Chapter 27: The Saintess Weak to Desire and Her Baby Viewers

Sure! Here’s the revised version with each line starting in a new paragraph and no boldness:

Saintess: Hello

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: If you’re here to talk about bestiality again, I’m not having it.

Saintess: You’re the one who brought up bestiality first.

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: ?? What are you talking about?

Saintess: If you check the message log, you’ll see.

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: It was you! You said, ‘Saintesses are loved by animals,’ or something like that.

Saintess: How does that equate to bestiality?

Saintess: It’s rude of you to jump to such conclusions.

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: Hmm, true.

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: But come on, there’s context to consider.

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: You never have normal conversations with me, anyway.

Saintess: Pervert.

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: You crazy—!

Saintess: So, anyway.

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: Was all of that just buildup? What now?

Saintess: Got any ideas?

Saintess: I feel like I’m running out of material.

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: Hmm.

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: How about adding a masochistic trait? Like feeling ‘haah…’ whenever they get hit? Of course, it wouldn’t be implemented in the game, just as part of the character setting.

Saintess: Total pervert.

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: I don’t want to hear that from you.

Saintess: But that’s too common; it’s not appealing.

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: Your character is already a dime-a-dozen lewd saintess archetype. Are you seriously nitpicking now?

Saintess: It doesn’t sit well with me.

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: Hmm…

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: Then, what about focusing on emotions instead of physical sensations?

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: Not that they enjoy the pain itself, but maybe they’re tormented emotionally—like during heartbreaking moments, confessionals, or when they feel overwhelmed.

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: And instead of crying, they go ‘haah…’ unexpectedly.

Saintess: Is that even possible?

Saintess: At times like that, it feels like I’m going to die for real.

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: Are you speaking from personal experience? Why are you suddenly getting so immersed?

Saintess: …

Saintess: That’s not…

Saintess: Not really the case.

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: Then what’s with that suspicious denial?

Saintess: Anyway.

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: It’s all just imagination. Why not?

Saintess: That’s true.

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: It’s about 20,000 times more compelling than bestiality, anyway.

Saintess: Well, if that’s the case, I guess it can’t be helped.

Saintess: Let’s go with that.

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: Mental masochism, huh…

BaldnessIsASymbolOfVitality: We’re evolving here!

I was someone who was weak to desire.
Or rather,

I am weak to desire.

You could also say I’m impulsive.

Even when my bank account was deep in the negatives, with less than 100,000 won to my name, I dumped it all into cryptocurrency.

And when that coin crashed overnight, leaving me with less than 40,000 won, I suddenly got hungry and spent what was left to order a pineapple pizza.

Blaming the injustices of the world while refusing to work or save money, I impulsively spent nearly all the remaining cash I had on a microphone.

That was me.

With a messed-up attitude of leaving tomorrow’s problems to my future self, that was the kind of life I lived.

But even I, every now and then—no, often—almost daily, did one thing whenever I could.

Praying to God?

I quit that a long time ago.

I may cling to Him in games, but that’s about it.

Now that I think back on it, my future was pitch black.

My bank account was empty, I had no plans for my life, and I didn’t have any accomplishments or credentials I could proudly show anyone.

A part-time job? Never had one. Never wanted one.

As I mentioned before, I’m disabled.

Considering that, it was only natural that I gave up planning for any kind of future, even for events just a few days away.

All I had was a personality likely riddled with mental illnesses, including autism, and a lifestyle that resembled that of a total recluse.

If my life’s greatest achievement was reaching Orange rank in Rainbow Tales, maybe you’d understand.

And even that didn’t last long before I was demoted.

Gaming—being slightly better than average at it isn’t exactly a sustainable skill for making a living.

So, what did I do every day, you ask?

I daydreamed.

Like, what if I kept improving my skills, climbed beyond Red to Rainbow rank—though as a perennial Yellow ranker, I had no intention of actually doing this—and somehow ended up getting recruited by a professional gaming team?

Then, if things went well, I’d win an international championship, get named MVP, and go down in history as the legendary pro gamer who overcame a disability.

Fans would swarm me wherever I went.

Or maybe, what if I had a hidden talent?

They say there are many physically disabled artists.

What if one of my doodles received recognition in the contemporary art world, and I became a renowned artist whose name would go down in history?

I’d get invited to prestigious events and be hailed as an unparalleled genius among celebrated artists, humbly waving it off with a casual “Oh, it’s nothing.”

Or maybe, what if the voice and hymn skills I was praised for in church as a kid somehow resurfaced?

Even though puberty had long since robbed me of that voice, hey, it’s a daydream.

What if someone discovered me and I suddenly hit it big as a pop singer?

Why would a disabled person who can only sing hymns succeed in pop music?

Well, because it could garner more public attention, obviously!

Imagine shining on stage, connecting with people who adore me.

Or what if I got a beautiful partner?

Someone so kind, compassionate, and understanding that they’d accept even someone as messed up as me.

I’d tell them they didn’t need to be tied down to someone like me.

Even when I struggled to return even a tenth of the love I received, they’d stroke my teary face, assuring me, “You’re amazing and lovable just as you are, so there’s no need to hurt anymore.”

Because I’m disabled.

For someone like me, it was only natural to give up planning for the future, whether it was just a few days away or the entirety of what lay ahead.

All I had were the unmistakable signs of multiple mental illnesses, including autism, and a lifestyle that screamed of being a recluse.

If my greatest life achievement was reaching Orange rank in Rainbow Tales, perhaps you can relate.

And even that didn’t last long before I was demoted.

Gaming—being just a bit better at it than most—is a rather flawed skill for earning a living.

Anyway, what I did every day was this:

I daydreamed.

What if I honed my skills and climbed past Red to reach Rainbow rank?

Not that I, a perennial Yellow ranker, seriously planned on it, but let’s just say it somehow happened.

What if a professional gaming team scouted me, things went smoothly, and I ended up being selected as the MVP of an international tournament?

Afterward, I’d be remembered as the legendary pro gamer who overcame a disability, with fans flocking to me wherever I went.

Or what if I had an unexpected talent?

They say many physically disabled people excel in art.

What if one of my random sketches gained recognition in the contemporary art world, leading me to become a famous artist whose name went down in history?

I’d get invited to prestigious events and be hailed as an unparalleled genius among renowned artists, waving off the praise with a modest “Oh, it’s nothing.”

Or maybe, the voice and hymn-singing skills that earned me so much praise in church as a kid—though puberty had long taken that voice away—somehow made a miraculous return.

In this daydream, someone would discover me, and I’d unexpectedly become a hit pop singer.

Why would a disabled person who only knows how to sing hymns succeed in pop music?

Well, because it’d attract more public interest, of course!

I’d stand under dazzling lights onstage, connecting with people who truly appreciated me.

Or perhaps, I’d find a beautiful partner.

Someone so kind, compassionate, and understanding that they’d accept even someone as messed up as me.

When I told them they didn’t need to be tied down to someone like me, they’d gently stroke my tear-streaked face and reassure me:

“You’re amazing and lovable just as you are, so there’s no need to hurt anymore.”

All of it boiled down to one thing.

To be acknowledged by someone.

If I smiled, everyone would smile back at me.

Not in this gloomy house, but outside, under radiant light that warmed me, with the rising dawn as my companion.

Doing something I loved, being recognized for it, having someone need me.

If I wasn’t there, they’d struggle, and I’d feel a sense of superiority, however begrudgingly I might extend a hand to help.

I’d become the center of everyone connected to me.

It was the kind of fantasy that could be dismissed as delusional,

Something that would never happen in my actual future.

Creating a flower field in my mind, imagining such happy moments, and spending long hours lost in them was one of my main daily activities.

Inevitably, those inflated fantasies would burst like a balloon at some point.

When I was expelled back into the world outside my eyelids,

I’d shudder against the cold sting of reality that I could never quite adapt to.

Once I came back to my senses, I’d find myself staring into a cracked and broken mirror.

I’d blankly examine my disheveled hair, unkempt face, and dull pupils framed by wrinkled eyes full of dark spots.

As if dreaming of a future beyond my means was a sin in itself,

My once-hopeful heart would plummet, strangling my chest.

The suffocating despair was so overwhelming, so painful,

That staying conscious felt unbearable, like I’d die if I didn’t do something.

My chest hurt so much that I’d cry as if I was about to die.

I’d think, vaguely, about accepting punishment for my sin,

Not knowing who I was addressing as I wept uncontrollably.

Holding something sharp, like a box cutter, clumsily gripped in my right hand,

I’d use my barely functioning index and middle fingers to dig into the fresh wounds on my left wrist,

Scratching like a madman, feeling the dizzying pain until blood oozed out,

Only then would my sobs subside, and I’d finally calm down,

As if my sins had been forgiven.

This marked the start of my day.

Even now, with my body changed, the process leading up to that point remained the same.

The habit of fantasizing about impossible happiness had taken deep root in my heart.

But what came afterward was… a little different.

The self-destructive and masochistic tendencies had taken a strange turn since my body changed.

That is to say, well… it’s a bit embarrassing to admit.

No, it’s mortifying enough to make my face burn and explode.

But the change had a… sexual undertone.

The box cutter I used so often had gathered dust over time.

No more bleeding bedsheets that needed changing.

Yet, almost every day, I found myself replacing damp, sticky sheets and blankets.

It’s not like I’m bragging about being a “woman with plenty of fluids” or anything.

I didn’t do anything wrong.

If there’s any wrongdoing here, it’s this lustful body of mine,

Which ends up leaking enough to form a small puddle.

If someone were to point fingers at me in court for this,

I’d be acquitted 100% without question.

Even the embarrassment and fear of touching the curves of a body whose gender had changed disappeared a long time ago.

Any anguish over gender identity was swept away by the pleasure coursing through my entire body.

I’d find myself unknowingly mumbling through a slack-jawed mouth, “Whatever, it doesn’t matter,” and such concerns would vanish like soap bubbles bursting upon contact with the ground.

When I was swept away by waves of pleasure so intense they left my mind blank, logic would eventually come knocking.

But this was something no human could resist, like a drug that had me utterly addicted.

At least for a while, I’d treat logic as an uninvited guest and refuse to open the locked door.

As always, fantasy time arrived again today.

And with it came the inevitable suffering from the chasm between soaring imagination and crashing reality,

Like a rollercoaster climbing slowly only to plummet in a sudden drop.

And then, naturally…

Once again, let me just say,

I was weak to desire.

No,

I am weak to desire.

“Haah… haaah…”

+++

What time is it now?

With my parched mouth, I gulped down water from the faucet, slowly waking my foggy mind.

No matter how good it feels, what kind of idiot pushes themselves to the point of dehydration?

The shy sun that peeked out from the edge of the mountains earlier had now climbed to the zenith of the sky.

Responding to the sun’s judgmental gaze with a raised middle finger, I slumped into a chair.

Time to play some games.

And turn on my stream.

Streaming had become something I took seriously these days.

Why?

Well… the reasons were a bit different from my fantasies, and it wasn’t something I ever thought about in those daydreams.

But at some point, streaming began to hold special meaning for me.

It was a space where people focused solely on me.

Where even my trivial actions drew fervent reactions.

A place where people listened intently and responded to every word I said.

To be acknowledged by someone.

If I smiled, everyone would smile back at me.

And so, today as well,

I clicked the “Start Stream” button.

[THE HOST IS HEEEEEREEEEEEEEEE!!!]

[MVP! MVP! MVP! MVP! MVP! MVP! MVP! MVP!]

[“Ah… I wanna grab and suck on the saintess’ holy tits so bad.”]

[“Mommy Saintess… give me milk…”]

[“Goo goo ga ga, baby viewer here for dat milk.”]

[“Slurp slurp, chomp chomp, aaaahhhh.”]

[“Is the baby-milk-dispenser for real? Her boobs are majestic.”]

[“Mommy… why do your tits taste like monitor screens…”]

[“You sick freaks.”]

[“What’s wrong with liking boobs and milk, sir?”]

[“How are you guys ever going to date with that mindset?”]

[“What’s dating?”]

[“Ugh, talking about something as unrealistic and optimistic as dating is giving me a massive headache. Maybe if the host gives me milk, I’ll feel better. Goo goo ga ga.”]

[“I enjoyed the tournament! Would love to grab coffee sometime. I’ve left my contact info in an email. Bye-bye~”]

Seriously.

These lunatics.

Here I was, trying to bask in some sentimental emotions, and they completely ruined the mood.