightly against my chest.
At last. Finally!
Everything had gone according to plan — obtaining the item that could control the Erosion Rate, and making it all the way back to my room.
There had been a fight with the Hero, and my arm had been split in half, but that was a minor — well, minor? — problem.
I couldn't wait any longer.
Time to use it.
The method for using the Madman's Notebook was extremely simple.
Open the notebook, pick up a pen, and write a single character.
Any character would do.
I took up the white fountain pen and set my hand in motion.
A pleasant scratching sound traveled up through my bones.
Scratch, scratch — scratch, scratch—
From the words that floated up, I picked one.
Carefully, I carved a single-character word into the notebook.
Spring
A dark, gloomy light spilled from the notebook, turning into sticky mud that seized me and dragged me down.
Sink without end.
[■■□□□□□□□□]
Erosion Rate 50% (−20%)
Madman's Notebook applying.
Erosion Rate locked.
Status ailments locked.
A permanent compulsion to self-harm in order to manage the Erosion Rate.
The world flipped upside down.
"Ugh— uek— kehhek."
Dizzy.
Nausea rose.
Breath came short.
Please — don't erase me.
"Haah, haah, hek."
"Kkeuk, kkeurreuk."
The sound of phlegm boiling. Air that wouldn't come properly.
It felt as though something was blocking my insides.
I retched and shoved a hand into my mouth, trying to force everything out.
Nothing came up.
I had eaten so little to begin with that there was nothing to bring up — that was the rational conclusion.
Am I a fucking idiot?
For the first time since crossing into this world, I hurled curses at myself.
It was self-reproach, and it was a whip for the pathetic creature I had become.
I had let my guard down.
I had treated this world as if it were still a game — as if everyone already knew the rules.
Outwardly I had admitted, more than once, that my plans had failed and that this world was subtly different from the one I knew. Inwardly, I had never truly accepted it.
I had been a fool.
I had been careless.
I thought I knew everything.
I thought I would be different.
I deluded myself into believing I was special.
And thinking those things made my chest tighten until I wanted to vomit all over again.
Thank god I had managed to get this notebook. Pure luck.
If I hadn't, it would have meant letting the optimistic, idiotic thoughts of the Saintess — that flower garden blooming inside my skull — devour me completely.
I turned my eyes back to the semi-transparent status window and read the text again.
Status ailments locked.
...Oh, for fuck's sake.
It was as if the world itself wanted me dead.
I found myself already fiddling with a metal knife from inside my clothes and jerked in alarm, scrambling to reassert control.
Think about something else.
Tomorrow morning, the mid-boss raid event hits.
If I plan it well, I can win.
It was originally a flee event, but with enough damage output you can one-shot it before you ever have to run.
I soothed myself, spinning my brain hard, trying to forget the knife.
Even so, I carefully tucked the knife into my bag as if it were a precious jar.
The soul follows the body in the end, and the body obeys its laws.
Grit. Grit.
The sound of teeth grinding.
Hoo—
A deep breath.
Tremble-tremble-tremble-tremble—
My limbs shook without mercy.
The bed was soaked through, as if someone had dumped a bucket of water over it.
Anyone looking might have mistaken it for something else entirely.
Think. Think. Think. Think. Think.
I seized the last thin thread of reason and forced it sharp and clear.
That single strand of consciousness, ready to snuff out at any moment, was my final lifeline — and I clung to it with everything I had.
Hoo. Good.
I'm calm now.
Let's sort this out, step by step.
First: I followed the Hero to the Imperial Capital.
The Hero witnessed me coughing blood, and for some reason tailed me.
Then he fought me.
There's a chance he still doesn't know that I noticed.
Tomorrow morning I have to act exactly as usual.
Add caution to the performance.
I need a mask that doesn't crack.
I draw a line between myself and the Saintess.
I lift one finger and trace an imaginary line — then, irritably, up, down, up, down, over and over.
Ha. Haha.
A hollow laugh slipped out of me as I lifted my head.
Right. The Hero still doesn't know that I'm not the Saintess.
How would he even tell the difference with someone he's never seen before?
Even someone like me — who always predicted the worst and prepared for it — had no choice but to think positively about this one thing.
Of course, he had no idea the Hero was a regressor, so the phrase "someone he's never seen before" was a complete misjudgment on his part.
Wearing the shell of a young girl, becoming a young girl, he quietly closed his eyes and, still drenched in sweat, drifted into sleep thinking of tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I kill Spring.
"Who... are you?"
There was no time to rejoice that a voice had come out.
The man stared, thoroughly rattled, at the Saintess smiling softly right in front of him.
"Please talk with me."