The Outer God Needs Warmth

Chapter 9

Hieronymus left, claiming he had work to do.

I wasn’t sure if it was to select someone to become a harvester or to find someone capable of supplying me with warmth.

So, I turned my attention to Joanna Smith.

Based on the setting, I expected to see something akin to European-style bread, but watching Joanna cook in the kitchen felt surprisingly different.

She brought a lump of dough made by grinding grain and mixing it with water, then baked it over a fire. It resembled naan, the flatbread eaten in India. Separately, she sliced cured meat to fry and boiled dried vegetables with sauce.

It looked like a calorie-dense meal, with a bit of fruit on the side.

Judging by its appearance, the fruit seemed fresh. There must be a nearby source that supplies it.

Unfortunately, Joanna didn’t know how that system worked.

It would have been useful to understand their food supply, as that could factor into plans to increase harvesters in the future.

Food, space, and happiness management—these are standard elements of simulation games. What makes games ideal is the absence of human flaws like embezzlement, slacking, or greed. It’s not that different from reality, just tidier.

To harvest more warmth, I’d need to increase the number of harvesters, using them to gather even more warmth.

Hmm.@@@@

That’s enough for now.

Rushing things can ruin even the best-laid plans.

Back when I was human, I wasn’t particularly bright. It’s unlikely that I, even now, could pull off everything perfectly.

A small part of my mind wandered to the idea of using infected, hosts, or followers as a sort of grid computing system to enhance my intelligence...

If it’s possible, I’d try it, but using just Rebecca Rolf and Joanna Smith hasn’t made me feel any smarter.

If anything, it’s just noisier.

If the number of harvesters increases, there’s a chance I won’t be able to handle them all.

Hmm.

I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

As I was contemplating the future, Joanna entered the room with a tray of food.

She cautiously opened the door, stepped inside, and paused before walking straight toward me.

Her memories still clung to her tightly.

She entered the room carefully, avoiding being noticed, just as she had always moved through spaces where people ignored her. It reminded me of how street cleaners often go unacknowledged, even as they work right in front of people.

Now, she marveled at her elevated position and the newfound attention she received.

This pleasure is precisely what makes people in cults obsessed with climbing higher.

Humans are social animals. We find stability in social interactions. Recognition triggers rewards in the brain.

That’s why people often change when they gain higher status. Pleasure, more than pain, is what truly corrupts a person.

I’m curious to see what Joanna will become as she continues to change.

But the dark-purple light within her doesn’t suggest a positive outcome.

“Excuse me, here’s your meal,” Joanna said.

I glanced at the food she brought. It was a dish Rebecca Rolf had eaten before—nothing particularly special.

For me, it was my first meal in this body.

Knowing how to eat, I simply followed through. Yet, the taste was unlike anything I remembered. While Rebecca’s body seemed accustomed to it, the duality of perception—mine and hers—was strange and unsettling.

It felt like completing a daily quest. Does this mean I’ll need to deal with bodily waste later?

If so, I’ll ask where the restroom is.

What mattered most was whether this food could provide the warmth I sought.

Despite being served hot, eating it brought no sense of warmth. The coldness within me remained.

As expected, my need for warmth wasn’t physical.

At that moment, the door to my room opened.

Hieronymus entered, accompanied by two burly men and a younger boy.

Joanna recognized one of the men as a warrior of faith. The other man, wearing similar attire, was likely the same.

The boy, however, was bound in chains, his face and body covered in blood.

As Joanna jumped to her feet, Hieronymus gestured for her to calm down and moved her behind me.

Then, Hieronymus knelt before me.

“Lady Rebecca, as you requested, I’ve brought a sacrifice.”

At his words, the boy tried to rise, but the two men behind him forced him back down, gripping his head and kicking his legs to make him kneel.

A sacrifice.

Hieronymus was clearly indicating that this boy was meant solely for consumption, not some other purpose.

I wouldn’t refuse.

Turning resources into harvesters required energy, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could restrain myself.

I rose from my seat and approached the boy.

His left eye was swollen shut, but his right, icy blue, glared at me with defiance. Where had they taken him from?

The light in his chest was massive.

It radiated warmth.

Hope, optimism about the future, and the belief that he could survive were all present.

His physical state seemed to have no bearing on the warmth within him.

I extended my hand toward the light in his chest.

As my arm cracked open, dark-purple mist flowed out and enveloped the boy’s light, swallowing it whole.

Warmth!

But only briefly.

The cold surged back almost immediately. While far warmer than anyone else I’d absorbed so far, the warmth didn’t last long.

The dark-purple mist seeped out. The boy’s chest now held a shriveled, blackened light—unlike Joanna’s transformation, which left her light dark violet.

This boy, Isitur La Planja, now had a crushed, black mass in his chest with only the faintest glimmer remaining—a reminder that it had once been the light of life.

When the mist completely withdrew, the boy collapsed.

He was still breathing, so he wasn’t dead.

Through Joanna’s eyes, I saw Hieronymus watching me and the boy intently, one man feeling uneasy, and the other standing indifferently.

The boy twitched.

Only for a moment.

As purple mist gathered around him, his body convulsed. Alien features sprouted from his face, his back swelled, and muscles expanded unevenly, leaving him grotesquely asymmetrical.

Before his transformation could continue, one of the men behind him severed his neck with a blade.

The weapon, like the arrows from before, carried an ominous energy.

Instead of red, the boy bled fluorescent blue.

I watched as the blood on my hand bubbled and evaporated.

Ah, I see now.

This mutation wasn’t caused by my power being pushed into him. Losing all warmth while retaining light enabled him to wield something akin to my power.

The purple mist he absorbed wasn’t mine.

Memorizing this phenomenon, I turned to Hieronymus and said, “Thank you for the warmth.”

In response, Hieronymus delivered a flowery reply, effectively saying, “You’re most welcome,” with excessive verbosity.