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.
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.
"I have done everything the other ascetics do—more painfully than they! Why haven't I earned High Priestess Yulis's approval?!"
"The Goddess said the more pain we shoulder, the less pain there will be in the world; I've shouldered more than the others—so why won't they let me conduct a Reenactment?!"
Reenactment?
Shaer's interest finally sparked. She flipped ahead a few pages.
"Yulis has been promoted to Grand Priestess. Some emergency, it seems. She's finally been transferred away from this parish. The new High Priestess passed my priest trials easily. I knew my efforts would be recognized."
"The new High Priestess taught me to place the spiritual mark. At last I don't have to hide my spiritual notes."
Flip.
"I received the ascetic's Reenactment potion. Time to show the Goddess my results."
Flip.
"Why… did it fail?"
Flip, flip, flip—the handwriting grew messier by the day. Shaer could scarcely make it out.
Flip.
"So the doctrine was wrong… not me."
"If the world's pain is fixed in sum, then kill those who inflict pain on others and the world's pain will lessen. The potion is missing something. I know… the Goddess told me… a new path called 'Avenger'…"
"They don't understand me… I must find another place to complete my Reenactment."
Chapter 10 — Fraud and the Church of the Savior Goddess
The notes were packed with trifles, practically laying bare the daily mental shifts of a believer becoming clergy.
And those unnerving, frenzied lines ended when the man named Duwen went off to seek the "true" Reenactment. The notebook simply stopped.
It wasn't the black-robed man's journal. Its author was a mutilated man with both ears cut off. Through these diary-like "research notes," Shaer peeled back a hidden corner of this world.
Shaer knew the Church of the Savior Goddess. Two years ago, when she was searching for the extraordinary, she had listened in on their prayers for a time.
She had noticed nothing strange then—only that parts of the doctrine felt vaguely Buddhist, for a monotheistic church.
From Duwen's research notes, she learned that even the Church's believers and pastors knew nothing of the extraordinary; the Church itself ran like any ordinary church.
To touch the extraordinary, one had to be chosen as an attendant, then pass the trials to become a priest; only then did the Church reveal its mysteries.
Duwen, in these notes, had been only an ordinary believer—until some extraordinary event, it seemed, led him to skip the pastorate and be chosen directly as an attendant.
But on that path of ascesis, the eager, arrogant Duwen strayed from the Church's doctrine and took another road.
Shaer leafed through again; finding nothing else of value, she opened "Thomas's Diary."
This one, she realized, belonged to the black-robed man.
"Diary — Thomas"
"If the church traitor's record was right, a person's diary can help a Reenactment proceed. I have no priest to check my work, so I don't know if writing does anything—but I'll write anyway."
The flyleaf held Thomas's thoughts. What followed surprised Shaer.
He had been a bandit—roaming villages across Ansu to rob and kill.
He used a kindly face and a silver tongue to earn trust, then once inside a home, he would rob and murder—targeting the weak and solitary: the old, the women.
This was his own account. He began this diary because of his last murder.
Near Bolen, he found a man in fine clothes—gravely injured and at death's door.
To earn his trust, Thomas treated the wounds and hid the man in an abandoned house for a time.
In the end—his wounds worsening, Thomas's feigned kindness wearing him down—the man revealed his hideout in the city and begged Thomas to take him there.
That man was Duwen, author of the research notes—a priest.
What came next went without saying.
Thomas killed him in his townhouse, looted everything of value—including three potions and a complete Reenactment.
One full "Avenger" potion, and two half-finished "Instigator" brews. These were what Duwen had obtained after he stopped writing notes.
The glimpse of the extraordinary thrilled Thomas. He pored over everything Duwen had left, found research on the Instigator, and in it, a detailed Reenactment.
A Reenactment was reenacting a deed of the divine—drink the potion to fuse—and gain power.
It was a path to walk again the road to godhood.
After wrestling with it, Thomas chose the "Instigator," because its ritual was complete—and because it fit him: incitement was his specialty.
The Instigator's ritual was simple—drink a potion, then incite others: to kill, to crime. The greater the impact, the better the digestion.
At the critical moment, before a major crime he had instigated, he was to drink the potion and let events run their course, digesting the brew.
When it ended, the potion would fuse with him, and he would become truly extraordinary.
His early trials had nothing to do with Shaer.
But the last one did.
For six months he used the potion's initial charm, making the Blackwater boss believe he possessed the Avenger's ritual—and goading him to kill, again and again.
His final ritual was to have the boss kill his own nephew and then the one who killed the nephew—then drink the Avenger potion.
Thomas had made the entire thing up. He had no idea how the Avenger truly worked; Duwen's research said nothing of it.
His goal in having the boss drink the Avenger brew was simple: under a false ritual, the potion would derange him—turn him into an irrational, extraordinary killer.
Once that demon formed, Thomas's Instigator potion would finish digesting—and he would become a true transcendent.
"Whew…"
Shaer let out a long breath.
Now she finally knew why she had been dragged into all of this.
A string of betrayals and lies. She had been nothing but a pawn—meant to be sacrificed at will.
She hadn't found a second "Instigator" potion in the simulation; likely Thomas had already drunk it, and when she killed him, what precipitated in his blood was a full spiritual material.
Fortunately, she now knew all of it in advance. She was still in the dark; the enemy knew nothing about her.
With new intel, her options multiplied.
For instance: the Church of the Savior Goddess.
If she handed these two notebooks to one of the Church's transcendents, she might not even need to act. The matter could be resolved perfectly.
The hard part would be explaining the source of the notes—and finding a transcendent at all.
And whether reaching for the Church's extraordinary tier might place her in danger.
Rest for a while?
No. Shaer dismissed the thought.
She knew that at 4:45 a.m., Thomas and Solari would be at The Hammer on West Street—and Solari would be in no state to fight. If she wanted to kill them, the pre-dawn window was best. In the sim, all she had to do was polish the details.
She would run one more simulation—and try not to use Death Reversal. If the window fell before 4:45 a.m., she'd strike first; if after, she'd go to the Church. If she couldn't reach them, she'd hunt her chance within the sim's day.
She was certain her killing would be cleaner this time—more decisive—leaving the other side no gaps.
She opened the Simulation interface. New random times appeared.
"Future: 1 h (Saint 741, June 17, 19:46) (Cost: 10 Fate Points)"
"Past: 3 Days (Saint 741, June 14, 7:30) (Cost: 100 Fate Points)"
"Old Days: ***, *** Days (???) (Cost: 10,000 Fate Points)"
An hour later?
She hadn't expected a window so close to now.
Close enough that the Church wouldn't be closed—she could probe there first, then refine the assassination.
That fit her plan perfectly.
Shaer laid the two notebooks atop her own, lay back, and closed her eyes.
"The Future."
White light swallowed her.
Chapter 11 — Offer the Savior Goddess a Double Benediction (Part 1)
"Future"
"Saint 741, June 17, 19:46"
"Countdown — 23:59:59"
Shaer opened her eyes to a familiar ceiling and the silver-white screen fading away.
She pushed herself upright. In the sim, she'd slept an hour; her mind was still weary, but her body felt a little less so.
She took up her canvas tote, slipped the two redeemed notebooks inside, and left her own notebook where it was.
This run was only an hour offset from reality—no need to log the "missing" time. She'd been asleep.
She threw on the new black cloak and hid the knife and three-shot revolver in the bag.
Ready, she left the house, locked the door, and headed straight for the match factory where her sister worked.
She pretended there was no tail—no attempts to hide her trail—so as not to spook the watcher.
All she needed was to make her behavior look reasonable.
Two blocks later, she reached the factory. Workers who had finished supper were chatting in twos and threes outside, waiting for the bell.
She spotted the blonde figure at the gate—back to her—gesturing in heated motions at three men, like she was angry.
Shaer quickened—then, as she drew near, relaxed. No one was bullying her sister.
The three big men hung their heads like chicks, nodding to Liqi's scolding.
"What do you mean 'she vanished in a blink'? So she went home then…"
One of them glanced past Liqi and spotted Shaer, giving a small reminder. Liqi turned, surprised.
"Little Shaer?" She hurried over, took Shaer's hand, and led her away from the factory. "It stinks here. What are you doing here?"
The matchworks' air was vicious. Even at a distance, Shaer could smell the strong, acrid phosphorus—scent that evoked rot and corrosion.
"I told you to wear a mask, didn't I?" Shaer fixed her eyes on Liqi's.
She had sewn several cotton masks for Liqi, knowing they wouldn't do much—yet better than nothing.
Long-term phosphorus vapor exposure could rot the jaw: "phossy jaw," common among match workers—ending in necrosis of the mandible, even death.
In this era, there was no cure. That was why Shaer was desperate to find work first, not university—so she could get Liqi out.
"They haven't started yet." Liqi just shrugged, easygoing as ever, and smiled at Shaer, as if none of it mattered.
With little schooling and little sense of occupational hazards, Liqi felt no urgency. If others could do it, so could she.
"I'm going to the Clocktower District Savior Church," Shaer said.
She'd come to check in for two reasons: so Liqi wouldn't worry if she went home early and couldn't find her, and so the tail wouldn't get suspicious.
A girl who never went to church suddenly going? Something must be up.
But if she spoke with Liqi—a believer—first, the tail who couldn't hear would fill in the blanks on his own. Less chance of spooking him.
"Oh… huh? You're going to church?" Liqi nodded, pinched Shaer's cheek with a grin. "Good. Say hello to Pastor Maier for me."
In Clocktower District, the Savior Church was the biggest by far—the one most workers believed in.
They handed out food, and on rest days you could even get a few pennies for attending prayers. Most importantly—they had won the workers their 6:30 bell and the ninety-minute rest after.
The massive clocktower that dominated the district had been built by the Church; it was part of the parish itself. Every evening at 6:30, it rang to remind factory owners to give that rest.
Liqi was a believer—and had taken Shaer to services several times. But when Shaer found no pastors casting holy light, she'd lost interest.
She was, after all, an atheist.
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