Transformation (1)
By the time a rumor reaches your ears, the truth is only just lacing up its boots. So goes an old saying of the Tower.
In a Tower vast as the sea, among people who pour forth like grains of sand, the blooming of countless rumors is all but inevitable. Even so, every rumor has its limits — and this one had blown past them long ago.
There's a Saintess who'll heal any wound for just a modest fee? Not on some other floor — on the Starting Floor?
Injuries are an adventurer's medals. Bragging about one's exploits over a scar in a tavern is a sight as common as dirt. The problem is that those same medals force no small number of adventurers into early retirement. Thomas had been one of them.
Below his right shoulder, there was only a hollow far too absolute. It was a scar too vast to dismiss as a mere badge of honor.
"Every last one of them… scrambling to bleed dry anyone desperate enough. Ought to stone the lot of them."
The Starting Floor. The point of origin for every adventurer — which also made it a floor of the forsaken, a place for those who would never push past its limits. There were no priests here, not even professional healers; people had to rely on potions slapped together by amateur herbalists.
And now someone claimed a Saintess would heal every wound for a little coin? The ulterior motive behind it was nauseating beyond words.
Trash. Pure trash, preying on the desperation of people clutching at any straw just to scrape together one last payday.
What made it worse was that he already knew all of this — and he was still heading for the Starting Floor anyway.
He had scraped and saved with everything he had, trying to restore the arm he'd lost. It still wasn't nearly enough to commission Gijeok. There was only so much money a washed-up former Ranker could earn. And then, in the middle of all that, he'd heard the rumor.
"This is the place."
Even a rotting herring still has its bones. True to his past as a Ranker, Thomas had little trouble tracking the rumored location down. A building he'd never seen before stood before him — a small chapel built on a foundation of stone, its frame raised from carved timber.
Compared to the grand temples constructed by the guild Kyodan, led by the High Ranker Gijeok, it looked wretchedly shabby.
"Welcome. Lost lambs are always welcome here."
…An NPC?
A veil of black and white crowned her silver-white hair, and beneath it sat pupils shaped like crosses. The jet-black habit she wore traced every beautiful curve of her body so faithfully it was hard to know where to look. Faced with an NPC whose appearance was anything but ordinary, Thomas felt a spark of hope reignite in his chest.
"I came because of the rumor…"
"Yes, that's right. We do our utmost to heal any wound. We do accept a modest offering in return, however."
"How much do I have to pay?"
Offering or not, it still meant paying a price. Thomas had no intention of quibbling over that. In the Tower, anyone who helped others for free was one of two things: a fool, or someone with an agenda. From that perspective, asking for payment was cleaner. Of course, if it turned out to be a lie, that was another matter entirely…
"You may offer whatever you wish."
"…What?"
"It is an offering, after all. I can hardly presume to decide the measure of a heart devoted to the divine."
Thomas faltered at a tactic he'd never encountered in his life. If she'd just claimed to work miracles and run a con, he could have understood that. Coming at it like this almost made the rumor sound true. He shut his mouth and sank into troubled thought.
By the nun's words, he could receive treatment for a single piece of bread or a handful of coins. But still…
"Can I decide after I've been treated?"
"Of course. Whatever puts you at ease. Recovery."
"…Huh?"
He'd expected her to hesitate, at least a little. Instead the girl agreed without a second thought and reached out her hand at once. Pure white light spilled from her palm and settled over Thomas's body — and then a blinding radiance swallowed his vision whole.
Ten seconds, give or take, by his reckoning. Out of habit, Thomas lifted his right hand and scrubbed at eyes still dazzled by the glare.
"Wait."
His expression went blank. He had lost his right arm. So which hand had he just rubbed his eyes with?
Only then could he see it clearly. Below the right shoulder that had been empty for so long — a right arm, restored in full.
Unable to believe what he was looking at, Thomas moved the arm. It obeyed his will without the slightest resistance.
"Ah."
"Um… are you all right?"
"Thank you. Thank you so much."
Tears began to spill down Thomas's face — perhaps because every hardship he had endured until now came flooding back at once. Before he knew it, he was on his knees, head bowed. He simply couldn't think of any other way to convey how he truly felt.
And he had no choice but to admit it.
The rumors of the Saintess of the Starting Floor had never been a lie.
Whew. Thank god. I honestly wasn't sure a severed arm would grow back…
Alone at last, Zion finally let out a breath of relief. She had taken on no small number of patients over the past month, but a patient with an amputation was a first. That was exactly why she hadn't asked Thomas for payment up front. She simply hadn't been certain whether Recovery could handle a severed limb. In the end, it had worked out fine.
And thanks to that, I made a pretty sweet profit.
The pouch Thomas pressed into her hands held a full 800 gold. Converted against the prices she'd experienced firsthand in the village, it was enough to loaf around for several years without lifting a finger. Zion tucked the pouch into her robes with a thoroughly satisfied smile.
A full month had already passed since she'd fallen into this mysterious Tower, and she was adapting surprisingly well.
"Zion! You in there?"
"You've come to visit again today, Ifrit."
"Can't help it. I worry about you… and this time, a warning notice came down."
"A warning notice?"
"From the Kyodan. Starting half a month ago, an unidentified monster has been wandering the Tower. They're telling everyone to be careful."
"But monsters can't leave their floors, can they?"
"Right, they can't. But this unidentified monster seems able to move between floors. Almost like an Adventurer…"
Ifrit handed Zion a wanted poster with a bounty written on it. Drawn on the poster was a swordsman clad entirely in black.
A monster wrapped mummy-like in blood-red bandages over pitch-black skin.
The bounty was a staggering 3,000 gold. Zion, whose heart had pounded over a mere 800, nearly screamed out loud this time.
"I see what you mean. Still, it couldn't possibly come all the way down to the Starting Floor… right?"
"Well… I wouldn't bet on it. For some reason, it just keeps descending without stopping."
"…"
"I'm kidding. There's no way it'd come all the way down to this empty Starting Floor. The Rankers will probably take it out long before then."
"Yes, of course."
Zion nodded. It wasn't that she had no desire for 3,000 gold… but she had no interest in staking her life on it. Granted, she already had a track record of casually thrashing a former Ranker adventurer — but that had been an adventurer. She had never once fought a monster in actual combat. And her first real fight wouldn't be against a slime, but a Sword Demon?
There's no way something like that happens.
It itched.
So she scratched. Until her nails broke and the bones of her fingers showed through. Until the very moment the sword fused to the palm of her hand.
But no matter how sharply she scraped away the hide, no matter how relentlessly she tore at the flesh with a blade's edge, that repulsive breath would not stop.
"This isn't a wound. It's a curse."
"And a tremendously powerful one. I've never seen a curse like this in my life…"
"I'm sorry, but I can't take you to Gijeok. I can make it easier for you, though."
What did I despair of… and where was I going, at the very end?
Maggots dropped from rotting flesh. But more terrifying than the stench were the memories grinding away without end. Who she had been. Why she had taken up the sword. Even where she was going now — all of it was slipping away.
And yet, even through the haze of her fading consciousness, she clenched the old pendant hanging from her neck in a rotting hand.
I have to go back. To the place where the adventure began.
Why she had to go there — even the reason had been forgotten. Still, the rotting body kept moving. She had worn herself down so far she no longer remembered her own self. And yet, to the very last, there was one single name she still knew.
The Saintess of the Starting Floor.
She had to find her.