Reincarnated User Manual

A land floating serenely in the air.

A floating land in the void—an impossible phenomenon in the natural order of the continent. Yet, logic could not take precedence over what was called a miracle.

For those who believed in the divine, blind faith often took precedence over understanding. This tendency was even more pronounced in devout clergy like Cardinal Iris.

However, even setting that aside, what she witnessed over the past two weeks was beyond human reason.

A fog transferring people to the future.

The reality of a ruined future.

A continent shattered by divine power.

And then…

The battle between a man presumed to be the hero, Shiron Prient, and an Apostle.

She had doubted upon their first meeting and even denied his status as a hero when they spoke. But after witnessing that grand battle, she changed her mind.

Iris blinked several times as she looked at the floating islands in the air, just like the land she stood upon.

The hero and his party had already left this place, yet the fog remained.

This was another incomprehensible phenomenon. If this world was created by the Apostle, should it not have collapsed when the Apostle was defeated?

But this, too, could simply be called a miracle.

After all, she was not here to investigate inexplicable phenomena.

Iris’s resolve translated into action. She took out a box-shaped holy relic, [Leuwanga’s Chronicle of Grief].

Crackle.

A flash of light burst out in an instant.

As before, the holy relic emitted a dazzling light.

The light emerging from the relic extended like branches into the void before being drawn back into the box. This pattern repeated several times with bursts of light. Though the act seemed meaningless, it was precisely Iris’s mission.

To record the world’s memories.

And to compile a scripture for the hero who would be born not now, but in the next generation.

Not the current hero, Shiron Prient, but the hero of the next age.

It may seem like a plan full of questions, but wasn’t it true that no amount of preparation was ever too much?

This initiative was approved by the majority of Lucerne’s cardinals and overseers. Perhaps many of them even believed that Shiron Prient might fail to defeat the Demon God.

‘I don’t know what His Holiness the Pope thinks…’

Finishing her thoughts, Iris ventured deeper into the battlefield.

With each step, the horrors of the battle became clearer. The expressions of the accompanying researchers grew deeply emotional.

The sky bore scars of mana as if jagged wounds ran through it. The earth showed traces of having melted under intense heat before solidifying again.

Iris wondered what forces and powers had clashed during the battle.

A place where the punishment of light and the hellfire of demons coexisted.

It was like a scene from the mythological era, passed down through oral tradition.

Iris meticulously documented every trace as she continued forward.

From [Spinola’s Crown of Thorns], the relic tied around her head, blood trickled down. It seemed to shield Iris and her companions from the divine and demonic forces lingering in the place.

Yet, while it protected her mind and body from damage, it could not suppress her sensations.

The acrid stench made her nose wrinkle. Itched skin spread all over her body.

Her eyes kept tearing as if to prevent her from recording the remnants of the holy war. Even a single breath brought nausea.

This was the work of demonic energy—a force that no human should ever accept or endure.

But among those who came here, not a single groan of distress escaped anyone.

On the contrary, some were so moved that they wept, and one even scooped up the soil to eat it, wanting to remember this sacred ground for life.

Though a cardinal, Iris felt no urge to eat dirt, yet she too was deeply moved to set foot on this glorious ground.

With a wistful gaze, she observed the faint traces of divinity. In an era fraught with immediate threats rather than divine grace, the people of Lucerne thirsted for miracles. Iris, too, who had lost her family to demons as a child, yearned for salvation more than anyone.

But Iris never shed a tear.

Her gaze shifted downward, catching sight of a human footprint large enough to match Shiron Prient’s tall stature.

The owner was obvious.

Shiron Prient.

Seeing his mark, Iris’s brow furrowed slightly.

Was her mood so easily dampened by a mere footprint?

No, her feelings had a clear reason.

For the past fifteen days, she had followed Shiron Prient and his party. Every time, phenomena defying logic had caught Iris’s attention.

Wherever Shiron Prient walked, divinity lingered.

This was natural. He was the hero who wielded the holy sword, purging demons and cleansing his surroundings with divine energy.

But not beneath his feet.

The ground beneath his steps was rotten as if burned to ashes. Like the footprints left by the Apostle, his steps bore no trace of divinity.

This was clearly abnormal.

When Shiron Prient drank from a demon-tainted stream, it turned into diluted holy water. The places where he rested—even in midwinter—bore sprouting buds.

The wounds left by his holy sword?

Though scarred, they repelled all demonic energy, shining so brilliantly they invoked the urge to touch.

“It seems there’s a reason to look forward to the next hero.”

Some cardinals and overseers, Iris included, did not revere Shiron Prient.

The position of cardinal demanded autonomy, with only the Pope able to exchange opinions or intervene.

Thus, Iris could not understand why some cardinals found Shiron Prient displeasing.

“I thought it was purely due to his nature. Stubborn old age clouding flexible thinking… To be honest, isn’t he far from the hero depicted in holy texts?”

“…I can see why some might think so.”

The response came from a man in his late thirties, notable for his prosthetic leg. That he joined the expedition despite his handicap indicated his significance.

Archbishop Paulo Martini.

Formerly the right hand of Captain Malleus, he had accompanied Shiron Prient as a novice priest.

“His nature is good, but he lacks the grace and virtue of an idealized hero. I, too, doubted him once.”

Though Paulo’s words carried a hint of sarcasm, he was no different from others.

After all, he had discovered that his novice priest was a hero.

“Have you moved past those doubts now?”

“Yes. Rather, the experiences I’ve had now make sense. Ah, those were days from seminary, not his novice days.”

Paulo spoke with suppressed excitement, knowing better than to openly celebrate while traveling alongside Cardinal Iris for the past fortnight.

“What experiences?”

“…Just common incidents. Missing classes frequently, or dealing with upperclassmen bullies through violence… Minor things.”

Paulo tried his best to frame Shiron positively.

Iris maintained a polite smile, but emotions often transcend appearances.

‘Cardinal Iris Cardiore has never shed tears.’

There was a saying that tears were proof of faith.

When humans experienced overwhelming emotions, they cried.

Yet, despite witnessing such miracles, Iris did not shed tears.

This indicated her lingering doubts about Shiron Prient.

“Haha, he was quite the rascal.”

Iris chuckled softly, bending her knees. Seemingly done with Paulo, her attention returned to the footprint etched in the ground.

“Did you know he was the hero?”

“Of course not. I didn’t even know the sword he carried was the holy sword.”

“What about demonic energy?”

“Pardon?”

“Demonic energy. Did you sense even a trace of it from Shiron Prient?”

“…No. If anything, the divine energy radiating from him seemed excessive for a novice priest.”

“I see.”

Iris replied and drew a silver dagger. Clang! The ground beneath the footprint was carved into a hexagonal block and placed into her delicate hand.

“Let us leave now.”

The soil in her hand still reeked of intense demonic energy.

Returning from the Arwen Highlands, one week later.

A grand but exclusive party was held in the imperial palace.

It was at Shiron’s request.

Victor had wanted to do something, anything, to reward Shiron for resolving the mist—an imperial headache for hundreds of years.

In her heart, Victor wished to declare a new public holiday and open the state treasury for a nationwide celebration. But because Shiron was too shy to stand in the limelight, the event was scaled down to this modest gathering.

Really, it was a party with the bare minimum number of attendees.

Still, as a compromise, the palace was transformed into a majestic and extravagant banquet hall.

A mountain of delicacies piled high, and fountains sprayed fine liquor into the air.

“…Slurp.”

Underneath one of these fountains stood a woman sipping her drink with a sullen expression.

Seira Romer—one of the few elves at the party who could drink alcohol.

[Isn’t it a waste to just drink at a rare party like this?]

‘…Mind your business.’

Seira replied to the voice ringing in her head.

[Mind my business? I’m only giving advice for your sake. You never know when you’ll die, so you should enjoy life while you can!]

‘You just want to join them over there.’

[That’s true, too!]

The voice of future Seira didn’t even try to hide her excitement.

Through Lucia, the reincarnation of Kyrie, future Seira had come to understand the structure of the “soul.” She had also begun questioning the fake world shrouded in mist and devised a new magic in response.

Soul separation and possession.

She had created the spell, but her first attempt had only been a week ago. It was a gamble with no guarantee of success, but when the grand magic worked, the calm and composed Seira transformed into a shamelessly chatty spirit.

‘Even if I joined them, what could I possibly do? I’d have to reintroduce myself all over again anyway.’

Ting—Seira dipped her now-empty glass back into the fountain.

[If you drink that much, you’ll ruin your body.]

‘Don’t meddle. It’s my body, and I’ll do as I please.’

Seira snapped irritably and downed another drink in one go. The liquor was so strong it scorched her throat, but that was just what she needed right now.

She had to get drunk quickly, pass out, and silence the nagging voice in her head.

[Are you still upset about that?]

‘…Who said I’m upset?’

[Oh, you are. No doubt about it.]

A playful chuckle echoed in her mind. Seira sighed deeply, resigning herself to let the spirit talk as much as it pleased.

[I had no choice, you know? If it had failed, it would’ve crushed a grand mage’s pride. Besides, there was always a chance you’d refuse.]

‘And you’re proud to admit you latched onto me? I ought to visit a temple and perform an exorcism.’

[Oh, don’t waste your energy. Once I resolve my regrets, I’ll ascend peacefully!]

Regrets.

Future Seira emphasized the word, but present Seira scoffed and took another swig of her drink.

‘I’ll say it again. I have no intention of cooperating with you.’

Over the past week, Seira had been endlessly nagged about what those regrets were.

‘Spending a night with that kid? Do you even realize how ridiculous you sound?’

[Why is that ridiculous? It’s not like you’re pining for someone else, are you?]

Future Seira spoke as if unable to comprehend the issue.

Having spent the past week sharing Seira’s mind, she could partially sense Seira’s emotions.

Although Seira didn’t love anyone romantically, she wasn’t devoid of affection.

She felt a mentor’s fondness for Siriel Prient.

A deep friendship for Lucia Prient as a longtime companion.

And a tender protectiveness toward Shiron from their 13 years of camaraderie—comforting him in his struggles.

[If you’re so shy, why not let me take the lead?]

‘Take the lead? You don’t mean… you can control my body, do you?’

[Of course. Did you think I wouldn’t prepare for such contingencies?]

Future Seira’s voice carried a smug tone, and present Seira shuddered at the thought of being possessed by such a wicked spirit.

[I’m refraining out of respect for you now, but if I get desperate, I’ll use whatever means necessary to achieve my goal. You know how I am—once I set a goal, I always see it through.]

“…Hah.”

Seira exhaled a sigh soaked in alcohol.

She knew her own personality well. Even with future Seira’s slyness, her stubborn streak was undeniable.

The mere threat of “taking control” felt like a promise that, if pushed too far, she’d wake up one day with sore thighs and no recollection of what happened.

At this rate, who knew what the spirit might force her to do?

“…Hey.”

[What? Changed your mind?]

“Can’t you see that mess over there?”

Seira staggered and pointed to a corner of the banquet hall. There, women with slightly protruding bellies were arguing in Shiron’s absence.

Snide comments about who had flirted first, accusations of flaunting pregnancies late—it was a dizzying scene. Seira covered her face and turned away.

“Don’t you see that? If I got involved with that kid, wouldn’t I just end up sucked into all that mess with the younger girls?”

[That’s fine. Once I’m satisfied, I’ll move on. Besides, elves rarely get pregnant, so you can just pretend it never happened.]

“…That’s not the only issue.”

Ignoring the venomous remark, Seira took a deep breath.

She hadn’t wanted to bring this up, but with the persistent spirit in her mind, she was out of options.

Seira glanced toward another corner of the hall, avoiding the assertive women and focusing on two others quietly enjoying the food.

“If I sleep with someone, I might lose my ability to use magic.”

[…What? What nonsense is that?]

The future Seira sounded baffled. The idea that sex could impair magical ability was absurd. Was Seira practicing some outdated chastity-based magic? Thankfully, such ridiculous techniques didn’t exist.

But the mention of magic—a lifeline—had unsettled the spirit.

“Of course, it’s hard to believe. But what can I do? There’s clear evidence.”

[…Evidence?]

“You saw it yourself.”

Seira gestured toward Lucia with her chin.

Though it risked damaging Lucia’s reputation, she pressed on. Finally, she voiced her unproven theory.

“When you have sex, your intelligence drops.”