The Beginning of Spring - 2
The Saintess sat alone on the bed, rehearsing her own settings.
If the Hero came looking for her, she had to act the same as always.
Not the same as always—she had to act like the Saintess.
She barely managed to rein in the strangely twisting thoughts and forced her mind to keep going.
Because the Saintess could not speak, she had always conversed with the Hero through written notes.
Writing notes required knowing how to write. What if she could understand speech but couldn’t read the letters?
In the usual isekai cliché, getting sent to another world meant either being handed full language knowledge or the world just shamelessly using Korean. She could only hope this was a pointless worry.
She chewed over the faint, fading memories of her childhood and prepared her performance with desperate care.
She had to follow the Saintess’s name, habits, personality, and every setting to the letter.
If she only half-assed it, the people around her would easily notice she was slightly different from the Saintess of rumor.
What would happen to her if she was found out—she had no idea.
Spring starts today.
She stepped out of the bathroom, threw open the single window of the luxurious room that was now hers, and looked outside.
From the high tower of the Central Church, the streets of the Holy Kingdom spread out below at a glance, the fully bloomed roadside trees clearly visible.
The fact that spring had begun meant the story of Four Seasons had begun.
Today, the Hero would be chosen by the Holy Sword, and the story would start.
An ordinary boy chosen by the Holy Sword became the Hero.
At the very beginning, the Hero headed up to the imperial capital. After staying there a little over a week, he received word that his village had been attacked.
The Hero turned straight for the village, and that was the start of the tutorial.
Her best move was to wait until the Hero suffered the guaranteed defeat event in the tutorial and the Emperor ordered him to adventure together with the Saintess.
The Hero would not arrive in the Holy Kingdom until at least two weeks after spring began.
If the Hero found out she was not the real Saintess, there was no telling what would happen.
While the Saintess sat on the bed fretting over her future plans, two short knocks sounded at the door—tap, tap.
“May I come in?”
A man’s voice, young—so a Holy Knight, then?
Everyone knew the Saintess could not speak, so there was no need to ask for verbal permission.
In that case, this was not a request. It was a notice.
“I am coming in.”
Of course.
Normally a mere Holy Knight was forbidden from casually entering the Saintess’s bedroom, but given her health and the fact that communication was impossible, high-ranking Holy Knights handled her care.
The door opened abruptly and a Holy Knight she did not know stepped inside.
Probably an extra, then.
It meant this world did not follow the game world completely—various backstories and things never shown in the story had been folded in.
In that case, the acting starts now.
The Holy Knight, with the classic noble-young-master look of blond hair and blue eyes, wore thin cloth garments instead of heavy armor as he looked at the Saintess.
The embroidery of gold thread was so beautiful it could steal one’s breath, and the white cloth looked luxurious enough to rival the nun’s habit she herself was wearing.
“Saintess, your clothes…?”
Ah. She had forgotten.
When she looked in the mirror she had noticed the red bloodstains on her nun’s habit, then completely forgotten about them while thinking about the Hero. Now she had nothing to say.
Strictly speaking, even if she had something to say she would not have been able to say it, but still.
Being unable to make a sound was far more inconvenient than she had expected.
At least she could understand the language even though this was another world—that much was fortunate, she supposed.
Whether she could read would have to be checked later.
The fidgeting man’s gaze fixed on her was deeply unpleasant.
For a moment she almost scowled without realizing it, then reminded herself that a kind Saintess never made such a face and began managing her expression.
Telling herself that the acting started from this moment, the Saintess naturally put on a flustered look.
The Holy Knight said, “Please wait a moment,” and hurriedly left.
I am not the Saintess.
I am an actor.
She had to keep engraving these facts into herself.
The sensation of losing herself would be horribly painful.
If her ego twisted and she returned changed, would that not be the same as some third person coming back instead of her?
While she was brainwashing herself with that thought, a different woman’s voice came from outside the door.
A knock sounded again through the creaking door.
Was this woman a colleague of the Holy Knight who had just left?
“Saintess, could you pass the bloodstained clothes through the crack of the door?”
At the woman’s request she carefully slipped off the soft nun’s habit that had been covering her body with a soft rustle.
The smooth fabric slid down over feminine skin.
Along with the embarrassment of being naked, she passed the clothes through the crack; an identical nun’s habit was immediately handed back.
It looked as though they had simply brought out a new set.
Just how often has this happened that they keep multiple identical habits ready?
He newly realized how frail this body was, then noticed something strange.
The Saintess has clearly been enduring pain from the very beginning—so why don’t I hurt?
For a body so sickly it had coughed up blood last night—no, strictly speaking, a body that had died—it felt far too light.
Or is that a good thing?
He prioritized the plans ahead, decided that good health was a welcome stroke of luck, and did not dwell on it.
There was already a mountain of other things to worry about.
At the same time he slowly pulled the received habit on over his head.
Once again the soft texture welcomed him.
Yet it was different from the habit he had been wearing before; this one seemed to be for going outside.
The indoor habit and the one shown to the outside world were subtly different.
Thinking that the Holy Kingdom might be more extravagant than expected, he finished dressing and placed the gold-thread-decorated veil on his head.
At last ready to go out, he opened the door. Two Holy Knights were waiting outside.
The two looked so alike they might have been twins—siblings, most likely.
If one had not noticed that one had longer hair and feminine features, it would have been easy to mistake them for the same person.
Neither had any presence in the game, so he had no idea what settings they carried.
He smiled brightly at them the way a Saintess would.
Waving one hand, he thoroughly performed the Saintess.
Until the Hero arrived, he would have to stay in this vast, luxurious church of the Holy Kingdom.
Fourteen days from now.
With that, the Saintess led the two Holy Knights behind her down the long corridor toward the dawn chapel.
He had memorized most of the terrain that appeared in the game.
Because it was a space that had featured in the main story, his feet moved without hesitation.
The Hero left the house, helped his parents with the field work, and stepped out again before lunchtime.
“I’ll just step outside for a bit.”
It was the hour he would be chosen by the Holy Sword.
At noon, when the countless stars in the sky grew faintest and the sun stood at its highest point, heroes of old had always received starlight at that very time.
The Hero came outside and stared endlessly at the sky.
How many times did curious children approach him only to be caught by their parents and sent home?
At last the sun reached its zenith.
Then a single light fell from the sky like a meteor and planted itself before the Hero.
“Our cheerful god of this world shot the Holy Sword down from the heavens.”
The Hero muttered the old verse that had suddenly come to mind and let out a short laugh.
Because the one who had taught him that verse was the Saintess, he briefly recalled happier days, then wrapped one hand around the hilt of the glowing sword before his eyes.
A familiar sensation flowed through his veins.
His vision, which had taken on dull, heavy colors, regained its starlight once more.
The Hero recalled the words he had thought to himself when the Saintess died.
Discard everything. Desire only the faintest hope.
Stars always bargained with mages, answered the prayers of priests, and remained silent toward swordsmen.
Yet a swordsman who carried a star was the exception. Remembering the voice shaped like a young girl that had answered him, the Hero gripped the sword and raised it toward the sky.
Pure white radiance blanketed the village, and people’s voices rose.
“It’s the Hero!”
“A Hero has appeared in our village!”
He looked at the rejoicing villagers with contempt, then turned his feet toward home.
The same people who had once discriminated against him for his unpleasant hair color now put on kind faces, thinking of the various benefits the Hero’s hometown would receive.
Ignoring them completely, the Hero walked home with the Holy Sword—neither slow nor hurried.
A carriage will come to take me.
Except for my parents, it doesn’t matter if everyone else dies.
The Hero was cold, his emotions worn down.
He would not waste pity on the humans who had tormented and looked down on him.
His past self might not have known, but he was different now.
Together with my parents, I head for the imperial palace.
The Hero finished his thoughts.
He crushed underfoot a dandelion flaunting yellow petals simply because it blocked the path, and continued walking.