The Outer God Needs Warmth

Chapter 7

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?

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.