Name - 5

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Unaware of the faint light still lingering over Jerome's body, the Saintess simply kept creating light and driving it down without end.

Under ordinary circumstances she never could have won against such an enemy. Chance and luck had been present, however, and the outcome was born of just enough resolve to seize the opportunity that appeared. If she had not let her guard down and taken the strike from the Holy Sword in the first place—if she had not tried to finish things so hastily—if the Saintess had not made that decision—she would have lost. Yet if the Hero had only recovered the power that had existed before his regression, none of this would have happened at all.

The Hero was blaming himself. Because of the Erosion Rate and the way she had forcibly drawn power out in a single instant, her body could be compared to a faucet on the verge of shattering; still she continued to create light and drive it toward Spring. Without the slightest regard for her own body she simply pushed past every limit, borrowing against the self that existed in the future. The Hero could not stop her. Looking at Jerome's now-cleaned form and the Saintess behaving as if she had gone mad, he could only stare blankly.

He had sworn never to lose her again—never, never to wound her again. How had the situation come ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to this? The Hero wondered. No answer came.

The Saintess paid no attention to any gaze upon her. When the battle ended, the waves vanished, and the bell that announced the end of the wave rang out twice in short peals—ding, ding.

The surviving veterans leaned against their cups, blessing the fact that they could stretch their long lives another day, while the hastily replenished recruits mourned the deaths of the other soldiers who had been assigned with them and shed tears. Another old soldier came over and said,

"If you cry over every little thing like this, you won't live long."

And the recruit answered,

"But the tears still come."

The old soldier hesitated a moment, then replied,

"Then dry up and wither—or you'll end up dead."

He tilted his cup as if pouring it straight into his mouth, downed it, and left.

Some still turned their gazes toward the Disaster that seemed, somehow, still alive. Their enemy. Still breathing. That bastard killed my comrades. How dare—how dare—how dare. With bloodshot eyes they started toward the Disaster, yet they had no choice but to stop. Because the Saintess was still standing there. Because the Hero was still watching. Because a Holy Knight lay there in a clean state. The soldiers looked at that scene and dispersed. Anyone who saw such a sight would naturally feel pity even for the enemy who had killed their comrades.

There was a small girl whose arms and legs had been endlessly butchered, her pink hair stained red with blood, white foam constantly flowing from her mouth, eyes rolled back as she thrashed the limbs that were no longer there. She was no longer a Disaster; she was a one-armed girl. One leg was covered in wounds; one arm had been severed. None of her limbs were intact. Only three remained attached.

The Hero came to his senses. And the her he had known—no, he no longer knew. He did not know her. Yet she was the woman he had loved, the woman he still loved. So the Hero approached the Saintess.

"Saintess, please stop."

"This is enough."

He tried to restrain her—the woman who no longer looked sane, in whose eyes only a faint madness still glimmered. The Saintess turned her bloodied face toward him. Though covered in blood, she smiled. A smile that said she was fine. That smile was so identical to the one she usually gave him that it raised gooseflesh, and the Hero felt fear. Was she truly the her he knew? He could no longer be certain. He could only stare blankly at her. It felt as if everything he had believed in was collapsing.

She had been perfect, the one who led him, a person like a sparkling star—why had she become like this? Had what he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠held been only an illusion? Had she always been this sort of person, and he simply had not known? Why had there been no such actions in the previous loops? Countless questions billowed up like smoke. Yet the Saintess's appearance was only something twisted, and at the same time it looked all too the same. The careful hand motions she used when cutting steak were familiar, yet instead of steak she was slicing human flesh. The way she smiled at him resembled the merciful smile of the Saintess he remembered—yet it was bloodied. The Hero felt as if everything he believed was crumbling. Perhaps he had judged the Saintess carelessly; he blamed himself. Perhaps he had simply pasted the ideal person he wanted onto her and turned her into an idol in his heart, dumping the role of guide upon her.

While the Hero blamed himself, regretted, and watched his illusion shatter, the Saintess still seemed to be searching for something, as if something remained incomplete. She skillfully shaped starlight into a single sword of light. The very short dagger resembled the one she always used when she harmed herself. Then, just as she was about to choose one of Spring's remaining limbs and drive the blade down, a hand clad in heavy armor seized her wrist and stopped her.

The Saintess turned her head irritably, as if demanding who dared interfere, and Jerome stood there. She smiled once more. Jerome's expression was rigid.

"Please stop."

"This is not like you, Saintess."

White flames flickered across the Saintess's bloodied hand. The blood vanished; the hand became pure white again. With her cleaned hand she reached into her bag, drew out paper and pen, and wrote something with fierce concentration.

Jerome could not answer. To the speechless knight the Saintess gave a look that seemed to say, See? You can't answer either, then turned her head and cut the conversation short. To Jerome she looked as if she were crying.

The Hero blankly raised his eyes to the sky and asked a question of no one. The Saintess dragged the thoroughly wrecked Spring across the dirt and returned to her tent. Jerome watched the two of them and measured what remained of his life.

Three months left.

He made a resolution. Within the next three months he would become a Superhuman and shatter the limit of lifespan. And so, without another word exchanged, time ticked onward.

Soldiers headed for their tents; a few remained to repair the wooden palisades and perform maintenance. Dawn passed, morning brightened, and the bell for mealtime rang. The cawing of crows rose with it. It was the Emperor's letter.

With tired, dead eyes the Saintess looked up at the crow. Then she shaped her hand into a gun and thought,

Bang—

White starlight struck the crow; it fell limply. The Saintess continued her private thoughts.

That's the karma for answering so rudely.

She seemed to be the sort who held grudges longer than expected. The Emperor's unique magic turned subordinates who still followed him after death into black birds and used them like ghosts; therefore this was no different from killing one of his retainers. Yet the Emperor, watching the scene from his office, chose silence. It was to his advantage. After offering a brief prayer for the repose of one nameless crow, he simply sat upon the throne and pondered.

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Back at the front, the Saintess snatched the letter from the fallen crow's beak and read it.

Hmm-hmm~ What does it say?

She read only that far and burned it. Whoosh—white flames swallowed the letter. Seeing her like that, the Hero carefully spoke.

"Saintess, are you really all right?"

As a matter of course she wrote her answer on paper.

A firm, short reply. Yet her dead eyes showed she was not all right at all. The unnecessary killing of the Emperor's crow—which was, for all practical purposes, a person—proved it. Perhaps the Hero was still under a misconception about the Saintess. Telling himself it was merely a severe shock, a temporary phenomenon, he swam inside the illusion that she remained the perfect, beautiful, pure woman he had known.

Jerome looked at her and thought. Was his nearness to death truly so great an influence? He decided it was because he had failed to take proper care of his own body. A knight was meant to live always for his master; yet he had been wounded and brought to the brink of death even though his master wished neither his injury nor his death. That was disloyalty. Therefore he would become strong enough that no one could ever touch him—or his master, the Saintess. He bound his heart once more.

The Saintess returned to her tent. The Hero and Jerome looked at each other awkwardly, then averted their eyes. Each pair of eyes reflected the other like a mirror, and the sight was unbearably shameful. The one called Hero had possessed no courage and had fled from the truth. The one called knight had committed disloyalty and changed his master.

Inside her tent the Saintess looked at Spring, bound with rope. One arm was fastened to a wooden pillar that supported the tent; both legs were carefully trussed. Spring's body was clean, as though she had been tortured and healed over and over, yet the moment her eyes met the Saintess's she still trembled violently. So a beast that merely resembled a human possessed so fragile a mind. Had she truly become a little girl to match her appearance? But I feel no pity for the one who tried to kill my comrade.

The Saintess wrote quietly and held the paper out for Spring to see.

Spring read the words, gathered the last of her pride, and burst out laughing.

"Puhah— Saintess, is that even something you say out loud?"

"Just kill me."

The Saintess answered.

Spring's pupils shook as she read. The Saintess kept writing.

Spring looked at the Saintess. Yet what she saw was not the Saintess; she saw a beast the same as herself. Not a human born without humanity, but one worn away until nothing remained.

"You—who are you?"

"The Saintess is definitely not this kind of person—"

A fist drove into her stomach.

"Kehek—kuh."

Unable to draw breath, her words cut off.

Spring slowly nodded and managed,

"Ye—yes..."