Tech Hero in Another World-Chapter 142: [141] Early action as a Superhero (13)

Rain poured over the city of Kyoto without mercy. Wind lashed against the hospital windows like a whip from the heavens, and the streets—normally alive with traffic—lay empty, abandoned by people who chose shelter over defiance against the storm. The sky rolled in heavy shades of gray, pressing down on the earth with a weight of unseen sorrow.

Amid the rumble of thunder and unrelenting rainfall, a lone figure crossed the front courtyard of the prefectural hospital. His steps were firm, yet heavy—as though carrying an invisible burden. He wore a black jacket that repelled the rain, not made from ordinary material, but crafted by his own hands. Lightweight, waterproof, and resistant to extreme temperatures.

Rentaro Takamura.

His left hand was buried in his jacket pocket. His right hand clutched a cylindrical glass tube—an injector containing a shimmering, bluish-clear liquid. Inside that tube was the result of sleepless labor: thirty straight hours of mixing compounds, recalculating molecular structures, and stabilizing active agents. A formula—an experimental treatment for terminal stage three illness. Maybe not a miracle... but close enough.

---

In a hospital room labeled 317, the dim lighting cast long shadows over polished white floors. Atop a sterile linen-covered bed lay a girl, barely moving—her body thin to the point of fragility, skin pale like a candle close to being snuffed out. Wires and IV tubes stretched from her limbs to a life-support machine, its steady hum a counterpoint to the raging storm beyond the glass.

Fujisawa Kaori. Seventeen years old, though her body resembled that of a child. Her face still held remnants of youthful beauty, now dulled by weariness and pain. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered open, revealing a pair of clear eyes—weak, yet still burning with life. Still refusing to fade.

Her gaze turned toward the window. Rain pelted the glass like bullets. Lightning split the night sky, illuminating the darkness for just a moment. Amid the noise, Kaori remembered a voice more painful than any storm:

"Kaori... I’m sorry. This might be the last time I can visit you."

Those words echoed, piercing her heart. She closed her eyes as tears slid down her cold cheek. She cried silently, without sobs. Only her breath was broken, fractured—like her body no longer wished to hold on.

Her brother... Naru. The one who always came quietly and left without saying much. The one who never told her exactly what he did to cover her medical bills. She knew the sacrifice was great, but she never truly understood. What was the point of living if every day was just waiting—unable to breathe without machines, unable to walk, unable to laugh?

In her heart, wounded and worn, Kaori had once thought... maybe dying would be better. More peaceful. But her brother had rejected that. In his cold, harsh, and distant way—he refused to give up. And now, Kaori could only cry, trapped in the space between pain and guilt.

"Pant... pant..."

Her breath came in gasps. The machine’s hum grew faster. A soft alarm began to beep.

Just as her eyes returned to the ceiling, a flash of lightning lit up the sky outside. Thunder cracked sharply, shaking the window and the old hospital bed beneath her. Then, suddenly, the door creaked open—accompanied by an unfamiliar mechanical sound: the clank of metal plating, the hiss of micro-hydraulics, and heavy footsteps wrapped in reinforced gear.

Kaori blinked. Her pupils shrank at the flash from the hallway. A dark silhouette stood in the doorway. Rainwater dripped from a gleaming, storm-resistant jacket, lined with faint glowing blue veins. An unusual helmet covered most of the face, and behind the mist and stormlight, only a vague form could be seen.

In her eyes—tired, worn down by years of pain—only one word escaped her trembling lips:

"...Why... so late..."

The voice was barely audible, hoarse and broken by uneven breaths.

The figure stepped forward. Metal boots hit the floor with steady, weighted rhythm.

"Hm?" The voice of a young man rang clear now.

Kaori tried to smile, a bitter one. Tears trailed from the corners of her eyes. "You... should have come sooner. I’ve been waiting."

The steps stopped right beside her bed. The figure leaned down, slowly removing the helmet. Disheveled black hair and weary eyes stared gently down at her.

"You’ve got the wrong person," he said softly."I’m not a shinigami."

---

Kaori looked disappointed. Her tears now mixed with a strange sense of relief. "Then... why are you here? For what?"

The man—Ren—let out a long breath. In his hand now was a clear glass vial containing a bluish, faintly glowing liquid.

"To atone," he said softly, but firmly. "To fulfill a promise I made to your brother."

Kaori fell silent. Her breathing labored, her consciousness flickering.

"I... don’t understand..."

Ren looked down at the vial, then sat at the edge of her bed and pulled a special syringe from his jacket pocket.

"Even though I’m calling it a medicine," he said, "...this is more than that. It’s a kind of super-serum. I spent days refining its molecular structure without sleep."

Kaori’s gaze followed the tool faintly, her eyelids half-shut. Her breaths were heavy, as if each inhale and exhale was a battle of its own. Her lips moved slightly, as though she wanted to say something—but no sound came. Her throat was too dry, her body too weak. Only a faint sob could be heard—inaudible to the world, but loud enough for Ren, who sat beside her.

Ren watched her. Quietly. The monitor beside the bed began to slow, its rhythm faltering like a melody nearing its end. He knew there was no more time.

"...You can’t even speak anymore, huh?" Ren murmured, almost to himself. He tightened his grip around the vial of light-blue serum. "I know... this must hurt. But trust me. Just this once."

He inhaled deeply and lifted the special syringe from his jacket. His hand trembled—not from hesitation, but from the weight behind this moment. He glanced one last time at Kaori’s pale face before plunging the needle into the vein on her wrist.

"This serum will fix your body. Every cell. Every wound. Every organ that’s given up over the past seven years... I won’t lie to you—it’s going to hurt," he whispered, barely audible. "But I want you to live. Not just survive. Live."

The needle pierced the almost translucent skin slowly. The blue liquid began to flow into her body—slowly, like time being forcibly pulled forward.

But less than two minutes after the injection, the heart monitor let out a sharp, continuous beep: a flatline.

Ren’s eyes widened. "What!?"

Kaori didn’t move. Her eyes had shut tight, her face looked peaceful... like someone who had finally given in.

Ren instinctively reached for the emergency button—but stopped. He froze. He had locked this room himself. The nurse who routinely checked on Kaori had been restrained and tied up in an empty room three floors down. No one knew what was happening here. He couldn’t let anyone interfere before the serum had time to work.

Clenching his jaw, Ren stared at the monitor. "Come on... come on..."

Meanwhile, inside Kaori’s body, something had begun to change. The blue serum, once still in her veins, began to glow faintly, reacting with the near-dead tissues. It didn’t enlarge her muscles. It didn’t drastically increase her body mass like some sci-fi cliché. Instead, silently—at the cellular level—regeneration began. Previously dormant cells pulsed back to life. Mitochondria that had failed now flickered with energy. Her crippled immune system began to rebuild itself, weaving a complex web back into order as her body slowly began to reconstruct.

Suddenly, Kaori’s chest heaved in a sudden jolt. As if her own body was startled by the pulse of life returning. The flatlined heart monitor snapped back to life—slow, erratic beats—but real.

Ren, who had been holding his breath the entire time, exhaled deeply. His tense face slowly softened. "You’re back..."

But amid his relief, he heard something—something faint, and not quite human. Like the creaking of metal, or perhaps the subtle cracking of bone, echoing from inside Kaori’s body. A transformation was happening—slow, invisible on the surface, but intensely active beneath it.

"Well... Good thing you’re not conscious for this. It must hurt like hell," Ren whispered softly. He stood, turned away, and walked out of the room with heavy steps—leaving the girl’s body to undergo a miraculous process that had never been tested on a human before.

---

Morning crept slowly behind the curtain of rain. Sunlight filtered faintly through the hospital window, still misted with condensation and dotted with remnants of the storm from the night before. Inside the white room, once filled only with the hum of machines and the soft hiss of oxygen, came the sound of a breath.

Kaori slowly opened her eyes.

There was no pain to greet her like usual. No stabbing sensation every time her lungs tried to inhale. Instead, her breathing flowed freely. Her body felt... whole. Warm. Freed from the chains of the illness that had kept her bedridden for years.

She blinked several times, staring up at the white ceiling that now looked more alive, brighter than she remembered. Then she turned her head to the side—and met two pairs of wide eyes staring at her. A doctor and a nurse stood frozen at her bedside, their expressions stunned, barely able to believe what they were seeing.

"Umm... Why are you looking at me like that?" Kaori asked, her voice stronger than she had expected. Even she was surprised at how clear it sounded—not raspy, not wheezing, and not followed by a fit of coughing.

But there was no reply. The two remained motionless, as if witnessing something that simply shouldn’t be possible.

Kaori felt uneasy. Her gaze drifted toward the window on the left side of the room. Though the glass was clouded with droplets, she could make out a faint reflection of herself.

And she froze.

Her long black hair, usually matted and damp with sweat, now shone smooth and neatly down her shoulders. Her once pale and gaunt cheeks now bore a soft pink flush. Her eyes, always puffy and tired, now sparkled—clear, bright, and full of life.

Her body, once tangled in medical equipment and heavy with helplessness... now felt light. Unshackled.

Kaori reached up to touch her own cheek, and her heart pounded hard in her chest. "This... is me?"

And for the first time in seven years... a genuine smile bloomed across her face.

---

The next day, the entire hospital was in an uproar. In less than twenty-four hours, a miracle had occurred—a miracle that shook the entire intensive care wing. Kaori Fujisawa, a patient bedridden for the past seven years with terminal stage III of a rare disease, had risen from her bed... in perfect health.

Doctors who once could only offer hollow hope and palliative care scrambled for her medical data. CT scans, MRIs, blood tests—all told the same impossible story: not a single trace of disease remained. No organ damage. No immune system failure. It was as if her body had been reset—restored to its most pristine, optimal state.

Yet, amidst all the joy and astonishment, one name was never mentioned.

Ren Takamura never returned to visit Kaori in person. He kept his distance, letting space protect a truth too heavy to share. Not because he didn’t care—quite the opposite. Because he cared too much. Because to Ren, saving Kaori’s life was never about recognition.

It was about redemption.

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