Thirteen Days Until the Hero Arrives 2
Necromancy—that profoundly dark and peculiar power—lures ordinary humans with the temptation of seeing long-lost friends, family, or even their own dead children once more.
Unbound by talent, this force grants a corresponding return even to commoners and outcasts, so long as they offer a proper price.
Two methods coexist: inserting the soul of the one you long to see into an empty corpse, or, conversely, placing a soul into the corpse you wish to revive.
Yet these methods carry a problem.
We must always remember that demons write the clauses unfavorable to themselves in the finest print upon the contract.
The numerical value known as the Erosion Rate measures the degree to which body and soul have mingled.
It cannot be quantified by ordinary numbers, nor can it be controlled.
The tools capable of controlling it are magical implements whose very existence remains uncertain—artifacts ordinary people cannot even attempt to obtain.
The Threads of Tuning held by the Emperor.
The Rosario possessed by the Holy Kingdom.
And the Madman's Notebook, whose whereabouts have now grown obscure—these are precisely those things.
I gazed at the “breakfast” laid out before my eyes.
The reason I bothered to emphasize “breakfast” was the problem of a meal that could scarcely be called a meal at all.
Save for a few red cherry tomatoes, the plate overflowed with nothing but green—a healthy-looking spread that made my stomach churn merely to look at it.
Well… maybe it tastes decent?
Still, this was a meal served to the Saintess. I reassured myself that it would taste better than it looked, and reached for the silver cutlery beside the plate.
The utensils, finely engraved with rose motifs in silver, revealed just how lavish the church truly was beneath its outward austerity.
I lifted the fork—it carried a slight, satisfying weight—and stabbed a cherry tomato.
Orange juice welled from the three pierced holes.
I carefully brought it to my mouth and slipped it inside.
As expected. Tastes awful.
Apparently my food preferences and the Saintess’s aligned to a surprising degree.
Similar tastes, then?
Even a Saintess hates vegetables, huh.
Learning a scrap of backstory I had never known left me with a faintly fresh feeling.
Time passed. I struggled to finish everything, yet eating it all proved impossible after all.
The Saintess’s body refused to take in food far beyond anything I had imagined.
The instant I tried to force more past the limit, an instinctive rejection rose together with a gag.
At the very least I would not spit out what I had already forced down. I crushed the rising nausea deep into my throat.
Staring at the half-eaten salad, I swallowed another wave of revulsion, picked up the tray, and set it outside the door.
Wasn’t it normal to call a servant to clear it?
Even as the thought crossed my mind, no device for summoning servants was visible inside the room.
Well, it hardly matters.
Keeping useless worries rattling around my head was less valuable than contemplating the future that was already bearing down on me.
I shoved every trivial concern into a corner and began searching for ways to determine whether the game’s system still applied in this reality.
The most representative Erosion Rate management item—[Line Drawing]. Physically draws lines across the body to separate flesh from mind… was that it?
In the game it had taken the form of a small dagger, and I remembered the setting: managing Erosion Rate through the pain of self-harm.
Now that the game had become reality, could physical pain still lower the Erosion Rate?
There was no chance a blade would be found in the Saintess’s chambers.
Even without searching, that much was obvious.
Wait…
Remembering the fork still resting on the tray I had set outside, I moved.
I cracked the door and peered out. The Holy Knight had not yet returned.
Good. This is necessary. Deep breath.
Hoo—
I drew air in,
Ha—
and let it out again.
A simple motion, yet it helped me now.
Slowly I reached out, lifted the fork, and tucked it swiftly against my chest.
Worrying whether anyone had seen, I eased the door shut without a sound.
Clutching the fork in both hands as though it were treasure, I forced my trembling body to still.
For a modern person the greatest everyday pain was stubbing a toe or nicking a finger on a kitchen knife; the tension was only natural.
At last the resolve settled.
Alright. Eyes shut tight. Just one test.
I stretched my left arm out and laid it upon the table.
My right hand shook violently.
I set the fork down for a moment and rolled up the sleeve.
And then I could only stare in dismay.
What… is this.
Hidden beneath the long nun’s habit, several long vertical scars ran the length of the arm.
Wounds that anyone would take for a suicide attempt. The sight sent a cascade of questions slamming through my mind.
The Holy Knight was the one who changed my clothes—why did he act as though he knew nothing of these wounds?
First: suspicion toward the person.
Why did the original Saintess scar her own body?
Second: suspicion toward the Saintess.
Why have I never seen this setting in the game?
Third: suspicion toward myself.
This world was constructed with such precision that calling it a mere game felt almost impossible.
Perhaps this place was reality.
Perhaps I was simply a madman.
Perhaps I was only a mental patient who had brainwashed himself into believing he came from another world.
Perhaps these wounds were nothing but an illusion I had fabricated.
Perhaps the Holy Knight was not on my side at all.
No. No. No. No.
[■■■□□□□□□□]
30%
Get a grip.
These were not my thoughts.
They were the Saintess’s.
The semi-transparent letters felt hateful, yet there was no moment more welcome than when they dragged me back to my senses.
The instant I saw those scars, the Saintess’s thoughts had surged like a storm.
Staring at an Erosion Rate that had already climbed to 30 % despite every effort I had made, a fierce headache bloomed behind my eyes.
Only a five-percent rise—no penalty yet, then.
Base value 10 %, penalty every 15 %. So the next one hits at 40 %?
It had not even been a full day since I entered the Saintess’s body.
From dawn until breakfast—barely more than three hours—and already the gauge stood one-third full. A deep sigh threatened to escape.
I clicked my tongue inwardly. Why the body reacted with instinctive revulsion at the sight of its own scars was a question that still offered no answer.
In the first place, the action and story had always centered on the period after the hero party formed. No one had been perverse enough to dig into the Holy Kingdom’s backstory.
The Holy Kingdom only became reachable after two weeks of in-game time, and throughout the entire game—aside from the Holy Knights met on the front lines—there had never been reason to visit the Holy Kingdom or meet anyone connected to it. Of course the details had remained hidden.
Always think only of efficiency. As I always had. Only what is necessary.
All right. Examine the wounds carefully once more.
That is the first thing I must do.
The Saintess carries a “setting”: blessed by starlight, yet her flesh struggles to endure it.
Then, throughout the journey, had she continued to feel pain and scar herself?
Probably yes.
If other self-harm actions, like [Line Drawing], also inflicted mental penalties, then what had been placed upon the Saintess was almost certainly Self-Harm Impulse.
And earlier—had I already felt it?
When a mind is placed into a dead body, the penalties bound to that flesh transfer intact.
If the setting held true, the impulse to stab my arm with a fork without proper judgment had not been the act of a sound mind.
Still… I need a way to lower the Erosion Rate. Just one test, then.
Believing myself rational, I slowly closed my fingers around the fork.
Hoo. Only once.
She is the Saintess—surely she can heal herself?
I had not used holy power once since arriving in this world, yet I told myself I would manage it, and the self-justification began.
Had I only thought more carefully about the arm that still bore scars even after healing—had I understood that the essence of holy power is restoration to the “original state”—I would have realized the truth I was missing.
Holy power is not omnipotent.
Many priests regard holy power as all-powerful, and most scholars accept this as established doctrine.
Yet according to materials recently advanced in refutation, holy power ultimately cannot resolve long-standing disabilities of the body.
Symptoms vary from person to person, but in general, when one has lived with an affliction for many years and comes to recognize it as the “normal state,” a problem arises.
Here, “normal state” does not mean the perspective of others, but that of the self—or of the body itself.
The observer is different.
The essence of holy power is, in the end, determined by the observer.