ITITPS 14

Chapter : 14

A deafening roar burst forth as a wave of pure-white holy power split the core cleanly in two.

[The player has shattered Crack’s core.]

[Returning to reality.]

With a sky-blue notification, the space I was standing in shattered to pieces.

I looked down at my arms, still engulfed in flames.

“Truly magnificent swordsmen! When next we meet, Hero, I shall be sure to ask your name!”

To Lef—who pursued the Way of the Sword and loved battling the strong—that was the highest praise he could give.

With a booming laugh, Lef vanished back into the darkness.

All that remained was Crack’s destruction. Pieces of the space glittered with special effects as they scattered, announcing an ambiguous victory.

[Warning! HP is near 0. Exercise caution to survive.]

I was still dazed and basking in my achievement when a shrill warning window went off.

Only then did I realize the flames on my arms were still burning my flesh.

This is why turning pain settings off is bad. But leaving them on isn’t realistic either—Rezondesert’s injury levels are ridiculously high.

With my recent heart condition, I might just die of shock.

Grumbling, I rolled on the ground.

Thanks to Lef, the spellcaster, moving away, the fire soon went out.

[Mikael’s affection +20]

Whoa. That’s huge.

Taking the hit instead of Mikael was worth it.

If I can charm that sadistic mastermind to this extent, I’m getting a good deal.

“Are you all right, Your Highness?”

Feeling pleased, I reached out a hand to help Mikael up—but froze. My arms had been mosaic-blurred.

Too gruesome to pass the preset content filter, apparently.

If I showed this to Mikael—who loved all things beautiful—my affection points would plummet. I withdrew my hand.

Instead, I wrapped both mosaic-blurred arms in the white cape on my back.

Even if it got stained with blood and flesh, it would return to normal—it was a cash shop item, after all.

Anyway… shutdown time was getting close. I was staring at my daily time limit with only a minute left.

“Th-that wound—”

Mikael parted his lips with effort, his voice cracked and strangled.

“Hm? Don’t worry about it. Once I get healed it’ll all be fine.”

“……”

No really, I’m fine—what worries me more is the backlash when combat buffs deactivate in a moment.

[Combat buffs ending.]

[Warning! HP below baseline.]

“Guh!”

Right on cue, my avatar coughed up blood from internal damage. As I irritably stared at the blood on my hand, Mikael shouted frantically.

“Anastasia!”

Ah—too late. My body sagged. A blue window filled my vision.

[Daily usage exceeded 14 hours.]

[Forced logout under preset restrictions.]

I was kicked out without even a one-second grace period.

Come to think of it, I barely ever log out voluntarily these days.

“Flan! Water, please!”

—Your game session time is too long lately, Master.

The purifier kicked on by itself and filled a glass. The black-cat-skinned AI hologram, Flan, scampered up to me, chattering.

Hard to believe the AI that seemed like a ten-year-old when I brought it home now nags at me. Guess I’ve lived a long, weird life.

Half listening, I replayed what happened moments ago.

A twenty-point jump in affection—at once.

Rezondesert’s main appeal is love blooming through battle, but I’d thought +5 was already lucky.

Pain doesn’t exist in-game anyway—if I can throw myself at damage to raise affection? Totally worth it.

While I changed my sweat-soaked sheets, Flan reminded me of something I’d forgotten.

—You have a hospital appointment in one hour. You need to leave now to be on time.

“Got it. Pick out clothes for going out.”

Ugh… but what choice do I have?

You go to the doctor when you’re told. I forced my sluggish body upright.

It’d been a while since I felt the outdoor breeze. The outfit Flan suggested was neither too warm nor too light.

[Please show your ID.]

A pleasant voice chimed from the kiosk at the entrance. I held up the barcode printed on my wrist, and the locked door opened with a cheerful beep.

A, B, C, D, E—five designations, set at birth. Your residence marks your status and social standing.

Only people in B-zone or below have the permanent wrist barcode.

It’s the mark dividing A-zone’s privileged elite from us—child-factory products.

One colleague despises the barcode on their arm. I never have.

Honestly? It feels kind of convenient.

[Please wait in Lobby 1.]

Because I arrived a little early, I still had about twenty minutes.

I managed to grab a seat in the crowded waiting hall. Sitting down, I pulled out my pocket terminal and opened its hologram screen to handle overdue tasks.

With limited information access, I used my class privileges to get ahead—just a little.

If you want to rest when others work, work when others rest. My fast processing ability is pretty much my whole reason to exist.

I blinked a few times and pages flickered past instantly.

[Patient Irina, please enter Exam Room 2.]

Click. I switched the terminal off and followed the guide robot into the exam room.

I’d done the full check-up last time; today I’d get the results.

“Ah, been a while.”

“I came in last week.”

“Unlike you, I see dozens of patients a day. Must be a perception thing.”

My doctor, Stefan, gave me a crooked smile.

He was teasing me for my shut-in lifestyle, but since it was true, it didn’t sting.

And I got why he said it—last time he nagged me to exercise, and here I was, still living like this.

Seeing I wasn’t reacting, Stefan fell silent.

He typed something on his hologram screen—stuff I couldn’t make sense of—then turned to his desk.

“All right. I’ve gone over the results.”

He flipped through my file, nodding.

His calm expression made me relax—guess it wasn’t serious.

“You have three months.”

…Huh?

I stared blankly at him, not expecting that at all.

“…What?”

“You have three months left to live.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

I shot to my feet at the absurd pronouncement.

Stefan stayed seated, unbothered—as if he’d expected my reaction. That only scrambled my brain more.

“My expected lifespan was fifty-five! Three months?! I’m still in my twenties!”

“Programmer-types are usually built to last that long. You would’ve made it to sixty, roughly—if nothing had gone wrong. If nothing.”

Words deserted me. I just stood there stupidly as he turned the screen toward me.

“See this?”

“…See what?”

“A comparison between your genome and the average among other programmer-borns.”

Like that meant anything to me. I glared at the display, annoyed. Stefan pointed at several regions.

“Here. Your genetic strands are much shorter than your peers’. The unexplained cardiovascular issues you’ve had? This fits a genetic defect perfectly.”

He hesitated, then added in a consoling tone,

“…Some overly curious researcher probably meddled with something during fabrication.”

“God dammit!”

Of course that didn’t comfort me one bit.

I hadn’t prepared myself for anything like this.

I’m a B-zone elite. We’re guaranteed healthy lives—cradle to grave.

Or so I thought.

Except for… this garbage.

Boiling rage rose up at the sheer unfairness of it all.

Modern society—mass-producing children in factories, unless you’re a privileged A-zone.

I knew the stories. Genetic defects, mishandled sequences, some kid ends up with a disease, or a limb malformation—stories, rumors, news articles.

Common—but never around me.

Bad things that happened to someone else.

Never to me.

And suddenly, here I was.

“…Can’t you treat it? What even got messed up?”

“By regulation, I can’t tell you that.”

His firm reply made me sink back into the chair.

As a programmer, I had more access than regular citizens—but not to specialist data outside my remit.

Even if it was about me.

Rules are rules.

“And with what I, a B-zone physician, know… there is no treatment for this defect.”

“So A-zone does have a way?”

“They don’t have this problem at all. They’re not factory-born.”

I listened, strength draining out of me.

B-zone is the highest tier below the true elite—people with single-person homes, cars, proper medical care, even luxuries like VR games.

If it can’t be fixed here, it might as well be a death sentence.

“I’ll prescribe some opioid painkillers and medication to slow progression… And…”

“…”

“I’m truly… sorry.”

Leaving that faintly sympathetic apology behind, I fled the exam room.