It hurt.
Why, why, why did it hurt so damned much?
That searing memory felt like molten lava pouring into his veins, like sharp nails driven into his bone marrow, like a red-hot branding iron through his eyes straight into his brain. The agony turned his mind upside down. He couldn't even think, "I regret accepting this memory," because the pain was so extreme it shredded his rationality and scattered his thoughts. As the flood of memory overwhelmed his vision, his body collapsed to the ground, writhing and thrashing—pushed beyond any limit he could bear.
The memories were far too vivid—so vivid he felt present in them. Blazing tongues of fire charred his skin into blackened ash; the sickening smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. Realizing that smell came from his own body made him want to scream. But when he opened his mouth, the pain robbed him of even that ability. In reality, his eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, his arms and legs flailing in the air like a drowning man. Tears and snot mixed on his face and collar, smeared unconsciously onto the floor.
Yet the cruelest part was that the figure in the memory never stopped moving. He kept stepping forward, still gripping that flaming greatsword—the very weapon inflicting this torture—and each swing sent another wave of agony through his hands. Under such torment, his nervous system should have forced him to black out to avoid dying from pure pain, but the forced memory transmission kept him horrifyingly awake, and the system's safeguard held his life together, compelling him to endure the full ordeal. Every second felt like an eternity.
Finally, with a massive explosion, the towering dark silhouette was driven back by flames; endless darkness was swallowed by fire—and in that instant, the agony peaked. Then a tidal wave of seawater rushed in, engulfing him. The cold water filled his lungs; suffocation followed. Vaguely, he even felt a strange relief, as if returning to where he belonged. As the memory ended—and Guinevere's simulated self lost consciousness from drowning—the unbearable torment ceased. At that very moment, the protection forcing him to stay conscious snapped away, and his fraying awareness broke like a snapped string.
Who knows how many hours passed? When Guinevere finally regained consciousness, the first things he noticed were the cold, hard ground beneath him and the taste of dust and dirt in his mouth and nose. Then came the stiff, dry residue across his face and neck—dried mucus pulling tight. He sat there in a daze for minutes before his rigid mind slowly restarted processing information, and he remembered where he was. Recalling that excruciating memory made his body tremble uncontrollably. With hands shaking like leaves, he covered his face. Only then did his voice return:
"—Ah… ahhh…"
Terrifying. So terrifying. That memory was horrifying—how could it hurt like that? Why was it so painful? His scattered thoughts converged on a single emotion: fear. Then relief and lingering dread washed over him. Thank goodness he hadn't drawn the "Star-Chasing Knight" memory. Even a single instance of being burned by heavenly fire was already so dreadful—if it had been tens of thousands of deaths… the person named Guinevere would've been erased. Even a simulation limited to visuals and sounds, replayed ten thousand times, would feel like a maddening prison sentence. If each death had real pain added… just imagining it made him shiver.
No wonder the Savior Holy Swordbearer could ascend to Heroic Spirit status. The gap between that being and the real Guinevere was immense. The real Guinevere didn't actually feel any of that pain; he'd treated it like a game, stubbornly grinding through brutal challenges. But the simulated version truly fought, every second on the knife's edge of life and death—his nostrils filled with the smell of blood, sweat stinging his eyes—yet still facing the blade that brought soul-wrenching agony. What kind of ordeal was that? Just thinking about it churned his stomach. How could anyone endure it? If he hadn't regarded it as merely a game, Guinevere would never have made it through. Who could repeatedly face such torture as if nothing happened?
Only now did he realize: salvation isn't clicking through a simulator like play-acting. It's something grave and real, demanding you risk life and future, upheld by steadfast resolve.
At that moment, someone pounded on his door. An impatient voice shouted from outside: "Hey, Guinevere, what's going on? Do you know what time it is? Why aren't you out patrolling yet? Still sleeping in, you bastard?!" Even long after the shouting stopped, Guinevere sat there dazed and unresponsive. Finally, the voice muttered, "What's the deal? Did he already head out? Where's that newcomer off to? Lady Aurora was so kind to give him lodging, and he dares skip duty? Unforgivable," then walked away.
—Only then did Guinevere break free from the dreamlike haze of the simulation. Yeah… why had he been pondering salvation? That grand, grueling mission belonged to true heroes, not to him, a nondescript city guard in Salisbury. Right now, he should worry about how to face his furious squad leader. Wait—no. Glancing at his packed belongings, he corrected himself: what he truly needed to worry about was how a humble guard could survive after offending the Lord of Darlington—Fairy Knight Tristan. Miserable.
Just moments ago in the simulation, he'd been King of Britain, a legendary savior. Now he was back to being nothing. —No, correction: back to being a guard painfully aware of his insignificance and fragility, and the yawning gap between him and real heroes. The contrast made him want to puke. After a few more seconds sitting stunned, he suddenly sprang to his feet.
He felt awful, but now was not the time for self-pity. He had to get ready to run—one last check of his gear. He quickly scanned the room, then returned to the nightstand:
"…Man, I really want a Pocky stick." He grabbed a long biscuit, popped it in his mouth, and stowed the rest in his bag, muttering: back home he'd been an average otaku; here, he was still just an average guard. A mediocre person is mediocre wherever he goes. If that's the case, better to stay in the old life where at least he could eat Pocky.
As he packed, something on the table caught his eye: a metal emblem with a weird design—like a chrysanthemum sprouting three tentacle-like stems, two curling like question marks. "I still haven't thrown this away?" He picked it up and examined it. He'd found it when he first arrived here, thinking it might be a "golden finger." But over a month had passed with no sign of use; appraisers said it had no magical aura. He'd dismissed that at first, but now, having obtained real powers elsewhere, he wondered if maybe it truly was worthless. Still, he pocketed it: even if junk, it wasn't heavy, and the uneasy revulsion it stirred hinted it might matter. Better to keep it.
Interrupted by that thought, another surfaced: "Back in the last simulation, when I met Fairy Tristan again, she didn't show clear hostility toward me. According to the epilogue, she tried to kill me over a thousand times but never actually did. Maybe running away now is overkill?" Tristan, though ruthless, didn't seem scheming—her feelings were plain to read. And throughout the fourth simulation, she hadn't openly targeted him. Could it be she actually bore him no great grudge?
But that idea collapsed: in the fourth run she'd turned on Beryl immediately—unlike the third, where they'd been allies until the end—which meant she'd gone through earlier simulations. If so, and she still didn't kill him… maybe his actions in the fourth genuinely improved her impression. After all, he'd even saved her life from Beryl once.
Then, with whatever lingering grudge she might have had, she wouldn't travel from Darlington to Salisbury just to cause him trouble. If that's true… maybe he didn't have to run at all?
Relief washed over him; he flopped onto the bed, feeling a huge weight lift. "…But why do I feel like I'm forgetting something?" Two seconds later, he shot upright: "Damn! Altria's arriving in Salisbury in the next few days, right?!"