I’m not asleep!

Sure, I’m wearing pajamas, curled up, my eyes are closed, and most sensory signals aren’t reaching my brain.

Wait...

Does that mean I’m actually asleep? But no, I’m clearly wide awake. Even with reduced input from Rebecca Rolf’s body, only five or six out of hundreds of possible sensory channels are cut off.

Something about my state feels off.

While lying still and breathing evenly, I’m observing everything around me from above—like a third-person perspective.

When Rebecca was awake, it felt like I was immersed in a computer game, fully engaged.

Now, it’s like taking a break from gaming, sitting back from the computer and glancing at my phone instead. That’s how I’m watching Joanna Smith.

Bit by bit, I’m learning more about myself.

I know I’m strange, but could it be that my functions have expanded?

Getting smarter, more beautiful, or handsome—those are classic tropes for reincarnation stories. Sure, I’ve only seen them in fiction, but don’t stories need elements that provide catharsis by contrasting with reality?

But this isn’t fiction.

It’s reality.

Yet, it feels unnervingly unreal. My only true reality is this pervasive cold.

That’s why I crave more warmth.

As I linger in this thought, Hieronymus enters the room. He inches toward me hesitantly, like someone approaching a sleeping wild animal.

Jumping up and screaming would be amusing, but that would be crossing the line, wouldn’t it?

If I startled him, he might lash out, and this body I’m inhabiting could get damaged again.

For now, I suppress my hunger for the warmth presented before me. I can endure the cold a little longer.

Those long, idle moments of gazing at lights without being able to reach them have helped me develop patience.

Where did I hear this before?

Hunting and farming both require patience.

Hunting involves studying prey, finding their path, and lying in ambush. But more than half the time, you fail and have to start again.

Farming demands long labor just to eat—planting seeds, guarding against countless threats, and harvesting only after an arduous wait. Even then, success depends on luck.

Patience and luck go hand in hand.

To minimize risk, you need information.

For now, I’ll bide my time and stay quiet.

Is Hieronymus just checking on me and leaving? If he had taken further action, I might’ve reconsidered my opinion of him.

It can’t be helped.

Let’s keep it at mutual exploitation.

Meanwhile, in a distant room, Joanna Smith stands, staring awkwardly at her blue-hued hand.

She repeatedly flexes a single finger, fascinated, as if amazed it’s even there. It must have been missing before.

Standing before a battered mirror, she examines her reflection with wide eyes. Through her gaze, I see her.

It feels like looking at a picture within a picture within a picture.

Judging by the drag marks on the floor, she hadn’t used this mirror before. Based on her memories, it’s likely she didn’t want to see herself.

But now things are different.

Joanna marvels at her transformed appearance, her expression filled with joy. Every so often, she starts to say something but stops herself.

Huh?

Unfortunately, I can’t read her thoughts directly, so I have no idea what she’s trying to say.

However, by observing her words, gaze, actions, and body language, I can infer her thoughts. They call this cold reading.

It’s the art of deducing someone’s thoughts based on their unconscious physical behaviors. It’s a technique used in cults, businesses, and even by people considered naturally sociable.

Joanna mutters a single phrase.

It’s the command Hieronymus gave her earlier.

“Become a warrior of faith and serve the one who blessed you.”

Hmm. Simple.

And effective as motivation.

It’s not hard to figure out what she thinks of me.

Faith. Devotion.

People are unpredictable in these matters, but for now, that’s her stance.

She focuses on the latter part of the command, but the truly important part lies in the beginning: use a tempting bait to command obedience.

Until now, that bait had been an intangible blessing from an imaginary god. But now, she has received a physical blessing.

Thus, she’s chosen the path of a warrior of faith—a role that turns faith into a weapon capable of killing others.

This situation mirrors ancient assassin cults perfectly. They used hallucinogens to induce ecstasy, promising eternal pleasure in paradise if their followers obeyed. The assassins, fearless of death, carried out their missions.

Even dying was acceptable because paradise awaited them.

The surrounding environment ensures there’s no room for doubt. The cult’s structure inherently suppresses skepticism about paradise or its leaders.

Everyone around her shares the same belief system. With masked faces, forming deep relationships is nearly impossible.

This drives a stronger yearning for connection with higher-ranking figures. Individuality is only expressed through masks and uniform patterns.

To gain individuality, one must demonstrate even greater loyalty.

How vile.

A truly insidious cult. But since I’ve decided to use this place as a feeding ground, I’ll adapt.

Before judging their morality, I need to ensure my survival.

After donning a mask and a hooded robe that covered her entirely, Joanna headed to the training grounds for warriors of faith.

No one had to show her the way.

She knew the layout of this underground hideout from cleaning it thoroughly. Thanks to her, I now possessed its entire map.

Heh heh.

I even know all the secret passages.

People had dismissed her as a shabby old woman—a presence so negligible she was treated like a cleaning robot: ignored when present and forgotten when absent.

That neglect allowed her to access every area. Did you know? She even maintained escape routes, checking for collapsed sections and faulty lighting.

Of course, those tasks weren’t originally hers. Someone else was supposed to handle them—a person of higher rank within the cult who found menial work distasteful.

Human error at its finest. Security’s greatest enemy isn’t its complexity but the people using it.

As Joanna walked, I sifted through her memories.

Between Joanna’s perspective and mine, I wondered what Hieronymus was doing, but without sight of him, I focused on her.

She arrived at the training grounds, a noisy space filled with warriors of faith. Among them were individuals who had been present during my summoning, as well as neatly arranged armor on one side.

An instructor yelled at a line of nearly naked trainees standing in strained positions, lashing them with a whip.

From his words, it seemed they had caused danger near the leader’s chambers or acted without orders. He spoke of collective punishment.

But his fear of personal accountability was evident. Joanna, familiar with the scene, showed no reaction. She had witnessed this often.

She didn’t pity the abused trainees, knowing they would inflict the same on those below them once the instructor left.

Joanna had always avoided such situations by tactfully retreating.

She was both a victim of abuse and a perpetrator of it—a wretched person shaped by misery.

Happiness allows morality, but for someone living in hell, virtue becomes a luxury.

That’s why acts of goodness by the unfortunate carry such value—they’re miracles.

But here, there were no miracles.

Only wicked people speaking to each other.

Joanna explained her intention to become a warrior of faith as ordered by Hieronymus. A faint trace of jealousy and suspicion flickered across the instructor’s face. He glanced around, trying to identify her.

Unsurprisingly, he didn’t recognize her.

He asked her name, but even after she answered, he was none the wiser.

She had always been a background NPC—an unremarkable figure without quests to offer.

Assuming she was a newcomer, the instructor introduced himself. Joanna, however, already knew who he was.

He called over one of the trainees he’d been whipping and proposed a test of skill, urging Joanna to fight.

To my surprise, she accepted calmly.

Despite her physical recovery and violet skin, she hadn’t shown any extraordinary strength. I had been observing through her perspective, but she hadn’t tested her newfound abilities.

Neither I nor the instructor, nor even her opponent, knew what to expect.

The instructor gave the signal to begin.

Her opponent lunged, aiming a kick at her head from her blind spot.

Clang!

Her mask shattered.

It must have hurt, yet Joanna’s body showed no fear-driven reflexes, accepting the hit with unnerving composure.

She didn’t even touch the spot where she was struck.

Another kick followed, but this time, her gaze fixated slightly below her opponent’s eyes.

For a brief moment, her focus shifted to the incoming kick, then back down. She raised her hand and blocked it.

The impact shattered her wrist, but strangely, there was no pain. Instead, as the broken bones regenerated, she seized her opponent’s leg and pulled him toward her, plunging her other hand into his chest.

Not his heart.

Physically, it seemed like she had missed the heart or struck the center of his torso.

But I could see it clearly.

She targeted his light.

When her hand touched the light, warmth flooded into me.

Heh. Heheheh.

This... this is the joy of automated hunting!

I didn’t have to do anything, yet warmth came to me. Incredible!

Joanna nonchalantly wiped the blood from her hands, dismissing it as nothing. The instructor looked horrified, and the other warriors pointed weapons at her.

But none of that mattered.

Aha.

I’d discovered a new method.

A usable method.

If I could, I’d unleash myself indiscriminately. But first, I’d need to negotiate with Hieronymus, who had appeared as though he’d been watching all along.

I need warmth.