Reincarnated User Manual

Hwaaak!

A blinding light burst forth, painting the world in its glow.

Lucia, dangling in midair, blankly watched the battle unfolding below.

Finally, she was out of the fight. A wave of relief made her eyelids heavy, as if she might collapse at any moment.

But Lucia’s mind was sharper than ever.

“Two Shirons?”

The two figures clashing violently were both Shiron Prient.

Sharp, blade-like features. Eyes brimming with intelligence, as if starlight danced within them.

Over 190 cm tall, with a solid, muscular frame that showed faintly beneath his clothes.

“Vulgar creature, die.”

“Ah, damn it! Who are you telling to die, you bastard!”

Ah. Even now, it sent a shiver down her chest—a voice that resonated deep within.

Could such a voice even belong to a human?

Though Kyrie had once been a hero and the wielder of the Holy Sword, she had never heard the voice of a god.

Nor had she ever heard the voice of an angel.

But in this moment, that thunderous voice was gospel.

Indeed, no one would doubt that such a voice, so stirring, could belong to an angel or a god.

After all, it seemed impossible for a human to possess such an enchanting voice.

“Yes, absolutely.”

Lucia crossed her arms and nodded unconsciously. Watching the two men fight ignited a fiery excitement, making her forget even to blink.

Kwoang!

The swords collided, scattering killing intent without hesitation. The blades were so flawlessly crafted they seemed beyond mortal craftsmanship.

Masculine brows twisted in a scowl. At first glance, the excessive violence in his gaze evoked a predator or a beast, yet deep within, a light of intelligence lay in wait for an opening.

Eyes that seemed to comprehend all the world’s truths locked onto one another, their owner poised with contemplative dignity. They clashed again, the battle as evenly matched as before, leaving no clear victor.

Then, suddenly, a thought occurred to her.

“…Which one is the real Shiron?”

“Idiot. Is that even a question?”

Seira sighed in disbelief, her voice laced with exasperation. Lucia lowered her gaze at the unexpected insult.

“Why are you picking a fight now after hiding all this time?”

“Hiding? Who’s hiding?! Do I look like someone who’s been hiding?”

Seira lowered Lucia to eye level, shoving her dust-and-sweat-covered clothes toward her.

Although she was an elf and didn’t emit a foul odor, every pat of her clothing released clouds of dust.

“Ugh. That’s disgusting.”

Lucia shuddered in revulsion.

“Why don’t you clean yourself up? You know cleaning magic exists. Why do you look like that?”

“Do you think I want to look like this? Do you know how much mana I had to conserve just to get here?”

“She’s right. On the way here, there wasn’t even a moment to refill our energy.”

Lucia cast a sidelong glance toward the voice. It was unmistakably Seira’s voice, yet it belonged to a woman wearing an eyepatch and unfamiliar clothes.

“Who are you?”

“Oh my, you don’t recognize me? It’s me. The future Seira.”

“…I see.”

Lucia answered plainly but addressed the future Seira with respect, unlike the current Seira.

“Still, you seem rather fine, don’t you?”

“Hmm? Oh, I wasn’t involved in the battle.”

“No, I mean, you’re the future Seira.”

“Why is she being so polite to her?”

The sudden realization sparked irritation in Seira, but soon she understood Lucia’s intent.

It wasn’t mere politeness—it was a deliberate act to set boundaries.

Lucia navigated emotions of hostility and goodwill, teetering between the two.

“Then… won’t you become a puppet of the Apostle as well?”

“That won’t happen.”

Future Seira shook her head with a serene demeanor, as if reflecting on her position.

“As you know, just as the Apostle’s power is waning, this entire space is collapsing. This will likely be the last remaining place.”

“And?”

“The Shiron Prient currently fighting…”

Her voice faltered slightly.

“The one wearing Shiron Prient’s guise is the Apostle. Once that vessel dies, I’ll be the last one remaining.”

“Then, in the end… doesn’t that mean you could also become an Apostle?”

“No problem. I’ll disappear before that happens!”

Future Seira laughed brightly, hands on her hips. To prevent the atmosphere from becoming somber, she acted as if victory was already assured.

But the atmosphere didn’t brighten.

Lucia, struggling to tell which Shiron was real, could still sense one thing clearly: the resolve to win at all costs.

Future Seira was prepared to face her death for victory.

“…I shouldn’t have brought this up.”

Future Seira scratched her head awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable with the bleak reactions.

“It’s fine. I’ve lived long enough. Don’t you think 700 years is enough?”

“I don’t want to die.”

“Nobody wants to die. That’s true for elves too.”

Future Seira gazed toward the direction of the thunderous clash.

The once-balanced battle had tipped in Shiron’s favor.

Her beloved disciple, the first and only one she had ever taken under her wing in her centuries-long life, was on the brink of death.

No matter his corruption by the Apostle, it was still his form, and the sadness was inevitable.

Thus, Shiron declared he would defeat the Apostle on his own. If Shiron were slain by another’s hand, her heart would shatter even further.

Knowing this, Future Seira had severed her lingering attachments.

Seira couldn’t understand the meaning of those words. She didn’t know when she had started believing in such absurd superstitions… No, trivial matters like that didn’t matter right now.

“You cared about the little one, didn’t you? Can’t you at least deliver a final message?”

“No. There’s no need.”

A subtle curve appeared beneath the eyepatch.

“I’m not shameless enough to let someone else handle my goodbyes.”

The magic circle, which summoned death, rotated violently.

“Goodbye. And thank you.”

The face delivering those final words looked genuinely joyful.

Future Seira disintegrated into dust and vanished.

Seira stared blankly at the scattering particles. She reached forward, almost in disbelief, but her hand touched nothing.

“Is this really the end?”

What was this?

Thud.

Seira collapsed into her seat. A radiant divinity illuminated her figure.

A light that banished the darkness.

Though it was holy enough to deserve mention in scripture, the light could not fully dispel the darkness.

Seira, her back to the light, stared blankly at the shadow.

Tap.

A man, shielding her hunched shoulders, appeared in her vision. Behind him, a dense fog spread.

“Shall we leave in a bit?”

“…Sorry.”

She thought he was urging her to get up, but the words he spoke were entirely unexpected.

The atmosphere inside the returning train was heavy.

While Yoru and Lucia had fallen fast asleep in their cabin, the air remained somber, thanks to the elf sulking in the corner.

With her knees hugged to her chest and her head buried, she had been silent, as if she’d become mute.

Seira had anticipated a farewell and thought she had prepared herself for it in her own way, but the sense of loss seemed to hit her harder than expected.

Sigh.

Shiron stopped glancing at Seira and downed a gulp of whiskey.

Hundreds of knights, including the Steel Knight Regiment, had gathered to celebrate the Apostle’s defeat, but Shiron had turned them all away—because of Seira.

All he managed to salvage was a souvenir bottle of whiskey from a gift shop.

The taste was nothing but bitter, the aroma sharp and stinging of alcohol, but even this felt necessary to avoid sinking into the same gloom that Seira radiated.

[Hero, your condition looks bad too. You haven’t rested in two weeks.]

‘…For some reason, the drink feels sweeter today.’

“Stop acting pathetic!”

As if she couldn’t take it anymore, Latera appeared out of thin air. She snatched the glass and tossed it out the window, then yanked Shiron to his feet.

“Go to sleep, now!”

“But…”

“No buts! Depression is contagious! Now, hurry up! I’ll take care of Seira!”

Latera dragged Shiron to the sleeping cabin.

But even after that, Latera didn’t return to Seira’s compartment.

It wasn’t because she was selfish or cared only for Shiron.

As someone who could see into the souls of her companions, Latera had already glimpsed the mix of sympathy, regret, and other emotions in Shiron’s heart.

Time alone.

Latera knew better than anyone what Seira needed right now.

[They’ve gone.]

‘…’

[Are you going to keep ignoring me?]

‘…Go away.’

Seira muttered coldly to the malicious spirit lingering in her mind.