How to Save a Time-Limited Heroine - Ch. 51

Deltain walked down the street.

Following the vivid scenery etched in his mind, he endured the cold that his thin clothes couldn’t block.

‘… East Harlem.’

East Harlem, Manhattan, New York.

He took in the streets he had wandered during his childhood.

Although the streets were covered in white snow, the colors were dreary.

A faintly ringing carol couldn’t mask the desolation that hung in the air.

The soft crunch of snow under his feet gently wrapped the bleakness.

He breathed out, watching his breath trail in the cold air.

Deltain knew exactly where and when he was.

‘It’s Christmas when I was seven.’

It was a day he could never forget.

Of course, it was because this was the day his life had plunged into ruin.

A story that could be called cliché, if anything.

A Korean orphan shipped off to this faraway place for overseas adoption, adopted by parents who weren’t particularly upright, a child who had no place as the conflict between his adoptive parents worsened, and eventually suffered abuse.

And the day those parents fought and wielded knives, he had fled to the streets.

Crunch.

Deltain walked through the streets, recalling that past.

December 25, 1993.

He chuckled to himself, seeing how dark the city looked as the year drew to a close.

It was no wonder—the city was still tense, just after the riots, so it would have been stranger if Christmas had brightened things up.

He now walked down the most remote alley in East Harlem.

As he ventured deeper into the alley, he felt eyes on him.

They were the cold stares of the black residents living there.

For the first time in a long while, Deltain felt like a foreigner.

‘Did I cry here?’

He recalled the past.

At seven, trembling in fear, he couldn’t return home and wandered the streets, eventually stumbling into this alley.

He was cold and hungry, but what felt even colder than the weather at the time were those stares.

A seven-year-old Asian boy wearing clothes unfit for the season.

That was a characteristic too alien to blend into this community.

Crunch.

He walked further into a secluded alley.

Then, stopping in front of a rusted tin trash can, he halted his steps.

‘I stopped here.’

Shivering from the cold, he had collapsed.

And inside the fallen trash can, he had found a half-eaten hot dog someone had discarded.

Recalling this, Deltain opened the trash can.

The first thing that greeted him was a stench so bad it made him gag.

He wrinkled his nose slightly as he peered inside.

Amidst all the trash, a half-eaten hot dog lay there.

Deltain picked it up and took a bite.

‘Still tastes like garbage.’

The texture of the rotten pickles tormented his mouth.

Deltain thought.

Probably 90% of why he hated pickles was because of this hot dog.

“Ugh.”

He spat out the chewed-up hot dog and dusted off his hands.

There had been no need to recreate this act, but there was a reason he did.

<End the winter.>

He hadn’t forgotten for a single moment that this was all an illusion in the name of <proof>.

Since he didn’t know what that phrase displayed on the interface meant, he retraced the events of his past.

Believing it would help minimize any variables.

‘It should at least tell me what I’m supposed to prove.’

Clicking his tongue, Deltain resumed walking.

As he walked, he continued his thoughts.

‘I can’t use magic. I can’t sense any mana.’

On top of that, his body had shrunk back to that of his seven-year-old self, trembling from the cold.

He was already exhausted, and for some reason, he even felt sleepy.

Deltain gathered the clues he had and began to piece together what this <proof> might be.

‘End the winter.’

As was typical with the straightforward interface descriptions, he assumed it meant to get through the season.

‘It wouldn’t keep me here for months, though…’

It seemed more likely that he had to survive this Christmas night.

There was one reason for this conclusion.

‘Because this was the worst day of my life.’

The night he was first driven out into the streets had been horrific.

He remembered every event from that day with painful clarity.

The incidents, the suffering, and the despair of that night—all came back vividly.

If anything.

This day was the most traumatic day of Deltain’s life.

‘Well, let’s try to endure for now.’

He thought he might as well go through each event that had happened that day.

If he finished reliving them all and saw the morning, he’d likely reach the end of this quest.

With his decision made, Deltain looked up at the sky.

Snowflakes floated gently down, tapping against his cheeks.

‘First…’

After eating the hot dog, what had happened?

‘… the street kids.’

There had been street kids who came to harass him after he collapsed.

Deltain chuckled to himself as he recalled this.

‘Maybe I should play dead.’

If he wanted to lure them in, that would be the way.

With that decision made, Deltain lay down on the snow-covered alley floor.

After shivering for a moment from the bitter cold, he closed his eyes and began waiting for his unwanted visitors.

*

The visitors didn’t take long to arrive.

He could tell from the soft crunching of snow that they were coming.

Peeking through squinted eyes, he saw them.

Four boys, in their early teens, all black.

Despite their youthful, chubby faces, they all wore fierce expressions that made them look far from innocent.

‘Now…’

They would come up and poke him.

Then, when he opened his eyes, they’d click their tongues and start stomping on him.

Before he could even beg for his life, they’d beat him up, strip him of his clothes, and leave.

There was one reason why they’d bother to take his clothes.

‘Because it’s a designer brand.’

His adoptive parents, despite their awful tempers, had money.

They were also obsessed with maintaining appearances.

They cared enough about their public image to ensure even the clothes he wore reflected well on them.

As these thoughts passed through his mind, the boy who seemed to be the leader spoke.

“Hey.”

Thud.

He tapped Deltain’s temple with his foot.

Deltain thought for a moment.

‘Should I get up?’

Whether his eyes were open or closed, they would still take his clothes.

There wasn’t much reason to open his eyes and face it…

‘… but there is.’

Deltain let out a faint sigh of annoyance.

To go through the next ordeal, he had to get thoroughly beaten by these punks.

‘Damn it.’

Cursing inwardly, Deltain slowly opened his eyes.

The street kids flinched in surprise.

“He’s awake.”

“Mo-Moose…”

The leader hesitated for a moment, clearly startled.

Deltain gave a faint smile at the reaction.

Seeing that smile as mockery, the leader’s face flushed red, and he shouted.

“Step on him!”

Thud!

The leader’s foot slammed into Deltain’s cheek.

And that wasn’t the end.

The other three boys followed suit, kicking at Deltain’s entire body, with thudding sounds echoing as they landed their blows.

Deltain clenched his teeth and curled up.

‘That hurts like hell.’

Maybe he should praise them for how solid their kicks were.

Well, considering these guys would join a gang in four years, it was no surprise they already showed such potential.

“Kill him! I said kill him!”

Apparently, the smile had bruised the leader’s pride.

His kicks became even more vicious than Deltain remembered.

With pain coursing through his entire body, Deltain gritted his teeth even harder.

The beating didn’t last long.

Deltain’s body gave out before his mind did.

“Ugh!”

A solid blow to his solar plexus made Deltain retch.

Along with stomach acid, bits of the hotdog he had eaten earlier spilled out.

“Ugh, gross.”

The leader spat irritably, gesturing to his lackeys.

They dragged Deltain away from the spot where he’d vomited and stripped him of his shirt, pants, and shoes.

Deltain shivered as his bare skin met the cold air.

“Let’s go!”

With that, the leader and his gang left.

“Ugh…”

Deltain staggered to his feet.

Hugging his arms around himself.

He looked down at his body.

The seven-year-old’s frame was skinny, barely clad in just his underwear, with bruises turning his pale skin a dark purple.

‘They really did a number on me.’

“Heh… ugh…”

Deltain’s laugh was mixed with groans of pain.

‘What’s next…?’

His thoughts were on the next incident that was supposed to happen.

Though his body swayed and his vision blurred, he had to move.

If he stayed here, he wouldn’t be able to meet <that bastard>.

Crunch.

His bare feet sank into the snow.

The cold numbed his feet so much he lost all sensation, but Deltain pushed through it.

He repeated the action.

‘It’s nothing.’

This cold and pain wouldn’t break him.

He’d been through this once before and knew exactly how this suffering would end.

‘I’ll endure it.’

These moments should have been traumatic, but that was all they were.

He wasn’t the kind of person who’d be broken by something as trivial as trauma.

Crunch.

His footsteps led him deeper into the alley.

Common sense would say he should head out of the alley, but that wasn’t what had happened.

As a beaten, half-conscious seven-year-old, he wasn’t capable of thinking clearly.

All he could think about was hiding to avoid more pain, crying as he searched for a place to escape.

And, at the end of that search, he met him.

“Oh my… kid! Are you alright?!”

A man he would never forget for the rest of his life.

A pale, skinny white man, barely over 160 cm, with sunken eyes and a haggard face.

‘I found you.’

He was the drug addict who had tried to rape the seven-year-old Deltain.

*

White trash.

A term for poor white people living in the slums, and this man fit it perfectly.

Not because of his poverty, but because he was trash.

“Here, at least cover yourself with this.”

Deltain followed the man into his home.

Unlike the freezing outdoors, the small, five-square-meter room was warm.

But the air was thick with a nauseating stench.

Unwashed garbage and the odor of drugs.

“Wait here. I’ll warm up some milk for you.”

The man’s gentle words were met with a nod from Deltain.

He was wearing clothes the man had given him.

The man turned to the fridge to get the milk, his movements sluggish and shaky.

‘Even now, he disgusts me.’

Deltain’s gaze grew cold.

Of course, he knew exactly what would happen next.

The scrawny drug addict would continue speaking kindly to lower Deltain’s guard.

Then he’d suggest resting and lead Deltain to the bed.

Thinking back, it was suspicious that a man living alone had a set of boy’s clothes on hand. But at the time, young Deltain wasn’t perceptive enough to question it.

He had simply been happy for the kindness, accepting the hospitality until the man started undressing as they climbed into bed together. That was when Deltain had sensed the danger and fled.

‘I hit him in the groin with a lamp, didn’t I?’

The memory was still vivid as it was a close call.

Deltain pondered.

‘Should I recreate that part too?’

Not this time.

His reason for entering the house had been to <come inside>, and that was already done.

He’d even gotten new clothes.

A coat was draped over the sofa where he was sitting—one that belonged to the man.

He could leave now.

With that decision, Deltain silently reached out and grabbed a knife from the table.

He stood up as quietly as he could.

‘I’ve got everything I need.’

The cold had subsided, and the pain from his bruises was now bearable.

Now, it was time for justice.

Deltain lunged forward with a sudden burst of speed.

The man turned, confused by the noise.

Thrust!

Deltain stabbed the knife into the man’s groin.

“Argh, aagh…!”

The man’s eyes widened in shock, his body trembling violently. His gasping breaths were choked with pain.

“Thanks for the clothes.”

With that, Deltain ran off.