How to Save a Time-Limited Heroine - Ch. 52

Deltain walked down the street.

He endured the cold that his thin clothing couldn’t shield him from, following a vivid memory etched in his mind.

‘… East Harlem.’

East Harlem, Manhattan, New York.

He took in the view of the streets he used to wander as a child.

The night street was blanketed in pure white snow, yet the colors were dreary.

A faintly playing carol did little to counter the desolate atmosphere hanging in the air.

Only the soft crunching sound of his footsteps on the snow gently covered up the bleakness.

His breath came out in a long, visible puff.

Deltain knew exactly when and where he was in this moment.

‘Christmas at age seven.’

An unforgettable day.

It was no wonder; this was the day his life was hurled into ruin.

A tale as trite as it was tragic.

An orphan from Korea shipped to this far-off place for international adoption, his adoptive parents not exactly the best people, their marital discord worsening until he, having nowhere to belong, became the target of abuse.

And on the day his adoptive parents drew knives in a fight, he ran out to the street.

Crunch.

Deltain walked along, recalling that past.

December 25, 1993.

Looking out at the year-end cityscape, he let out a bitter laugh at its darkness.

Given the riots just recently, it would have been strange if the city had brightened up just because it was Christmas.

He was now walking through the most secluded back alleys of East Harlem.

As he ventured deeper into the alleyways, he felt eyes upon him.

The cold stares of the Black residents living here.

It had been a long time since Deltain felt like a stranger.

‘Did I cry here?’

He pondered, recalling past events.

At seven, shivering with fear, he had roamed the streets, unable to return home, wandering into this alley at some point.

He was cold and hungry, but the eyes staring at him were colder.

A small Asian boy, dressed in thin clothes unfit for the season.

He was distinctly out of place in their community.

Crunch.

Deltain entered another secluded alley.

When he reached a rusty tin trash can, he stopped.

‘This is where I stopped.’

He had collapsed here, shivering in the cold.

And in the trash can he’d toppled over, he found a half-eaten hot dog someone had left.

Remembering that moment, Deltain opened the trash can.

An unbearable stench greeted him.

As he looked inside, he winced slightly.

Amid all the garbage lay a half-eaten hot dog.

He picked it up and took a bite.

‘Still tastes like garbage.’

The texture of the rotten pickle assaulted his mouth.

He mused.

This hot dog was probably 90% of the reason he hated pickles.

“Bleh.”

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

Though he didn’t need to reenact every detail, there was one reason he did it.

<End the winter.>

Since arriving here, he hadn’t forgotten for a single moment that this was an illusion named <proof>.

Not knowing what the phrase on the interface meant, he retraced the past.

It was to reduce any potential variables.

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

Deltain clicked his tongue and resumed walking.

He continued his thoughts.

‘I can’t use magic. I don’t feel any mana.’

And, as if truly back in that day at age seven, his body was small, trembling.

He was exhausted, and he felt drowsy for some reason.

Deltain pieced together the clues, trying to deduce the purpose of this <proof>.

‘End the winter.’

As the usual case with the interface’s straightforward explanations, perhaps it simply meant to get through this season.

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

Maybe it wanted him to endure this Christmas night.

There was one reason for his hunch.

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

The night he was first cast out onto the streets had been horrifying.

Even now, he remembered each event of that day as vividly as if they had just happened.

The pain and despair from that night were fresh in his mind.

If he had to name it.

This day was Deltain’s trauma.

‘Let’s see if I can endure it.’

It might help to retrace each event from that night.

Perhaps, if he made it through until morning, this quest would end.

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

Snowflakes gently drifted down, softly tapping his cheeks.

‘First….’

He thought back to what happened after eating the hot dog.

‘… the street kids.’

There had been street kids who came to shake him down as he lay fallen.

Remembering them, Deltain smirked.

‘Maybe I should play dead.’

That was the only way to summon them.

With his decision made, Deltain lay down on the snow in the alleyway.

Feeling the freezing cold seeping into him, he closed his eyes and waited for those unsavory visitors.

*

They didn’t take long to arrive.

The sound of footsteps in the snow alerted Deltain to their presence.

He peeked through his half-opened eyes.

He saw four black kids in their early teens.

Though their faces still had baby fat, each wore a hardened expression, making them look far older than they were.

‘Now….’

They would prod him a bit.

And when he opened his eyes, they’d click their tongues and kick him.

Without a chance to plead for mercy, they would beat him, strip him off his clothes, and leave.

Their reason for taking his clothes was simple.

‘Because it’s a luxury item.’

His foster parents, for all their filthy tempers, were wealthy.

They were also keenly aware of appearances.

They paid attention to the clothes he wore to maintain their public image.

As Deltain’s thoughts continued, the boy who seemed to be their leader spoke.

“Hey.”

Thud.

He nudged Deltain’s temple with his foot.

Deltain hesitated for a moment.

‘Should I get up?’

Whether his eyes were open or closed, the outcome would be the same — he would lose his clothes.

There was no need to keep his eyes open to face the beating…

‘… yeah, there is.’

Deltain let out a faint sigh of irritation.

He had to be beaten to a pulp by these guys if he wanted to move on to the next event.

‘Damn it.’

Cursing internally, Deltain opened his eyes slightly.

The street kids shuddered in surprise.

“He’s awake.”

“W-what…?”

For a moment, the leader hesitated.

Deltain gave a slight smirk.

The leader took that as mockery and turned red, shouting.

“Get him!”

Thud!

The leader kicked Deltain square in the face.

It didn’t stop there.

Three more boys followed their leader’s lead, starting a series of kicks that landed all over Deltain’s body.

Deltain gritted his teeth and curled up.

‘It hurts like hell.’

Maybe he should compliment them for kicking so skillfully.

After all, knowing these kids would join a gang in four years, it was fair to say they showed potential.

“Kill him! Just kill him!”

It was as if his smirk had bruised their pride.

The leader’s kicks grew more intense than he remembered.

Deltain felt every bone in his body ache and ground his teeth harder.

His endurance couldn’t last much longer.

Soon, Deltain’s body gave out before his mind did.

“Ugh!”

A punch square to his gut made Deltain feel nauseous.

Along with his bile came out a piece of half-chewed hot dog.

“Disgusting.”

The leader muttered irritably.

He gestured to his lackeys with his chin.

They then dragged Deltain away from where he vomited and stripped off his shirt, pants, and shoes.

Deltain shivered as his bare skin met the cold air.

“Let’s go!”

The leader shouted, and his followers trailed after him.

“Ugh…”

Deltain staggered to his feet.

He wrapped his arms around himself.

He looked down at his body.

The seven year old body was now left in just a pair of underwear, bruised and emaciated.

‘They did a fine job.’

“Ugh… keuheukk…”

A chuckle escaped his lips, accompanied by a painful groan.

‘What was next…?’

His mind was busy recalling how the next event would unfold.

Though he was staggering and his vision blurred, he had to keep moving.

Staying here meant he wouldn’t encounter <that bastard>.

Crunch.

His bare feet stepped onto the snowy ground.

It hurt so badly he almost went numb, but Deltain endured.

And he repeated to himself.

‘It’s nothing.’

Neither this cold nor this pain could break him.

He had been through it once before and knew what lay at the end of it.

‘I’ll survive this.’

This ordeal would certainly leave its mark, but that was it.

He wasn’t so weak as to be defeated by mere trauma.

Crunch.

He moved deeper into the alleyway.

The sensible choice was to head out of the alley, but back then, things were different.

At seven, after being beaten senseless, he was too dazed to think clearly.

All he wanted was to hide somewhere, crying, just so they wouldn’t find him again.

And at the end of the alley, he encountered him.

“Oh my God… child, are you alright?!”

A man he would remember forever.

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

‘Found you.’

He was a drug addict who had tried to assault his seven years old self.

*

White trash.

A term for impoverished white people. The man Deltain met that day was the epitome of that word.

Not in poverty but in sheer depravity.

“Here, at least wrap yourself in this.”

Deltain followed the man into his house.

A cramped, stuffy one-room apartment, warmer than the outside.

The air was thick with a pungent, foul smell.

A mix of uncleaned garbage and drugs.

“Just wait. I’ll warm up some milk for you.”

Deltain nodded.

He was now wearing the boy’s clothes the man had given him.

The man went to the fridge and started warming up the milk.

‘Still as sickening as ever.’

Deltain’s eyes grew cold.

He knew all too well what was coming next.

The frail drug addict would use warm words to lower his guard.

Then, he would invite him to lie down and rest on the bed.

Looking back, it was strange that a man living alone had boys’ clothes lying around, but seven-year-old Deltain hadn’t been suspicious enough to notice.

He had simply been happy to receive his kindness, only to feel danger when the man climbed into bed and began undressing.

‘I whacked him in the groin with a lamp.’

Thinking back, it had been a pretty close call.

Deltain was troubled.

‘Do I need to recreate that part?’

Not this time.

The only reason he had come this far was to reenact <coming into the room>, and he had already achieved that.

Plus, he’d gotten new clothes.

The man’s coat was draped over the sofa he was sitting on.

He should just go on.

Deltain reached for the knife on the table and grasped it.

Then, he stood up as quietly as possible.

‘I’ve got everything I need.’

The cold was gone, and the pain from the beating had become bearable.

Now it was time for justice.

Deltain sprinted suddenly.

The man turned around, looking puzzled.

Stab!

The knife drove into the man’s groin.

“Aghhh…!”

His eyes widened in horror, his body freezing, trembling, his mouth uttering faint gasps.

“Thanks for the clothes.”

Deltain said before bolting out of the place.