KamiKowa: That Time I Got Transmigrated With A Broken Goddess-Chapter 213: [] My Mother, The Martyr

Naomi’s vision darkened, the crystal chamber dissolving around her. When she opened her eyes again, the sterile white walls of Mercy General Hospital surrounded her. The antiseptic smell hit her nostrils, sharp and chemical.

She looked down at her body—skinny arms, chipped black nail polish, baggy hoodie. Fifteen years old again. Her purple-tipped hair hung in her face, unwashed and tangled.

The heart monitor beeped in rhythmic pulses beside the hospital bed, where her mother lay. Maria Phillips was a skeleton draped in papery skin, her once-vibrant eyes sunken into dark hollows. A plastic tube snaked into her arm, delivering morphine that barely touched her pain.

"Mom?" Naomi’s voice came out high and cracked.

Maria’s eyelids fluttered. "Baby? That you?"

Naomi moved to the bedside, her fingers hovering over her mother’s hand, afraid to touch and cause more pain. "Yeah, it’s me. How are you feeling?"

"Like a million bucks," Maria whispered, her cracked lips attempting a smile. "Just resting my eyes."

The lie hung between them. Maria hadn’t been out of bed in three days. The cancer had spread to her bones, her liver, her lungs. Stage four. Terminal.

"Did you eat today?" Maria asked, her fingers twitching toward Naomi’s.

"Stop worrying about me."

"Can’t help it. It’s my job."

Naomi swallowed the lump in her throat. Even now, her mother was trying to take care of her.

"Mrs. Jenkins from next door made lasagna," Naomi lied. There was no Mrs. Jenkins, no lasagna. She’d stolen a sandwich from the hospital cafeteria earlier.

Maria nodded, seemingly satisfied. Her eyes drifted closed again, the morphine pulling her under.

The door opened, and Dr. Westfield entered, his white coat pristine, his expression professionally somber. He nodded at Naomi, then checked Maria’s vitals, making notes on his clipboard.

"Could I speak with you outside?" he asked, his voice low.

Naomi followed him into the hallway, dread pooling in her stomach.

"There’s been a development," Dr. Westfield said, keeping his voice clinical, detached. "A research team at Johns Hopkins has had promising results with an experimental treatment for cases like your mother’s."

Hope flared in Naomi’s chest, bright and sudden. "A treatment? You mean she could get better?"

Dr. Westfield raised a hand. "It’s experimental. Success rates are approximately 40%, and there are significant risks. But yes, in some cases, patients have experienced partial remission."

"How soon can she start?"

The doctor’s expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. "That’s what I wanted to discuss. The treatment isn’t covered by your mother’s insurance. It’s still in clinical trials."

Naomi’s fingers curled into fists. "How much?"

"The initial course would be fifty thousand dollars, with potential follow-up treatments depending on response."

The floor seemed to drop away beneath her feet. "Fifty thousand dollars?"

"I understand that’s a significant amount. There are some charities that might—"

"How long does she have without it?"

Dr. Westfield hesitated. "Given the progression of the disease... days. Perhaps a week."

Naomi stared at him, her mind racing through calculations. Their apartment’s rent was already three months behind. Her mother’s nursing job had provided insurance, but the long-term disability had run out months ago.

"I’ll find a way," she said, her voice hard. "Just... get everything ready."

"We would need at least a deposit of ten thousand to begin preparations," Dr. Westfield said. "By tomorrow."

Ten thousand dollars. By tomorrow.

"A variable of risk versus reward. The foundational algorithm of your existence."

The Archivist’s voice echoed around her, though Dr. Westfield gave no indication of hearing it.

The hospital corridor wavered, and suddenly Naomi was standing in a different place—a narrow alley behind the Stop & Shop. The night air was cool against her skin, garbage stink rising from nearby dumpsters. A streetlight at the alley’s mouth cast long shadows, illuminating the man leaning against the brick wall.

Darren. His face was pockmarked, his eyes constantly moving. He’d aged out of the group home two years ago and now ran errands for the Eastside crew.

"You said on the phone you needed cash," he said, lighting a cigarette. "Fast money."

Naomi hugged herself, suddenly aware of how young she must look. How vulnerable. "Yeah."

"Got something that might work for you." Darren exhaled smoke through his nostrils. "Simple job. Delivery. Package from point A to point B."

"What’s in the package?"

Darren’s eyes narrowed. "You know better than to ask that."

She did. Whatever was in that package—drugs, money, worse—she didn’t want to know.

"What’s the pay?"

"Ten K." Darren watched her face. "Cash. Half now, half on delivery."

Ten thousand dollars. Exactly what she needed for the deposit.

"What’s the catch?"

Darren shrugged. "Gotta cross into Forty Deuce territory. Their lookouts know me, so I can’t go. But nobody’s gonna look twice at some skinny girl."

Forty Deuce. The rival gang. Known for shooting first, asking questions never.

"When?"

"Tonight. Right now."

Naomi’s hands trembled. The hospital room—her mother’s sunken face—flashed in her mind.

"I’ll do it," she heard herself say.

Darren grinned, pulling a brown paper package from inside his jacket. It was the size of a hardcover book, wrapped in tape.

"Address is on the front. Guy’s expecting it by midnight. Don’t open it, don’t stop for nobody." He reached into his pocket again, pulling out a thick envelope. "Five now, five when you get back."

Naomi took the envelope, thumbing through the bills inside. More money than she’d ever held in her life.

Her hand reached for the package.

"Interesting," the Archivist’s voice murmured. "The memory branches here. Which path did you choose, Naomi Phillips?"

The world stuttered around her. Darren froze mid-motion, the package suspended between them.

Naomi closed her eyes, the truth burning like acid in her throat. When she opened them again, the scene had changed.

She was backing away from Darren, shaking her head. "I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t do it."

"Figured as much," Darren snorted, tucking the package back into his jacket. "Always thought you were smarter than the rest of us."

Coward. The word echoed in her head, though Darren hadn’t said it.

"My mom’s dying," she blurted out. "I need the money for her treatment."

Darren’s expression softened, just a fraction. "Shit, Naomi. That’s rough. But this ain’t the way, not for you. You’re too smart to get caught up in this life."

"What other way is there?" Her voice cracked. "Ten thousand dollars doesn’t just appear out of nowhere."

"No, it doesn’t." Darren dropped his cigarette, grinding it under his heel. "But neither do second chances. Once you cross this line, there’s no going back."

She turned and ran, tears burning hot tracks down her cheeks. The alley stretched endlessly before her, the exit always just out of reach.

"You ran from risk, yet interpreted it as failure," the Archivist observed. "An illogical conclusion."

The alley dissolved, replaced once more by the hospital room. Dr. Westfield stood before her, his face a mask of professional sympathy.

"I’m sorry," he was saying. "Without the deposit, we can’t begin preparations."

"Please," Naomi begged, hating how small her voice sounded. "There has to be something you can do. A payment plan, a—"

"I’ve already stretched the rules as far as they’ll go," he interrupted gently. "I’m truly sorry."

He left, the door closing behind him with a soft click. Naomi turned to her mother, who lay with her eyes closed, her breathing shallow.

"Mom?" Naomi whispered.

Maria’s eyes fluttered open. Even through the haze of morphine, she seemed to understand. "It’s okay, baby."

"No, it’s not." Naomi’s voice broke. "There’s a treatment. It might work. But it costs so much money, and I couldn’t—"

"Shh." Maria raised a skeletal hand, brushing Naomi’s cheek. "You listen to me. You did everything you could."

"I didn’t!" The words tore from her throat. "There was a way. I could have gotten the money. But I was scared, and I—"

"You made the right choice."

"How can you say that? You’re dying!"

Maria’s face crumpled, not from pain but from love so raw it hurt to witness. "Because I’d rather die knowing my daughter is safe than live at the cost of her soul." Her breathing hitched. "Promise me something."

Naomi leaned closer, tears blurring her vision. "Anything."

"Don’t let this break you. Don’t let it make you hard." Maria’s fingers tightened on hers. "There are worse things than dying, baby. Living without love is one of them."

Three days later, Maria Phillips died. Naomi sat beside her, holding her hand until the last breath rattled from her lungs. The nurses had to pry her fingers loose.

At the funeral—a bare-bones affair paid for by a hospital charity—Naomi stood alone by the grave. No family. No friends. Just a fifteen-year-old girl with nowhere to go.

She made a promise to herself that day. Never again would she lack for money. Never again would she be powerless. Never again would she fail someone she loved because she couldn’t pay the price.

The memory faded, the graveyard dissolving around her. Naomi found herself standing in a long hallway lined with display cases. Each case contained treasures—gold coins, jewels, crystal vials filled with glowing liquid. Her various acquisitions over the years, each representing security, power, control.

At the end of the hallway sat a plain wooden box on a pedestal, unadorned and simple.

Naomi approached the box slowly, her footsteps echoing in the vast space. "What’s in there?"

"That which has no price. That which you fear most."

She stood before the box, her hand hovering over the lid.

"What is the true cost of a mother’s love, Naomi Phillips? What price did she ask you to pay?"

Naomi’s fingers trembled as she lifted the lid. Inside lay a single item: a small, worn card. She recognized her mother’s handwriting immediately.

Don’t let this break you. Don’t let it make you hard.

"I failed," Naomi whispered. "I broke my promise to her."

"Did you? Or did you simply calculate the wrong variables?" The Archivist’s voice surrounded her. "Show me how your story ends, Naomi Phillips. Show me the final sum of your equation."

Naomi stared at the card, her mother’s last wish burning in her mind. The hallway of treasures suddenly seemed hollow, each glittering item a poor substitute for what she’d really been seeking.

"I don’t know how it ends," she admitted. "I’ve been solving for the wrong variable this entire time."

The wooden box began to glow, softly at first, then with increasing brightness. The light spilled over the edges, washing away the display cases, the treasures, the hallway itself.

In the crystal chamber, Naomi’s body remained still, connected to the central formation by tendrils of luminescent mist. But her fingers slowly uncurled from the tight fists they’d formed, as if finally letting go of something long held.