The half-human, half-ghost look across from her made Shaer wonder whether the gun and blade in her hands could even inflict real harm.
In that moment of hesitation, the black-robed man propped himself up with one hand and, trembling, spoke:
"Wait… madam… milady!"
"I… I have a complete set of Reenactment notes and a potion. I can give them to you—my ignorant apology!"
He slowly raised his head. Yellowed sclera and vacant pupils met Shaer's gaze—and the instant their eyes locked, her brain rang like a struck bell.
"Blaide is just a sacrifice for my Reenactment. I only incited him and let him act on his own. I didn't expect him to set you as the target."
"This potion is nothing more than what I used to incite Blaide. If you require it…"
"The potion and the notes are yours…"
His voice echoed in Shaer's skull. In her vision, everything blurred into blocks of color—the only clear thing was that face, its surface slowly pushed up by budding flesh.
The muttering in her head grew louder, drowning out thought. Her limbs began to stiffen; she could no longer feel them clearly.
What… is this power?
Is this… the extraordinary?
Potion… notes… Reenactment… incitement…
The words struggled to reassemble in her mind.
Even the color blocks in her sight began to twist, leaving only that horrifying face strobing in view—each flicker seeming several steps closer than the last.
No… I have to make my body move…
Alarm blared in her mind. As the face drew near, a ghastly vision rose unbidden: flesh-buds tearing through his cheeks, barbed tendrils spearing out to gnaw her own.
And… a skill…
Death… Reversal…
With the last of her strength, Shaer pulled the trigger of the pistol pressed to her own temple.
"Bang—!"
The hammer smashed the primer. Black powder bloomed into choking smoke, hurling the slug from the muzzle. Muzzle-flash singed the hair by her ear as the bullet punched into her skull and churned her brain.
The shot cracked like thunder in her ears. The whispers and droning vanished in that single bolt.
As blood and brain spattered from her head, the world snapped back into focus.
She saw the black-robed man clutching his wound, limping toward her.
On his face, the flesh-buds strained to rip the skin and break free. She could even see blood seeping from his eye and a barbed nub of flesh poking out.
Terror and agony didn't make Shaer break. Instead, she fell into a calm like that of the dead.
Under the robed man's shocked stare, she lifted her empty revolver and tossed it aside. With her right hand she surged in, blade flashing, and—boosted by her newfound agility—slashed across his neck.
She ignored the spurt of sooty blood soaking her. She hacked again, and again, at his throat. Even as the flesh-buds on his face burst out in a frenzy, she showed no sign of stopping.
She was already a dead person. And if so, there was nothing left to fear.
"Shhk—shhk—"
Viscous black blood splattered across the floor. Under those full-force blows, his neck was almost severed—held by a mere thread of skin and flesh.
Life had already fled him. His slack skin drooped once more; the tumors atop his skull ruptured, spilling black blood and a scatter of translucent egg-like things. Beside him, a flesh-colored tendril slowly congealed in the pooled blood, quietly shedding a pink glow.
Shaer stopped. No heartbeat. No breath. Confronted with the carnage, she felt no fear at all; her dark red eyes were losing focus by the moment.
Control over her body slipped; her consciousness began to drift.
Is the simulation ending…? The thought flickered through her mind.
I wonder if killing them earned enough Fate Points… I'm dead now anyway, so it probably won't be much…
Right… the potion…
With stiff motions, she slit open the black robe and drew out a black, translucent vial. What filled it wasn't a liquid so much as a bottleful of roiling vapor.
Beyond the potion, she found two notebooks and took them in her left hand, planning to stash them in the shop when the simulation ended.
Suddenly, something at the edge of her vision caught her eye: the flesh-colored tendril lying in the blood. She slowly extended her right hand, lifted it on the knife tip, and—with effort—pushed herself up to stand.
Mm…
Her thoughts dragged; her ability to think dropped sharply.
She stared dully at the tentacle balanced on the blade. One question turned over and over in her mind.
Can I send this into the system shop without direct contact—just through the knife?
It probably needs touch…
But my left hand is full, and my right is holding the knife. If I let go, I'll never pick it up again…
She raised the blade, little by little bringing the pink tendril toward her mouth.
Touched… good…
"AaAAAAAAAAAAH—!"
A hysterical scream burst from the tavern door.
Thoughtless now, Shaer awkwardly twisted her head toward the sound.
She froze in that cocked posture.
This dead-still street began to boil with that one, long scream.
Like this arc? Keep reading ahead—50+ early chapters are waiting at [email protected]/rosavyn.
Chapter 9 — Lifting the Veil of the Extraordinary
"Reality"
"Saint 741, June 17, 18:45"
"Evaluation: Combat! Thrilling!"
"Back-to-back kills on two grown men stronger than you, plus a near-transcendent. Cornered and catching them unprepared, you exploded with strength even you didn't expect!"
"Take it. You earned this."
"Rewards: Fate Points ×20, [Precognitive Sight Lv.1], [Cool-Headed Thinking Lv.1]"
"Fate Points: 24"
"Hah—"
On a rickety iron bed, a red-haired girl jerked upright as if suffocating in a dream, clutching her chest and gasping.
Shaer drank in the fresh air, slowly pulling free of the icy suffocation from moments before.
Compared to instant death, the experience of "Death Reversal"—the slow seep of heat and thought—carried a more helpless despair.
Without lingering to calm down, Shaer lifted her eyes to the flickering silver screen before her.
"Twenty…"
She exhaled and rubbed her temples.
This run's payout more than doubled the first two combined. Clearly, her burn-the-boats approach wasn't wrong.
Only after confirming she'd earned enough for another simulation did she examine the new skills.
Everything she'd gained so far—[Dexterity] and [Death Reversal]—had helped immensely.
Without Dexterity, with her old body she might not even have killed the first tail, let alone fought what came after.
And Death Reversal had paid off as well. Without the clear-headed snapback it gave her, the black robe might have consumed her; she wouldn't have gotten the vial, the notes, or that strange tendril.
Descriptions of the new abilities rose on the screen:
"Precognitive Sight Lv.1: Passive. Allows you to see the state of all things one second into the future."
"Cool-Headed Thinking Lv.1: You can remain cool-headed under more extreme conditions."
She nodded slightly.
These skills reflected what she'd done in the simulation—just as the system had implied from the start. She ran the first time and got [Dexterity]; she faced death head-on and got [Death Reversal].
In the last run, for reasons she couldn't name, she'd anticipated the black robe's attempt to consume her—thus [Precognitive Sight].
[Cool-Headed Thinking], on the other hand, felt like a general reward akin to [Dexterity].
Both were invaluable. [Cool-Headed Thinking] would blunt the black robe's hypnosis-like voice; [Precognitive Sight] would let her preempt threats.
She drew her gaze from the screen and looked at her right hand. The moment she thought of lifting it, a faint ghost of movement rose a fraction ahead of the real motion.
When she quashed the impulse, the ghost collapsed—and a light, carsick dizziness washed over her mind.
So she wasn't quite adapted to this always-on passive. It would take time to mesh.
She returned to the interface and opened the Shop.
More items had appeared. Beyond cloaks and clothing, she saw exactly what she had wanted from the last run.
"[Thomas's Diary]"
"Fate Points: 1"
"[Duwen's Research Notes]"
"Fate Points: 2"
"['Avenger' Reenactment Potion]"
"Fate Points: 100"
"['Instigator' Spiritual Material]"
"Fate Points: 50"
Two notebooks, a vial of black mist—the potion—and that tendril, labeled as spiritual material.
What was an "Avenger"? And an "Instigator"?
During her exchange with the black robe, he had seemed to mistake her for a "milady" conducting a Reenactment. The system called him a "near-transcendent." So he was in the middle of a Reenactment?
Questions surged—and with them, a wave of fatigue.
She had burned through a lot of mental energy—especially when using [Death Reversal], which had sucked it away like a pump drawing water.
Still, she hadn't reached the dry, wrung-out state of the simulation. She had enough left to do a little more—just felt more drained than usual.
She was sure she'd brushed something not-of-the-ordinary in that last run. To answer her questions, redeeming those two notebooks was worth it.
To know more about the world she hadn't seen.
She exchanged for both, spending two Fate Points.
"Redeemed [Thomas's Diary] and [Duwen's Research Notes]. Spiritual markings in [Duwen's Research Notes] have been cleared."
"Remaining Fate Points: 21"
So the extra point on the research notes paid to clear the spiritual markings?
A cheap notebook much like her own and a fine black-leather-bound journal appeared at her side.
She set the plainer diary aside and, after a second's thought, opened the black leather one.
A line of blocky handwriting filled the first page:
"Reenactment Research Notes — Duwen Favali — Church of the Savior Goddess"
There was nothing else on the title page. She turned to the next.
"Like the other priests, I've begun writing spiritual notes in hopes of speeding my ascesis. I never imagined a mere believer like me could serve the Goddess. I will devote myself wholly to the Church and carry my ascesis into every corner of life. Goddess bless me that I may soon pass the trials and become a priest."
Rustle.
She turned the page. The entries that followed were trifles of church routine—nothing of note—until, at one page, she stopped.
"High Priestess Yulis caught me writing spiritual notes and scolded me in private, telling me not to overreach… But is it wrong that I want to offer the Goddess everything sooner?"
"I went to the black market to have someone put a spiritual mark on my hand. That way no one can see what I write. The black-market scribe's way of looking at people was… unpleasant."
From that point, the once-casual strokes grew firm and hard. Shaer turned the page again.
Join my [email protected]/rosavyn We do custom translations too.