Thirteen Days Until the Hero Arrives 3

I gripped the fork tight and drove it straight down into my own right arm.

"Augh..."

A sharp sting bloomed, followed by the wet thunk of something sinking in.

More precisely, it was the sound of a leather strap snapping—a dull, fibrous pop.

Three red pinpricks opened on an arm so pale it looked almost translucent, cold metal still buried in the flesh. From those holes, bright scarlet blood welled and slowly painted the white skin.

I stared at the arm without blinking, vaguely surprised that it hurt less than I had expected. My body twitched in tiny, lifeless spasms, the way a corpse’s muscles sometimes fire after death—no vitality left in them at all.

I watched the crimson pool spread across the wooden table and thought, almost clinically, about cleanup.

First, pull it out.

Effect confirmed.

Only five percent?

I remember the line-drawing method used to give a higher number. Items really are different, then.

A faint prickling still lingered under the skin, and warm rivulets of blood trickled down my arm. The thought that removing the fork might make it hurt more made me clench my teeth out of habit—or out of pure stubbornness.

Grind.

The sound of enamel scraping enamel. I forced strength into my right hand and yanked the fork free of the Saintess’s body.

Blood beaded on the elegant silver tines and dripped toward the floor, utterly out of place on such fine metal. Gravity won; the already-gruesome scene on the table grew redder still, each falling drop ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sending circular ripples across the surface of the pool.

How was I supposed to hide this? Because I had so carefully kept “me” and “the Saintess’s body” separate—or because the assimilation rate was still low—the faint trembling and the distant, mismatched pain felt deeply unpleasant.

I had to admit it now: I had been far too hasty, completely unlike myself.

The game system was working exactly as designed. It had clearly inflicted Self-Harm Impulse on me ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as well. In a world where a system that shaved away mental strength in real time had become reality, I had no idea how the debuff would actually function—but I knew with absolute certainty it would not benefit me.

Yes. Right now I was unmistakably panicking.

I could tell myself all day that I was strong-willed, efficient, rational—but the truth was that a single mental-strength penalty was enough to leave an ordinary human barely clinging to sanity. I had no choice but to accept that.

The blood pool looked ready to spill over the edge of the round table, held back only by surface tension. The way it clung, trembling, to the rim was more than enough to make me anxious.

If it stained the carpet, either the Holy Knight or the cleaning servants would notice. I wanted to wipe it up immediately, yet the three pale red holes in my arm kept forming fresh droplets that fell one after another.

Treatment first.

The Saintess had spent far longer than the Hero working with starlight. That was why, during the quiet hours they spent exchanging written notes, she had given him so much advice.

How did she explain it again?

She had slid a slip of paper toward the Hero.

The Saintess’s flesh was a vessel endlessly blessed by flowing starlight. In the game she had been the one who, after the tutorial and basic combat training in the Empire, taught the player how to use Skills.

Back then a simple click of the keyboard had been enough. Now it would be different.

I followed the explanation I had once watched so carefully.

Clerics were those who served the stars; what they offered were sacrifices and prayer. Mages were those who bargained with the stars; what they offered were contracts and prices that balanced the Scales. And the Saintess and the Hero were those who simply received the stars’ overflowing love; they offered nothing at all.

In the game the healing spell had been called exactly this:

I could not speak, so thinking the word was all I could do.

A pure white light, so beautiful it could have stolen a person’s soul, completely swallowed the red and restored the wound as if nothing had ever happened.

The bleeding stopped, yet the sheer volume of blood already spilled across the table left me with a mild wave of dizziness. If I blacked out here, the Holy Knight who attended me would discover everything without fail. I forced myself to stay conscious.

First, clean it up thoroughly. One problem at a time.

Luckily—if you could call it luck—the blood pool had not yet reached the carpet. Grateful for that small mercy, I looked around for something to wipe with.

The first thing that caught my eye was my own bed. Several pillows rested on the pure white sheets. I decided stripping one of its cases would do.

I approached the bed, took a pillow, peeled off the cover, and shoved the now-naked pillow carelessly under the bed. It would not be noticed for a while, but the moment someone came to tidy the bed they would certainly grow suspicious.

Putting out the immediate fire was enough for now.

Clutching the white pillowcase, I hurried back to the table and hastily pressed the cloth over the red blood, scrubbing it away. Watching the pure ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠white fabric slowly stain crimson brought a strange, subtle sense of satisfaction.

An odd emotion.

And what was I going to do with this pillowcase afterward?

I wiped every last drop from the fork as well, then quickly crumpled the cloth. The once-pristine white was nowhere to be found—only a blood-smeared, thoroughly ruined scrap of fabric. I stuffed it into a drawer and out of my sight.

It felt a little like looking at myself. Only I would ever know.

I took a careful breath. Fortunately, there was no ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠smell of blood. Just to be sure I examined my body thoroughly, but not a single stain or mark remained.

Hah—

I exhaled a long, silent sigh of relief.

Then, suddenly, footsteps began to echo from the corridor. They grew louder, faster, and finally stopped right outside the door.

It had to be the Holy Knight from this morning. The brief silence that followed suggested she was fretting over how much food I had left uneaten.

I wanted to tell her not to worry, but the inability to speak made even the smallest daily interactions inconvenient.

The original Saintess had enjoyed exchanging written notes with the Hero, yet I did not know the language used in this place. Even if speech somehow worked, there was no guarantee the written script would be the same. That was a gamble I refused to take. I never bet on anything uncertain; I wanted the risk erased completely.

If this world did not conveniently use Hangul the way so many isekai authors lazily arranged, handing over a note would be a self-inflicted wound. If she saw Hangul and failed to recognize it, or started wondering what language it was, explaining would become a nightmare.

"May I come in?"

The Holy Knight spoke and seemed ready to enter.

Still the same—never waits for actual permission.

Not that I could have given verbal permission in the first place.

The absurdity of my situation suddenly struck me as funny. I did not want to raise her suspicions, so I decided to open the door myself and show her I was fine.

I approached the door and eased it open. I had cleaned everything carefully enough that nothing should show—that was the calculation behind the decision.

I opened the door and offered the Holy Knight a small smile. She met my eyes, her brow twitching faintly, then simply turned and left with the tray.

Why? Even after thinking it over I could find no clear reason. Maybe she had simply grown tired of the whole thing.

Ah. The fork.

I had forgotten the fork. It was no longer on the tray.

Did she notice?

No. Impossible.

I wiped up every drop of blood.

When she comes back later for the fork, I’ll just hand it over.

I reassured myself and headed for the bed, dragging my exhausted body with the simple intention of lying down.

The soft-looking mattress seemed to sway and beckon me. I lay down, stilled every movement, and let my body gradually settle. Steady, ordered breathing brought sleep with it; the gentle embrace of comfort slowly closed my eyes and claimed me.

I thought I understood, just a little, why people always said they wished they could sleep forever.

Even so, I could not rest easily yet. The day I would finally be allowed to rest in peace would only come after I had returned home. I swore it once more, firmly.

To whom had I made that oath? Could a vow that had lost its destination still be called a vow? I decided to set those questions aside.

There were countless worries that yielded no answers no matter how deeply I thought about them. Right now I only wanted to throw them all far away and simply lie here in comfort.