Chastity-Reversed Hard Mode: Surviving as a Steel-Minded Adventurer in Another World - Chapter 13: Pushing Thin Margins with My Steel Mentality

Chapter 13: Pushing Thin Margins with My Steel Mentality

“Mom, look! Breathing doesn’t hurt at all anymore! See—I can jump, I can run, I’m totally fine!”

“Ohh… my son, who’s been coughing and struggling ever since he was little, is running…! Thank you! Thank you so much!”

“Don’t mention it. Anyway, that’ll be five silver coins for the treatment.”

Clink, clink.

Alright, thank you kindly.

“Thanks, mister saint! Bye-bye!”

The mother bowed over and over, while the kid waved so hard his arm looked like it might pop right off. I gave a casual wave back as I saw them off. Take care, now~.

I dropped the coins into my already bulging pouch and tied it back onto my waist.

…By the way, what’s with this whole “saint” thing? Eh, whatever.

At last, the line had thinned out. Looked like that mother and son were the last pair in this district.

Time to move on and hunt for fresh customers in another area. Hehehe.

Apparently, word-of-mouth had really taken off—people I’d healed were dragging in their sick relatives and friends. Honestly, you could call it a “good kind of problem.” Not that it was a problem for me, since all I had to do was raise my hand and trigger my cheat. No mana drain, no hidden cost—basically an unlimited, flat-rate, all-you-can-heal buffet.

“Alright, moving out! Sickness, poison~! I’ll heal it all~!”

“Sickness, poison~! I’ll heal it all~!”

The crowd followed after me in a little parade.

“Sickness, poison~! Begone, begone! Any illness or curse, gone in a flash~!”

“Sickness, poison~! Begone, begone! Any illness or curse, gone in a flash~!”

The crowd trailed after me in a neat little line.

………..

Actually, something had been bothering me for a while now.

“Um… excuse me, just how far are you all planning to follow me…?”

For some reason, a bunch of people I’d already healed weren’t going home—they were tagging along behind me. Not only were they parroting my sales pitch word for word, they’d even slapped together makeshift banners out of scrap wood to match mine. What on earth was the point of that?

When I asked why, the answers were all over the place:

“Just because.” “I want to help.” “I want to follow you.” “I must protect you.” “I like you ♥.”

Yeah… none of that made sense.

I even warned them, “Hey, don’t think you’re getting a cut of my profits just for tagging along.” But they all insisted, “Perish the thought! Just walking behind you is an honor!”

…Well, whatever. They’d probably get bored sooner or later. And honestly, walking with a group made me stand out more—easier for people to notice me this way. Not like I could chase them off anyway. With my bottom-of-the-barrel combat power, I’d probably lose to some random street kid.

Oh? Up ahead—that’s the slum district.

Not much money floating around here, but five silver coins was dirt cheap, so even the poor could probably scrape that together. Plus, the population density was high. If I wanted to run a thin-margin, high-volume business, this might actually be the perfect hunting ground.

“…Sir, surely you don’t intend to step into the slums? Beyond this point, safety is truly dreadful. Many who live there survive through crime. It isn’t a place for a gentleman like yourself to be involved.”

Among the townsfolk trailing after me, one of the better-dressed women asked with a worried expression.

…“Sir,” huh? I wasn’t a doctor, but from her perspective—after being cured—maybe that’s what I looked like. Well, since I hadn’t given anyone my name, they didn’t have much else to call me. And shouting “Hey, benefactor!” would’ve sounded pretty weird too.

Still… me, a gentleman? Yeah, right.

I couldn’t help but chuckle as I pointed to my own frayed, patched-up clothes.

“Do I really look like some highborn noble to you? I’m just as much a poor man as the people here.”

After all, I’d literally been a vagrant until yesterday.

“And besides, the people in the slums deserve treatment too. Rich or poor, sickness makes everyone suffer the same. We’re all human—there’s no difference.”

“…Ha! I was mistaken!”

The woman dropped to her knees right there, bowing her head deeply. 

If I looked closely, I could even see tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. …A bit over the top, honestly. I’d only said something obvious.

As far as I was concerned, as long as people paid up, anyone was a customer. Hehehe.

“Come on now, stand up. Sitting there just gets in the way of business.”

I reached out my hand to help her up. But instead of taking it politely, she gripped it with crushing strength and gazed at me with a dazed, dreamy look.

“I’ll never wash this blessed hand again… ♥”

“Yeah, how about letting go now?”

The way the other women were silently glaring daggers at me was honestly terrifying. What the hell was this situation?

Well, whatever. Time to get the business rolling… or so I thought. 

I was just about to raise my voice when the people trailing after me suddenly scattered, running around in a frenzy.

“Alright, spread out and shout it across the whole slum!”

“Find the sick! If they can’t walk, lend them a shoulder and drag them here!”

“An angel has descended! An angel has descended! Suffering poor souls, your day of salvation has come!”

“Wait—wasn’t it ‘saint,’ not ‘angel’?”

“Idiot, same difference! He’s saving us either way!”

“You’re right! Okay—an angel has descended! A saint has descended! He’ll heal any illness or affliction! If you’re suffering, gather under this banner! For only five silver coins, you’ll be snatched straight from the hands of Death!”

“Hurry, people! You’ll never again get a chance to receive a miracle from a saint with such a hot bod! Seriously, he’s an angel! Even just a glimpse is worth it—come on over!”

Uh… what? I didn’t say a single word, and yet they’d taken it upon themselves to start recruiting like street hawkers.

And also—who the hell were they calling an angel?

While I stood there dumbfounded, the well-dressed woman from earlier flashed me a bright, radiant smile.

“Everyone just wants to be of service to you, sir. Please accept their devotion.”

“…Devotion? I haven’t really done anything special, though.”

Come on now, don’t look at me with those wide, wonder-struck eyes. And stop smiling like you’ve reached some grand revelation on your own.

“I see… perhaps for someone like you, sir, such miracles are effortless. But please understand—these people have lived day after day tormented by illness, unable to afford proper treatment. Every night they’ve gone to bed thinking, I might not live to see tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then maybe the day after I’ll be dead. And then you arrive, offering healing for only five silver coins—an amount so cheap it’s practically free compared to a doctor’s fee. And more than that, you treat everyone the same, no matter their status. To them, you’re nothing less than a savior. To me as well.”

…Ah, so five silver really was dirt cheap after all? I knew it felt suspiciously low. Guess I’d been underselling myself from the start. But hey, I’d already healed plenty of people at that price. Hiking it up now would just feel unfair. And besides, I was about to start working in the slums—hardly the kind of place where people could afford a markup.

Fine, whatever. Today will be a grand bargain sale. Five silver coins for everyone, no exceptions. The slum folks get cheap treatment, I get happy customers, everyone walks away smiling. If everybody’s happy, then that’s what matters. Doctors had already abandoned these people anyway, so it’s not like anyone has the right to complain about me stepping in.

…Though honestly? I was kinda pissed at this city’s doctors. Putting a price tag on life, turning away patients because they couldn’t pay? That’s messed up. Sure, they’ve got their excuses—medicine is rare, supplies are limited. But I’ve got my reasons too. And my reasoning says: if I can heal them, then I will.

“By the way, what’s with all this ‘angel’ and ‘messenger’ talk you guys keep spouting…?”

“Ah, sir! The first wave of patients has arrived! Alright, form a line! Everyone, line up properly! The messenger of heaven makes no distinction between rich and poor! Treatment will be given in the order you arrived, so wait your turn quietly in a straight line!”

Just as I was about to ask for more details, she started directing traffic for the flood of sick people pouring in from the slums.

I knew this trope—it was like when you’re in the middle of a cutscene in a mobile RPG and suddenly monsters show up, forcing you to clear the battle before the dialogue continues.

Eh, whatever. I’d just ask later.

For now, these patients were suffering. Better to put them out of their misery quickly.

At this point, I was basically a super doctor. …Though honestly, saying that probably insults all the real Dr. Ks out there who worked their asses off. To all the pioneers of medicine—please forgive me for saving lives with nothing but cheat powers.

About an hour later, treatment was in full swing.

Didn’t matter if it was the slums or the rich district—my process stayed the same. One wave of my hand, and poof, cured.

Technically, I could probably just scan the whole line, pick “everyone here” as my target, and heal them all at once.

But if I did that, patients wouldn’t even feel like they’d been treated, and worse—some jerks might try to skip out without paying.

Guess medicine really did need a bit of ceremony and authority behind it.

Still… the number of patients here was insane. Way more than in the residential or shopping districts. What was going on?

I’d only ever come to the slums for ditch-cleaning work, but judging by this, the hygiene here had to be abysmal.

And man, the coughing. Everywhere I looked, people were hacking their lungs out. Could it be tuberculosis? Or maybe influenza spreading around?

Cram a ton of people together in cramped, filthy spaces, and of course infectious diseases would thrive. Honestly, the place felt like it was teetering on the edge of a pandemic.

Oh, and STDs were rampant too. Not just syphilis this time—there were people who looked like they had pubic lice, chlamydia, all sorts of nasties.

What confused me even more was how patients reacted after being healed.

I’d been warned that slum-dwellers were basically all criminals, so I half expected them to bolt the second I cured them—without paying a single coin. But not one person did that.

Instead, every single one of them grabbed the hand I held out for payment and squeezed it tight, tears streaming down their faces.

They kept repeating things like “Thank you” and “You’re our savior.”

But come on—I was just spamming a cheat skill. Getting showered with that much gratitude honestly made me feel guilty.

Still, I couldn’t just yank my hand away from their rough, calloused palms—hands beaten raw from years of water hauling and hard labor. So I just nodded awkwardly, which meant each patient took longer than expected before I could move on to the next.

I wasn’t some savior. Really, I just wanted them to step aside so I could get on with curing the rest of the line.

“Alright, next!”

I gently stopped an old woman from bowing for the tenth time and called up the next patient.

Standing at the front was a young girl, her eyes swollen with purplish lumps, yellow pus seeping from the corners. Looking closer, I saw her ears were inflamed—and crawling with maggots.

Yikes… that had to hurt like hell. Poor kid.

“Messenger of heaven… can you cure my illness?”

“Anything that’s not an injury or a cavity, I can fix. So close your eyes and just stand right there.”

Though honestly, this didn’t look like just a disease. It might’ve been toxins from her living environment too.

Might as well throw in a little detox treatment while I’m at it.

Just as I thought that—

“Out of the way! Make room!”

A woman’s shout rang out from the back of the line.

Curious, I stood on tiptoe to see and spotted a palanquin being carried by four tall women.

For the record, a palanquin is one of those old-timey rides carried on people’s shoulders—the prototype for portable shrines. Back in medieval Japan, nobles and lords didn’t walk anywhere themselves; they had people carry them around.

That said, this one was shabby as hell. The poles weren’t even painted, the seat was covered in rags, and the women hauling it were dressed in the same tatters as the rest of the slumfolk. Sitting inside was a frail old man in plain, dirty clothes.

Honestly, it looked less like a noble’s ride and more like a makeshift stretcher for a grandpa who couldn’t walk.

“Clear the way! Our father’s suffering must be relieved immediately! As slumfolk, you owe it to him—don’t forget how much he’s done for you!”

“That’s right! When the lord abandoned us, who was it that made sure we could still eat!?”

The women carrying the palanquin shouted, and the people in line silently shifted aside to open a path.

Even the sick girl at the very front started to move away from me in a panic. But I caught her by the arm and stopped her.

“Eh, but…”

“Don’t. You’re at the front. You’re the next one I’ll heal.”

I gently patted her head, then placed my hand on my hip.

“Hey, cut it out! No cutting in line! I don’t care who you are—if you want treatment, then wait your turn like everyone else!”

I raised my voice, and one of the women carrying the palanquin flinched, though she still shot back at me.

“What did you just say? Do you even know who this man is—”

“Doesn’t matter who he is. Get to the back of the line! If grandpa can’t walk, then just keep him sitting in the palanquin—it’s fine!”

“There’s an order in the slums! If you want to do business in our territory, you’ll follow it!”

“And I’ve got my own rules! I don’t care how important you think you are in the slums—it’s irrelevant to me! Noble or beggar, I don’t discriminate. If you want me to heal you, then behave and line up quietly!”

I might usually drift through life, but when it came to rules I’d decided for myself, I hated being told otherwise. This had nothing to do with [Mental Resistance]. Even back in Japan, I was like this.

My family used to complain all the time: “Why are you so easygoing about everything, yet get stubborn about the weirdest stuff?”

Sorry, family. Guess I was a hard kid to raise. But that’s who I am—whether alive, dead, or reincarnated, I stick to that. Grrr.

While I glared down the palanquin-bearers, the old man lying on the seat let out a frail murmur.

“…Understood. If that’s what Father wishes.”

The tall woman lowered her head slightly to me, then turned to move the palanquin toward the very back of the line.

Phew, finally.

Still, so there really was a pecking order in the slums. I’d assumed everyone here was equally poor.

After treating a few dozen more patients, it was finally the old man’s turn.

Since everyone else quietly left right after their treatment, the line had moved quickly—probably out of consideration for him.

The palanquin was lowered to the ground, and the old man sat before me. The first thing he did was bow deeply.

“My young ones acted rudely. I am truly sorry. They only lost themselves out of worry for me, but the blame rests entirely with this old body. And to appear before you in such shabby clothing… forgive the discourtesy. The moment they heard of you, they hauled me straight here as I was, tossed onto the palanquin…”

His clothes really were nothing more than worn-out loungewear, stained in places like he’d spilled soup on them.

“It’s fine, it’s fine. As long as you waited your turn, you’re just another patient.”

“I thank you for such generosity… My legs have been bad for several years now—I can no longer stand. And once I lost the ability to walk on my own, my spirit weakened as well. I no longer even had the energy to scold the young ones for their recklessness… pitiful, isn’t it…”

The old man’s frail voice creaked like a withered branch about to snap.

Ah—damn, something pricked at the back of my eyes…

See, I’d always been a grandpa’s kid. Whenever I heard an old man talk about his hardships—especially when he was this weak—I couldn’t help but feel sympathy.

But his legs, huh… Could I really fix that?

At first glance, it just looked like aging. If that was the case, then it was life running its natural course—something outside my cheat’s scope.

But then again, he’d been unable to walk for years, yet he was still alive. That suggested it might be a disease after all.

Or maybe some kind of organ damage? But if that counted as an “injury” rather than “illness,” would my cheat still work?

I mean, I couldn’t cure cavities either…

…No, no. Don’t wimp out now. Believe in the cheat.

More precisely—believe in how broken and loophole-ridden cheats always are.

That’s the whole charm of cheat battles: stretch the rules until they snap.

This old man can be healed.

This old man will be healed.

Alright, here we go!

[Influencer] – [Disease Resistance]!!

“Hoh? Ooooh…!?”

The old man’s eyes flew wide as he looked down, darting his gaze all over his body. Then, with sudden force, he pushed himself upright and gave a violent shake, his whole body trembling. Yes! Success!

“I-I can stand! I’m standing! How… how can this be…!”

“Father! You mean—it really healed!?”

“Gramps is standing! Gramps is standing!!”

I nodded along while the old man and the women who had carried his palanquin cheered with joy. Yeah, glad that worked out. Honestly, I didn’t even want to imagine what might’ve happened if it hadn’t. I had this awful gut feeling it would’ve turned ugly fast. Best not to dwell on it.

Alright, time to collect my silver and move on to the next patient—

Or so I thought.

The old man suddenly dropped to his knees in front of me, fat tears dripping down his wrinkled cheeks. Then, to my horror, he pressed his lips against my shoe.

Uh… what? Getting kissed by a grandpa—on my foot, no less—didn’t exactly make me feel blessed.

“Thank you, thank you… Truly, you must be a messenger of heaven. How could I ever repay such a gift…!”

“No, no, I’m not any kind of messenger. Just pay the fee—five silver is fine.”

“It is precisely your disregard for wealth that proves it! Death makes no distinction—be it king or beggar, all alike are carried to the gods by illness. Thus, the one who rescues people from sickness cannot make distinctions either. And so, without doubt, you are heaven’s messenger.”

“…Wait, hold on. By ‘messenger,’ you mean like an actual servant of God? No way. That’s not me. I’m nothing that grand. I’m just a regular guy.”

“But the power you wield—the power that healed me—it cannot belong to this world. I watched you closely: it was neither spell nor enchanted tool. Healing magic cannot cure disease, and no magic item activated in your hands. Is this not a power beyond mortal law? Please tell me… is it not the work of the divine?”

The old man looked up at me, his eyes suddenly sharp and piercing—so different from the frail, withered gaze he’d had moments ago.

Crap… calling it “the work of God” really put me in a tight spot.

…But wait a second.

I was reincarnated by a god, right? I got cheat coins from Him, spent them at a divine vending machine, and now I was using those powers to heal people.

So technically, yeah… my cheats were gifts from God.

If you framed it that way, the old man wasn’t wrong—it really was divine power.

Still… admitting that out loud right here and now? Yeah, that sounded like it would only lead to trouble.

So I crouched down, leaned in close to the old man’s ear, and whispered softly so only he could hear.

“Yeah. This is power I received from God.”

“! I knew it…!”

“Shh.”

I pressed a finger to my lips, silencing him.

“Don’t tell anyone else, alright?”

“Ooh…! Messenger of heaven, then I shall dedicate the rest of my short life to your faith. My daughters, my grandchildren—my entire family shall be devoted to you as well!”

“Eh!? No, no, no! I don’t need that! I seriously don’t need that!”

I frantically waved my hands. All I wanted was five silver coins—how did this suddenly turn into founding a religion!?

But the old man, still bowing with his forehead nearly to the ground, just kept going, pouring his words out endlessly.

“The doctors in this city always looked down on us slum-dwellers. They never even treated us as human. When one of my granddaughters came down with a fever, the doctor sneered, ‘Why should I waste my time visiting a pigsty?’ No matter how much we begged, no matter how much gold we offered, he refused—said he wanted nothing to do with filthy money like ours. And so… the granddaughter I loved so dearly lost her life. Do you know how bitter that was for me…! That doctor is gone now, but the one the lord brought in to replace him was no different. Only you. Only you have treated us like human beings. So tell me, how could there be any hesitation in worshipping you? You are our savior. We would gladly give our lives for you. Please, lead us.”

Crap. Every alarm bell in my head was going off.

Even someone as dense as me could tell—accepting this was a terrible idea.

I cranked up [Mental Resistance] to max, forcing myself to speak in a calm, steady voice that hid my panic.

“I’m just an ordinary person who happened to be given power. I’m no different from you. People shouldn’t worship other people. Save your faith for where it truly belongs.”

The old man’s eyes went wide, his shoulders trembling as if struck by lightning.

“You mean… believe in the Lord? That He has not abandoned us, the lowborn? That is what you are saying?”

I had no idea what he was going on about. So I just gave him my brightest smile.
When you don’t understand the conversation, smiling is usually the safest move.

“I understand. Just as you say, we shall offer our prayers to the Lord. May it be as God wills.”

“As God wills.”

The people around us, who’d overheard our conversation, all echoed the words in unison.

Uh… wait. What the hell just happened?

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[From a local newspaper column, several centuries later]

In the southern part of Brishav Island, this city still preserves a legend about an angel.

The story dates back several hundred years, to the late Middle Ages—just before the dawn of the Industrial Revolution. A man calling himself an angel appeared and went around curing people’s illnesses. He charged only five silver coins per treatment and walked the streets himself, healing rich and poor alike without discrimination.

The legend claims that with nothing more than a wave of his hand, the angel could instantly cure even the most dreadful disease—and those he healed remained healthy for years afterward.

People followed behind him everywhere he went, both to protect him from those with wicked intent and… well, maybe also because he was gorgeous, tempting, and carried way too much cash on him. Some said they simply felt compelled to guard such a holy, beautiful man. Others, perhaps, had less noble reasons—they just wanted to stay close to someone that hot.

In time, the angel stepped into the slums, where he healed an old man whose legs had withered so badly he could no longer stand.

That old man had once been a criminal who built his wealth through shady deeds—but still, the angel cured him.

When the old man asked, “Are you not a messenger of God?” the angel admitted it.

Struck by divine power, the old man broke down in tears, regretting his past life. “Take my life. Take the lives of my daughters and grandchildren. Let us pray for you,” he pleaded. But the angel refused.

“We are all brothers and sisters born under God. Do not pray to me. Offer your faith to the Lord above,” the angel said.

And so, the people of the slums repented, and from that day onward, they offered daily prayers to God.

The number of people walking behind the angel grew and grew, until the procession nearly filled the city itself.

The city’s ruling lord, seeing this as a threat, grew fearful. He sent guards to scatter the march and arrest the angel.

The angel’s followers were enraged. They nearly rioted, ready to attack the guards. But it was the angel who stopped them.

“So long as we walk this earth, we must obey the law of the land. If you truly wish to follow me, then kneel before your lord.”

Hearing these words, the people calmed their fury and surrendered the angel into the hands of the authorities.

Later on, both the National Synod and the Papal Court officially declared this legend to be nothing more than a fabrication.

At the time, conflict between the Old Faith and the New Faith was at its peak, and the story was said to be propaganda created to spread the new doctrine—that “faith doesn’t lie in the church, but in the hearts of the people themselves.”

And honestly, they had a point. The idea of curing illness in an instant? Not only beyond the healing magic of that era, but something even modern science still can’t pull off. So dismissing it as fiction wasn’t unreasonable.

Today, the city where the “angel descended” is nothing more than a small, quiet town. The only thing left to mark the legend is a single statue of the angel.

Yet, standing in what was once the slum district, that statue still watches over the daily lives of the people, unchanged even after hundreds of years.

And among the locals, a peculiar custom still lingers: whenever someone needs help, they repay kindness with exactly five silver coins. A habit passed down for generations, echoing the angel’s fee.

Even if no physical proof remains, the noble spirit of the angel lives on—quietly carried in the hearts of the people.