Toward the Front Lines - 4

I had to extract every last thing I could get.

I was never the type to take a loss, so even when the chance for a petty little advantage like this presented itself, I was the kind of person who latched on and refused to let go.

In short, it meant I had a great many questions for the Saintess.

She had appeared for two days straight as if it were nothing at all, yet the real point I needed to focus on was the simple fact that she had suddenly shown up and we were now talking.

Yes—if she could appear, why hadn't she done so sooner?

That was the question.

There were several variables at play.

First: the Erosion Rate rising above fifty percent, then falling back below it.

When I had been more than half mixed with the Saintess, I had performed actions so thoroughly unlike myself that it felt as though almost none of my own personality remained.

Therefore the preferable hypothesis was that conversation only became possible after I mixed with her and then returned.

Which brought me to the first question: why?

"Why did you only appear in front of me now?"

The Saintess answered with perfect nonchalance, as though the question posed no difficulty for her whatsoever.

"I don't know either."

Ha—

I could only let out a sigh at her reply.

So she knew two things. One of them, for whatever reason, produced a piercing beep of tinnitus the moment she tried to tell me, rendering it impossible to hear. The other was that acting was already hard enough, and now the Hero had regressed on top of it and knew exactly what the original Saintess looked like.

All of it was bad news.

In the end, the girl standing before my eyes was completely useless.

Still, just to be certain, I needed a confirmation question.

"The Hero really did regress, right? That's definite?"

The Saintess seemed to consider for a moment, then answered almost at once.

"Yes."

There had been a faint hesitation right before she spoke, so a sliver of doubt remained, but it matched the hypothesis I had already formed, and I accepted it quickly. People always believe faster when the evidence lines up with what they already think.

"What is the Erosion Rate?"

"It's exactly as you know."

So what the hell is 'exactly as I know' supposed to mean?

I swallowed the angry retort that rose unbidden.

"What happens when the Erosion Rate hits one hundred percent?"

I asked that one with a measure of hope. From the way she had answered "What is the Erosion Rate?", it was clear the Saintess knew precisely what the term meant. She had replied without a second thought.

How stupid.

Only now did she seem to realize she had answered carelessly. She clenched both fists in frustration and glared at me with sharp eyes. But no amount of glaring changed the fact that she had promised to answer, and she did not look like the petty sort who would break a promise. So I waited.

At last the wait ended and she spoke.

"We mix."

"That's all I can say."

No—that was something I already knew.

Honestly there was a mountain of further questions I wanted to press, but today was not my only chance, so I held back.

Just in case, I threw one more at her.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?"

The Saintess hesitated a beat, then answered in a loud voice.

"Don't touch the Hero!"

I was so startled I nearly demanded what the hell she meant—then my consciousness sank beneath the surface of sleep, and I woke again.

What kind of bullshit was that.

Even after rising in the morning I sat blankly on the bed for a while, staring into empty air. In the first place, would a guy who used to be a man have any intention of "touching" anyone?

So this was how it was going to be—forced early mornings every single day. For someone who could never wake up on time even with an alarm set, it could almost be called a decent advantage. Not that I owned an alarm clock to begin with.

Was talking with the Saintess even real? Was she the Saintess at all? Her personality was far too different from the person I knew.

I needed to organize the hypotheses and the things that actually required my attention.

First hypothesis: that Saintess was the first-cycle Saintess who had traveled with the Hero.

Second hypothesis: that Saintess was me.

I desperately wanted to reject that one, yet if the fact of my possession remained unchanged before and after the regression, it was still a possible theory. Damn it—not only would I end up saying things like "Don't touch the Hero!" in the future, I would become a complete woman? There had to be a limit to how grotesque things could get.

Anyway, it was neither a hypothesis I wanted to believe nor a particularly likely one, so I shoved it into a corner of my mind and focused on the practical concerns.

First: the scars.

Honestly, after the first few days in this body I had almost forgotten them. Before I possessed her, the Saintess had repeatedly injured herself; several scars remained on the wrists that even holy power could not restore. To hide them I always had to wear long sleeves. The front lines might turn sweltering, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠but heat was still preferable to discovery. If surveillance began, my range of movement would shrink and lock down. From the position of someone who could only assist passively in public while slipping away to collect items out of sight, that would be the worst possible outcome. The Hero had already tailed me in the middle of the night, so the situation was already poor. Black markets and drug dens were effectively sealed off.

Second: the Erosion Rate.

Above all, the Madman's Notebook was strictly a consumable. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Because of the major mistake I had already made, Self-Harm Impulse and Brainwashing were now fixed as permanent status penalties, and I had no idea how long I could endure them. I still did not know what Brainwashing truly was, but watching it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠press a red-hot iron rod into the young Saintess's eyes—and mine—without the slightest hesitation told me it was nothing beneficial. More than anything, the Pope's voice whispering in my ears made it the penalty I most wanted gone. Until I obtained another item that could manage the Erosion Rate, I had to keep using the Madman's Notebook. If I removed it rashly and the rate climbed past even fifty percent, the result would be pure catastrophe. And once removed, the Notebook could never be used again.

And last—third.

Honestly it was not that critical. If I simply continued acting the way I had until now, I could get through without major disaster. Yet it was also the single thing I had to guard most carefully.

Acting.

Wear the thick mask. Always behave like the Saintess. I had managed it so far; if I kept doing the same, there would be no problem.

I reassured myself with that and finished organizing my thoughts.

A letter arrived for us a little later.

Crows—magic obtained by the Emperor who had reached the extreme as a mage. He commanded the ominous birds that picked through corpses, binding those who had sworn him loyalty so that even in death they could never rest. Extreme necromancy. Anyone who had played the game even once had stared at those creatures for an insanely long time.

One crow delivered a letter stamped with an imperial seal. I already knew what it was: the letter from the early game, right after the Imperial Capital raid, in which the Emperor ordered us to the front lines.

Whether the Hero was receiving it for the first time or not, he looked surprised on the surface—yet his pupils never wavered, and the gaze fixed on the paper was nothing like that of a startled man. Those eyes looked as though he were steeling his resolve. Someone else might have found it strange; I knew the reason.

The Hero had almost certainly traded with the stars and regressed because of the Saintess. No matter which path she walked, no matter what method she chose, the Saintess was fated to die before his eyes. That future was fixed. So of course I wanted to live. Of course I wanted to return to my original world.

Tsk. The sentiment had grown too deep. In a position where emotional thinking and impulsive action had to be kept farthest away, there was nothing worse than letting such feelings ramble inside my head. I consciously cut the thought short and simply watched.

The Hero slowly took the letter, watched the crow's back as it flew toward the Emperor, then turned to face us. He opened the letter, pretended to read for a moment, and spoke while holding the paper aloft so we could all see it.

"It's an order to go to the front lines."

I feigned surprise. Jerome looked genuinely shocked. No doubt he was muttering inwardly about how they could possibly drive such a young boy onto a battlefield, his thoughts in turmoil. The time we had spent together was short, and personally I was not impressed by his combat strength, yet I had already noticed the kind of man he was—a good human who still saw even a Superhuman as nothing more than a child. Those were the ones who died or changed first on the battlefield. Personally, I hoped he would not change. Meeting a person so rare even in ordinary society inside ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a game was hardly common.

I wondered what the Hero intended to fix by heading to the battlefield. The massive catastrophe that followed because spring had been missed? The single funeral that came because summer stepped forward? And after that—there was no real need to think further.

Yes. The country boy chosen by the stars was being sent to war in less than a month. Someone else might have called it tragedy. The Hero was different.

Thanks for the second chance.

Thanks also for the chance to save them again.

He simply gave thanks.

And he was no longer a child. He understood that the greater good sometimes required small sacrifices. He understood that saving the one he loved would mean someone else would die. Yet he could no longer stop—

To the front lines.