The Fanatic (Doesn't Believe in God)

I love subculture games.

And I love yandere big-breasted beauties even more.

On top of that, you can raise a character's affection and unlock countless character stories?

What possible reason could there be not to play a game like that?

And this game went even further — every time you raised affection, the character's stats climbed without limit. Get the affection high enough, and you could build a unit that would chew through even the absolute S-tier characters.

"Haa… I finally did it."

I stared at the heart icon on my phone screen, the number 1000 glowing inside it, and breathed the words out.

The stat bonuses from affection got cut in half after fifty, and the currency for raising it had hard caps, so even the hardcore veterans usually parked affection around a hundred and called it done.

Sure, a few people pushed their favorites to five hundred or seven hundred out of pure love — but until now, not a single lunatic had ever hit a thousand. Except me.

I'd been playing this game for six years, and never once had the dopamine hit this hard.

I dragged a hand down my face and let out a long breath.

"Hooo… Okay. Okay, screenshot first…"

With trembling fingers I swiped down from the top of the phone and hunted for the screenshot button.

Flash—

The screen blinked white for an instant, and in the bottom-right corner the captured image shimmered with a soft, almost sacred glow.

I took the screenshot. Then I just sat there staring at that screen, riding a dopamine high that put any drug to shame — until

Drip. Drip.

A red liquid splattered onto the glass.

"Huh?"

It didn't take long to realize it was my own nosebleed.

Thud—

Shit. I still haven't seen the affection-1000 story…

And with that, I blacked out.

A doctor in a white coat stood beside the corpse, filling in the blank fields on a form with quick strokes of his pen.

"Good grief…"

The doctor looked down at the body with something close to pity.

And just like that, I reincarnated into the game I'd been grinding so hard.

The good news: I was born a noble. At least I didn't have to start from absolute rock bottom as a commoner with nothing to my name.

The bad news: this game was a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠dark fantasy where you had to deal with the Evil God. On top of that, more than a hundred years had passed since the war with the demons ended, so humans and demons alike were living it up at banquets, laughing and drinking without a care in the world. Naturally, combat standards across the board had gone soft.

"One million twenty-one! One million twenty-two!"

Which is why, from the day I could hold a sword, I trained without missing a single day. Otherwise the Evil God would descend and I'd be staring down the bad ending.

And I had to save my favorite character, Violet, from the Evil God's grasp no matter what.

People around me would say things like:

—Taking up the sword and training at such a young age… you could become the next Sword Saint.

—If you push yourself this hard already, you might burn out. Why not rest a little?

Praise and concern, both well-meaning. But I still had a long way to go.

Studying hard as a kid doesn't mean everyone gets into medical school, right? Hitting the 5th Tier at fourteen was a solid growth curve — but "solid" wasn't going to cut it against the Evil God.

Before the Evil ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠God's forces started moving in earnest, I needed to reach at least the 7th Tier — the level where a full-power sword strike could blow a decent-sized mountain off the map.

Anything less, and I wouldn't even beat a run-of-the-mill Apostle.

"One million thirty-three! One million thirty-four!"

So while everyone else spent a century of peace stuffing their faces at banquets, I needed to swing my sword one more time. And then one more after that.

"Oppa."

"Hm? Isabel, what's up?"

I stopped mid-swing and turned toward my little sister.

Isabel. Ten years old, adorable, with cheeks so soft and squishy they should have been illegal.

"Oppa, why do you always start counting from a million?"

I wiped the sweat from my hands ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with a handkerchief, then gave one of those cheeks a gentle pinch.

"Euuugh… Oppa! I told you not to pull my cheeks whenever you feel like it!"

"Isabel, this is the kind of thing you count from a million, not from one. Doesn't 'one million thirty-three' sound way cooler when you're swinging a sword than just plain 'thirty-three'?"

"Euumm… I dunno…"

With her cheek stretched out and her pronunciation going all mushy, Isabel was twice as cute as usual.

"Ah. Righ'. Mama said dinner's ready an' to bring Oppa."

Was it already that late?

I let go of her cheek and hung my sword on the training ground rack.

"Oppa! Hand!"

Isabel stretched out her tiny left hand toward me, palm open.

I smiled and set my palm on top of hers.

"Heehee."

She clamped down on my hand and marched ahead, leading the way. She'd been like this since she was little — still loved walking hand in hand.

I remembered a conversation I'd once had with a friend who had a little ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sister.

—Dude, having a little sister's pretty nice, right?

—Bullshit. Be grateful you were born an only child, you bastard. You haven't seen the hell that brat puts me through.

Hmm. Mine was nothing but cute and well-behaved. What was the problem supposed to be? Seemed less like a little-sister issue and more like a him issue.

Creeeak—

I opened the dining room door to find Father and Mother already seated at the table.

I took the seat across from them, and Isabel settled in beside me.

Father looked at me and spoke.

"Ren. Next year you'll already be fifteen."

Right. Fifteen — the age of adulthood in this world. In other words: make a dazzling debut at the banquet halls and establish yourself as the heir of House Aither.

"So three months from now, you will attend the Founding Festival Banquet."

"Yes, Father."

Honestly, if it were up to me, I'd ditch the banquet entirely and just keep training. But what choice did I have? You couldn't exactly be the eldest son of a count's house and announce, "I'm skipping my debut!" like some kind of noble dropout declaration.

Still, the imperial princess was only about twelve right now, which meant the Evil God's forces wouldn't start moving in earnest for another five years or so.

After my noble debut, training time would shrink — but five years should be enough to climb another two tiers from here.

After dinner, Isabel came looking for me in my room.

"Oppa… when you go to the banquet… when will you come back…?"

She wasn't even trying to hide it — her eyes were already glistening. Part of me wanted to tease her a little. But if I joked around now, she'd actually sulk for real, so honesty was the safer play.

"Hmm… maybe about three days?"

Our family estate wasn't some remote backwater far from the capital. A few hours by carriage and you'd be there.

"Euuugh… do you have to go…?"

The thought of not seeing me for three whole days put a look on Isabel's face like the sky itself was falling.

Isabel. This oppa doesn't want to go either. But what can you do? Nobles have to debut…

I pulled the on-the-verge-of-tears Isabel into a hug and patted her back. Warm water dripped onto my shoulder, dampening my clothes a little.

I was still trying to figure out how to comfort her when —

Knock, knock—

"May I come in?"

"Come in."

At my permission, my personal maid Viola opened the door and stepped inside.

"Oh my."

The moment she saw me and Isabel, Viola seemed to grasp the situation instantly.

"Lady Isabel. If you keep this up, you'll only make Master Ren feel worse. So why don't you dry those tears and try some of this cocoa first?"

"Cocoa?"

The second the word left Viola's mouth, Isabel's head snapped around toward her. Thank god. It stung a little that my absence had just lost out to cocoa, but at least there was a way to calm Isabel down now.

Master Ren. In that case, I'll take Lady Isabel with me.

At Viola's whispered words, I nodded my agreement.

"My lady? Shall we head to your room, then?"

Nod—

Isabel nodded without a word and followed her out.

Click—

"Whew… Viola will handle the comforting from here, right?"

Then I should get started on etiquette studies. I hadn't cracked a single book yet, but three months ought to be enough.

Click—

The door to Isabel's room shut, leaving only Viola and Isabel inside.

"Hey. Fanatic. How long are you planning to keep that mask on?"

Isabel's voice was ice-cold — a completely different person from the girl who'd been clinging to her brother moments ago.

"A mask? Unlike a certain black-hearted witch, I simply serve my master as I am, nothing more."

Viola answered with a mocking little smile.

Isabel scowled, equal parts irritated and unsettled.

"Sure you do. Anyway, I'm going with Oppa. You're coming too, right?"

"Hmm… If it were up to me, I'd deal with you while Master is away. Unfortunately, that would only upset him…"

Isabel felt the sincerity in those words and a full-body chill ran down her spine.

"Hey. So are you coming or not. Decide. Now."

"Naturally, wherever the master goes, the servant follows. To even ask something so obvious… it seems your faith is still lacking."

…I really do have to get this psycho away from Oppa.

Isabel thought it, and for a moment she felt pathetic — stuck at a mere 8th Tier.