KamiKowa: That Time I Got Transmigrated With A Broken Goddess-Chapter 214: [] The Sailor Moon Defense

The scent of antiseptic and copper filled Margaret’s nostrils as the world around her shifted. The crystal chamber faded away, replaced by canvas walls billowing in a hot summer breeze. Sunlight filtered through the tent’s fabric, casting everything in a yellowish glow.

Margaret blinked, finding herself small—so small. Her legs dangled from a folding chair, feet unable to touch the ground. A coloring book lay open on her lap, half-filled with uneven crayon strokes that spilled beyond the lines. Six years old again, waiting while Mommy worked.

"Hold still, please." Her mother’s voice cut through the ambient noise—the hum of generators, distant shouts, the steady beep of medical equipment.

Margaret looked up. Her mother stood across the tent, bent over a gurney where a hunter lay. Blood soaked through bandages wrapped around the man’s torso. Her mother’s hands glowed blue as she channeled her Essentia into the wound.

"Hurts," the man gasped, face contorted in pain.

"I know." Her mother’s voice was steady, calming. "Focus on something good. Your daughter’s birthday next week. The fishing trip you’ve planned. Hold those thoughts."

The hunter nodded, jaw clenched. Margaret watched, crayon forgotten in her small hand, as her mother’s blue light sank deeper into the wound. Fascinated by the way the man’s pained expression gradually eased.

"There we go," her mother murmured, her blue-black hair falling across her face as she leaned closer. "The joy of that memory helps the healing take. Magic trick, see?"

"Some trick," the hunter managed a weak smile. "Thanks, Doc."

Margaret returned to her coloring, scribbling blue swirls like her mother’s healing light. The crayon snapped in her hand.

"Shoot," she whispered, then glanced up guiltily. Her mother had told her to be good, to stay quiet. The field hospital was busy today—three hunters injured when a gate suddenly expanded near Riverton.

A sound caught her attention—scratching against the canvas wall of the tent. Like claws or—

"Dr. Richardson!" A nurse burst into the tent, face pale. "The readings are wrong. The gate—it’s shifting. We need to evacuate."

Her mother straightened, wiping blood from her hands. "How long?"

"Minutes. Maybe less."

"Get the critical patients moved first." Her mother’s voice remained calm, but Margaret saw the tension in her shoulders, the quick dart of her eyes toward where Margaret sat.

The tent erupted into controlled chaos. Gurneys wheeled past, medical equipment hastily packed. Her mother appeared at Margaret’s side, kneeling to meet her eyes.

"Something’s happening, sweetie. I need you to be very brave."

Margaret nodded, clutching her broken crayon. "Like Sailor Moon?"

Her mother’s face softened, a quick smile. "Exactly like Sailor Moon." She glanced over her shoulder as someone called her name. "I need to help move the patients. You stay right here. Don’t move."

"Can I help? I can hold things."

"The best help is staying safe." Her mother squeezed her shoulder. "Remember our special song? The one from your show?"

Margaret nodded.

"Hum that if you get scared. I’ll be right back."

Her mother rushed away, helping transfer a sedated patient to a gurney. Margaret swung her legs, watching the activity swirl around her. The scratching sound returned, louder this time. She turned toward the back of the tent.

The canvas bulged inward, as if something pressed against it.

"Mommy?" Her voice came out small, uncertain.

The tent wall split open. Margaret glimpsed something dark and writhing—not quite solid, like smoke given partial form. Claws extended from the mass, ripping the canvas further.

Someone screamed. The evacuation turned to panic. Equipment crashed to the floor as people rushed toward the exit. 𝒇𝒓𝙚𝒆𝔀𝓮𝓫𝒏𝓸𝙫𝓮𝓵.𝓬𝙤𝙢

"Gate breach! We have a breach!"

Margaret sat frozen, watching as the shadow-creature slithered into the tent. It had no eyes that she could see, but somehow she knew it was looking around, hunting. Its body rippled, tendrils of darkness extending and retracting.

"Margaret!" Her mother appeared, face tight with fear. She grabbed Margaret’s arm, pulling her from the chair and toward the nearest gurney. "Under here. Now."

Margaret scrambled beneath the wheeled bed, pressing herself against the cold metal frame. Her mother’s face appeared, framed by the wheels and hanging sheets.

"Don’t make a sound, sweetie. Mommy will handle this." Her mother’s eyes flicked toward the creature, then back to Margaret. "No matter what happens, stay quiet. Promise me."

Margaret nodded, tears blurring her vision.

Her mother straightened, turning toward the shadow-creature. Blue light bloomed around her hands—not the gentle glow of healing, but sharper, defensive. The creature sensed the Essentia and turned, its formless mass contracting as if focusing.

"Get back to your gate," her mother commanded, voice steady despite her trembling hands. "This is not your world."

The creature lunged. Her mother dove sideways, avoiding the attack. Her heel caught on a fallen tray, sending her stumbling. The creature struck again, faster than Margaret’s eyes could follow.

Her mother made a small, shocked sound. She looked down at her stomach, where darkness seemed to pour into her body from the creature’s extended tendril. The blue light around her hands flickered, then died.

"No," her mother gasped, one hand pressed to the wound. Blood seeped between her fingers, impossibly dark against her skin.

The creature withdrew its tendril. Her mother collapsed to her knees, then toppled sideways. She landed facing Margaret, one arm outstretched, her eyes wide with pain and fear.

Margaret pressed both hands over her mouth, stifling the scream building in her chest. Tears streamed down her face. She wanted to run to her mother, but the promise kept her frozen in place.

The shadow-creature moved through the tent, investigating the abandoned equipment. It paused near Margaret’s coloring book, head tilting as if curious. Then it turned, its attention drawn to the gurney where Margaret hid.

It approached slowly, tendrils dragging across the floor. Margaret pressed herself harder against the frame, trying to become smaller, invisible. Her heart thundered in her chest so loudly she was certain the creature could hear it.

A tendril reached under the gurney, groping blindly. Margaret squeezed her eyes shut.

"The expected response is terror," whispered a voice that didn’t belong in the memory. "The data, however, shows a deviation."

The creature’s tendril brushed against Margaret’s shoe. She opened her eyes, meeting her mother’s gaze across the floor. Blood pooled beneath her mother’s body, spreading in a dark stain across the dirt floor.

Her mother’s lips moved, forming words Margaret couldn’t hear. Her eyes held Margaret’s, silently pleading.

Don’t make a sound. Don’t make a sound.

The promise echoed in Margaret’s mind as the creature’s tendril wrapped around her ankle. She couldn’t scream. Couldn’t cry out. Couldn’t call for help that wouldn’t come.

Instead, Margaret began to hum.

The tune was familiar—the opening theme from Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon, the show she and her mother watched together every Saturday morning. Her mother would make pancakes shaped like crescent moons, and they’d sing along to the opening credits, using spoons as makeshift microphones.

The humming came out shaky at first, between silent sobs and gasping breaths. But she forced herself to remember—the bright colors on screen, the way her mother would twirl her around the living room afterward, both of them pretending to fight evil by moonlight.

In the name of the moon, I will punish you!

The memories brought warmth. Not happiness exactly—how could she be happy with her mother bleeding on the floor?—but something adjacent to it. A reminder that joy had existed before this moment and might exist after it too.

Something strange happened as she hummed. A soft, turquoise glow emanated from her skin, so faint she almost didn’t notice it. The creature’s tendril hesitated, then withdrew slightly. Margaret hummed louder, focusing on the memories of Saturday mornings and moon-shaped pancakes and her mother’s laugh.

The glow brightened. The creature pulled back further, its formless body contracting as if in confusion or discomfort.

Margaret kept humming, the melody steadier now. The turquoise light pulsed in rhythm with the tune, spreading from her body to create a gentle barrier between her and the creature.

The shadow-thing retreated another step, tendrils curling in on themselves.

"Margaret..." Her mother’s voice was barely audible, a breath more than a word.

Margaret met her mother’s eyes, still humming. The blue light surrounding her pulsed brighter as she focused on her mother’s face—not the current one, pale and blood-streaked, but the way it looked during their Saturday sing-alongs, bright with laughter.

"That’s my brave girl," her mother whispered, a faint smile touching her lips.

The light from Margaret’s body reached toward her mother, thin tendrils of turquoise extending across the space between them. They touched her mother’s outstretched hand, encircling her fingers.

For a moment, the pain in her mother’s eyes eased. Her smile widened, genuine and warm, as if she too remembered those Saturday mornings.

Then her mother’s eyes went vacant, the light behind them extinguishing like a candle snuffed out.

Margaret kept humming, tears streaming silently down her face, as the turquoise light continued to pulse around her. The shadow-creature slunk back toward the tear in the tent, seemingly repelled by the gentle glow.

Outside, voices shouted. Boots pounded on dirt. Help arriving too late.

The memory dissolved around Margaret, colors bleeding into one another until she stood in a long corridor. Doors lined both walls, stretching as far as she could see. Some stood slightly ajar, sounds leaking through the cracks—laughter from one, sobbing from another, humming from a third.

"You transmute sorrow into joy," the Archivist’s voice echoed around her. "A fascinating, yet unsustainable, emotional alchemy."

Margaret wiped tears from her cheeks. "It’s not alchemy. It’s a choice."

"A choice made in trauma, cemented by necessity." The Archivist’s tone held something almost like curiosity. "You did not develop healing powers that day. You developed a defense mechanism."

"Does it matter why it works?" Margaret approached one of the doors, hesitating with her hand on the knob. "I help people."

"At what cost? What happens when the sorrow outweighs the joy?" The Archivist’s voice seemed to come from the door itself now. "Your ability feeds on your emotional reserves. It is, by design, self-depleting."

Margaret opened the door. Beyond it, she saw hundreds of memories—patients she’d healed, people she’d helped. Each face represented a time she’d channeled joy into healing energy. Each success had required her to find something positive to focus on, even in dire circumstances.

"You’re wrong," she said quietly. "It’s not self-depleting. It’s self-renewing."

The Archivist remained silent, as if processing this statement.

"Every person I help adds to my reservoir," Margaret continued. "Every smile, every moment of relief—they become part of my joy. It’s not a closed system."

She stepped through the doorway into the sea of memories. Faces swirled around her—strangers, friends, classmates, professors. Xavier with his subtle half-smile when she’d eased his migraine. Ashley’s surprise when Margaret had reduced the pain of her Covenant fractures. Naomi pretending not to be touched when Margaret brewed her special tea for cramps.

"That’s why I watch anime, why I collect cute things, why I surround myself with color and light." Margaret moved deeper into the swirling memories. "Not as distractions. As fuel."

She reached the center of the memory-storm. There, a single figure waited—her mother, as she had been before that day. Healthy, smiling, arms open.

"My power isn’t about denying grief," Margaret said, stepping into her mother’s embrace. "It’s about making room for joy alongside it."

In the crystal chamber, Margaret’s body remained connected to the central formation, but her expression had changed. The earlier pain had smoothed away, replaced by a gentle determination. The turquoise glow of her Essentia pulsed beneath her skin, faint but steady.

The Archivist observed, cataloging this unexpected data point in its vast collection. A healing power born not from natural talent, but from a child’s desperate need to keep a final promise.

"How curious," it mused, its attention shifting to the fifth presence in the chamber. "And what of you? How does your story end?"