Honkai: Oh No, I’ve Become the Herrscher of Corruption?! - Chapter 64

Meanwhile, in Vill-V’s Workshop…

“Audience member, it’s not time for the magic show yet.”

Vill-V barely glanced up at Enoxia’s sudden appearance before returning to tinkering with her incomprehensible machinery.

“Magician… Whatever. Since you all share memories, it doesn’t matter who I talk to. Vill-V, I’m here to ask you a question.”

“You? Asking me?” She smirked. “Everything in the Elysian Realm is data—including me, a mere memory construct. If you want something from me, you don’t need my permission.”

“I’m the Herrscher of Corruption, not Aponia. I can’t predict the future. What goes on in that head of yours is beyond me.”

“Oh? So you’re asking about something I don’t know, yet isn’t entirely unrelated to me?” Vill-V’s interest was piqued. “Go on, then.”

Professor V really was a jack-of-all-trades. Very few things fell entirely outside her expertise.

“The 12th Divine Key—Jizo Mitama. One of the rare Divine Keys you didn’t directly work on.”

“Tell me—what countermeasures exist for a Divine Key with self-awareness, like Void Archives?”

Vill-V finally looked up, silent for a moment as she mentally sifted through her knowledge.

“You… Ah. The Herrscher of Corruption’s weapon is powerful, but few can wield it. So… You already know where it is and plan to claim it?”

Enoxia nodded.

She’d read the script. She knew Tuna-chan was sealed in the Far East. If any weapon was tailor-made for her, it was Jizo Mitama.

In the original timeline, after Schicksal recovered it, the Divine Key gathered dust in storage—never used, not even during the 2018 Finality crisis. Its true Maximum Output remained a mystery.

But it made sense. Void Archives waited 50,000 years before acknowledging Otto. A sentient weapon wouldn’t risk bonding with just anyone.

“…Tch. Lying to you is pointless. Wait here.” Vill-V dashed off, rummaging through her workshop.

Minutes later, she returned holding an object—a red-and-white sphere with a circular button at the center.

It looked like a Poké Ball.

But since this was a digital space, it was likely a program disguised as one.

“This is based on the isolation program Dr. MEI used to contain the Herrscher of Corruption. In theory, it can temporarily seal a Herrscher’s powers. Might help you. Though…”

“I know. If it works on it, it works on me. We’re both Herrschers of Corruption.”

“Exactly. Had you snooped around my workshop instead of visiting Elysia first, this little toy would’ve trapped you. Not that it’d stop someone who can spam clones, of course.”

As expected of Professor V. Top-tier craftsmanship. Enoxia’s eyes sparkled with anticipation.

“If you get Jizo Mitama, bring it back. I’m curious about the Divine Key I never finished.”

“I will.” With the ‘Poké Ball’ in hand, Enoxia checked Sakura’s data one last time before leaving the Realm.

…

February 2, 2001

Real estate tycoon Benjamin Frankenstein suddenly announced his expansion into biomedicine and video games.

Enoxia wasn’t naive. She knew humanity needed inhumane experiments to fight the Honkai. Her issue wasn’t the research—it was the “volunteers.” Orphans coerced into becoming lab rats.

“Humans have soaring highs… and despicable lows. While Valkyries bleed on the frontlines, some people sit back, eat their fill, then curse the hands that feed them.”

After the Second Eruption, critics whined about Valkyries “failing to protect property.” Some even raged online over dead pets.

War was simple for soldiers—just fight. But civilians? They had so much to complain about.

“Not all humans deserve salvation. Some are, by any moral standard, better off dead. If sacrifices are inevitable, why not let the worthless die and the heroes live? Two birds, one stone.”

As for game development?

For the Herrscher of Corruption, coding was child’s play. A single day’s work for her would leave hundreds of programmers bald from stress.

Once, bored, she decided to make a Plants vs. Zombies-style tower defense game. She delegated the task to her clones and cuddled with Elysia for hours.

By the time she returned, a polished 1GB game was already done. Zero effort. Faster than any human team.

With this proof of concept, it was time to go big.

But profit wasn’t the goal. Any digital bank account was an editable text file to her—she could add zeros at will.

Nor was this some “tech otaku saves the world” cliché.

She just wanted to bring a little Herrscher-style shock and awe to the world of gaming.