Spring of the Imperial Capital - 5

Is this how it ends once more?

The Hero gazed at a world drowned in pink and thought as much. Once again, through some stupid mistake of his own, he had failed to protect her. He had not even considered the possibility. For all that he had been freer than anyone, his thoughts had never been free.

Why had it come to this?

Regret changed nothing. Thinking changed nothing. He could not turn back time. His mind turned to the Saintess—the woman trapped in this accursed place by his failure yet again. Theas. The Saintess. The woman most beloved by the stars. The woman he loved.

What had she seen while imprisoned here? What would she see? How much had she suffered? How much would she suffer still?

The Hero possessed power, yet he remained powerless. He could only admit, with quiet honesty, that he had let his guard down. Far from the Saintess, he drifted through a torrent of pink water, searching for a way out.

This place was a chaos of countless petals and water spinning into whirlpools of droplets—a middle world between dream and reality where front and back, up and down, lost all meaning. This was the authority of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a single facet of the season called Spring: Daydream.

Her personal combat strength had been pitiful, yet she had fought by other means. She had been underhanded, selfish, cursed by countless people. Still she had thought: from a height where no one dared insult her freely, she would laugh at them ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠all.

The Hero set aside those thoughts and focused first on escaping this place. Had the Saintess entered here before? What had happened then? How long had she endured pain to forge a will so strong? And could he endure it this time?

Before his regression, it had shown him his dead parents. Now his parents still lived. Would it replay the same illusions and memories, or something new? Whatever appeared, he would endure. He was no longer the man he had been. He had sworn he would become someone different.

What filled his vision was a dark night. Stars blanketing the sky. A quiet dawn breeze. A blue meadow stained red. Dense trees ringing a clearing. A single lonely moon.

Ah. Why.

Why, why, of all memories, this one?

From the terrible reality he had fled, chains were dragging him down once more. Hero Ain stood again in that forest beneath a sky thick with stars—the place where the Saintess had fallen—and once more he saw her collapsed form. Blood-soaked, eyes closed, unmoving, as if time itself had stopped. Exactly as he had seen her before.

What ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had changed was him. Everything else remained the same. Because he was no longer yesterday’s self, today would be different—

What vow had he made to rewrite the past? What efforts had he poured into a better future?

The Holy Sword was starlight granted to the Hero—a pillar of light shaped like a blade. It did not always point in a single righteous direction. Wherever the Holy Sword pointed was the right place. Where the blade aimed at the sky was up. Where it aimed at the earth was down.

He tightened his grip on the Holy Sword and declared, calm and clear:

"Shatter."

A tiny cosmos cracked like glass. And the Hero opened his eyes.

I looked down at the small girl crouched before me. She was unmistakably the Saintess—yet not the Saintess of now. Not the body I wore. She was neither clean nor pure; she was covered in dust. Hair that should have been pure white like a snowfield was a dull gray. Eyes that should have been empty white held a black hue. She wore an unchanging pure-white nun’s habit, a tiny girl. Still I knew, with absolute certainty, that she was the Saintess—Theas.

If asked why, I had no reason. Only instinct. I was not someone who trusted instinct, yet I trusted this one. Not instinct—intuition. That was why I could believe it.

In this place… could I speak?

I opened my mouth and made a sound.

"Ah—"

Even I was startled by the noise I produced. My hand flew up of its own accord and covered my mouth. How thoroughly had I grown used to being unable to speak?

This place was Daydream—the realm that showed dreams you never wished to wake from, and dreams you desperately wished to escape. I knew, intellectually, that it was only memory, only hallucination. Yet I still wanted to approach the child squatting right in front of me.

Thud— thud—

My footsteps dragged long and heavy as I walked toward her.

As if she had heard the sound, the child lifted her head and stared straight at me with black eyes. Murky eyes, more precisely—like ink spilled into water. Suddenly guilt rose in me. I could not meet her gaze as simply as that. That was all.

I knew this place was a dream. But was the girl existing before my eyes truly something wrong? Would using Purification let me escape? No—I had to leave here.

As expected, Purification did nothing.

Ah. Aah. Aaaah. Ugh.

Why.

She’s only the childhood of a game character whose face I never even knew. I’ve never met her in real life. She’s just a fabricated person. If I escape this world, the connection will snap anyway. So why can’t I simply declare that this hallucinatory childhood of the Saintess is wrong?

I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.

A voice seemed to reach me.

Girl, become a star.

puella, esto stellar

Shut your mouth. Don’t make me speak. Get out of my head.

And the world shattered. It broke into shards like a mirror. What appeared next was another mirror. This one reflected another me.

I saw the Pope. The familiar figure from the game—childlike features, that perpetual playful smile at the corner of his mouth. Clad in splendid golden vestments, he walked alone through a slum and handed a single gold coin to people who must have been the Saintess’s parents. Their faces were smashed beyond recognition. In a world full of blackened faces, I could only see the two of them clearly. Thus the Pope took the white-haired, black-eyed girl into his church.

Another shift of scene. The world flipping, shattering, reassembling was so dizzying I thought I might retch. Ugh. But there was nothing inside me, so even in this dream world nothing came up.

It was a scene of the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠girl and the Pope facing each other inside the church. Why did the Saintess consider this memory terrible? Or did she think it happy?

The moment I saw the Pope’s next action, I understood it was terrible.

He drew out an iron rod glowing red-hot and brought its blunt tip to the girl’s eye. She tried to scream, yet could not. Then the Pope invoked his holy law.

Those who complete their path to the extreme in this world are granted a Way. The Watching Star grants the miracle of calling starlight. The Supporting Star grants the royal road of summoning already-dead loyal retainers. The Flowing Star grants the magic of creating an infinite river of stars. And the Thinking Star grants the holy path of calling forth whatever one desires.

The Pope murmured in a small voice:

"Girl, become a star."

puella, esto stellar

Ah. Why.

I remember hearing those words. For an instant the girl’s form and mine overlapped. No—the girl and the fully grown Saintess. I see. I had already suffered it.

Memory replayed as if I were watching an old black-and-white film.

"Ha… haha."

A hollow laugh escaped. I had no time to feel moved by the simple fact that I could laugh aloud; I only kept letting out empty laughter.

I am stupid. I am… I am… I am… Yes. I am myself.

The fluctuating semi-transparent numbers gradually stabilized.

…Not that I needed the confirmation kill, but still.

Yes. Now I had drawn a clear line. From left to right, I separated myself from the world. Inside a world cut off from the world, I would break the glass and step out.

Observe myself.

And I opened my mouth and spoke quietly. Outside this place I could not speak, but here I could.

There was a white flame that burned away everything that was not right. And I stepped out into the world.

This world was no longer like a game. To me it had already become reality, so I had simply escaped from a place that was not reality.

And I thought: it was time to offer my “thanks” to Spring—to Spring.