A voice steeped in hatred reached my ears.
And it wouldn't leave.
A voice stained with fury came pursuing me.
And I was terrified—unspeakably terrified.
A voice baring its killing intent bore down upon me.
And it gripped my soul and refused to let go.
The more I clung to life, the more I found myself hurting someone.
And for that, more than anything, I was sorry—so sorry that even now, I kept drowning.
—— My neck was being strangled, inch by agonizing inch.
She had climbed on top of me, her slight body pressing me down, pinning me in place.
My legs were trapped, her bony knees pinning my shoulders, robbing my struggling body of its freedom. Before my eyes, the pale arms around my neck were covered in red abrasions—flowers blooming across them, I thought, inappropriately.
——Constricted. Constricted. Constricted. My neck was being strangled.
"A—"
Right before me, there were eyes brimming with unbridled passion.
Large, round eyes in which endless fury and hollow despair spread deep, deep within.
I thought vaguely that I might be sucked into that void behind those eyes.
"Aa… k… uu—"
——Thrash. Thrash. Thrash. My legs flailed clumsily.
It wasn't that I was trying to escape.
Any thought of escape had long since abandoned me. My legs thrashed not from a will to live, but simply because my body was crying out in pure agony.
A brain starved of oxygen, a spirit devoid of the will to live, and yet a body that struggled on regardless.
Everything was dissociated. Everything was out of balance. I found my own existence hideous.
I couldn't die quietly. I wanted to die quietly.
Ideally, peacefully, gently—as if falling asleep—that would have been best.
But such a wish would not be granted. Far from granted, my end was the exact opposite of what I'd hoped for.
"Bu, ku, ku—"
Foam escaped from the corner of my mouth, my eyes bulging grotesquely, and my stick-thin body—wasted away in mere days—writhed like a beast, producing guttural groans.
A fitting end, one might say.
A fitting demise, one might say.
How on earth had things spiraled to the point of ending up in a place like this?
"What's… so funny?"
A voice drifted down.
Not the beast-like groans, but a cold, clear voice that cut through the air.
The owner of those furious eyes, even as she strangled my neck, was spinning words through her thin lips.
"What's so funny—"
Asked what was so funny, I couldn't find the words to answer.
There was nothing funny about any of it. Nothing at all. So what was she even asking?
The question was unreasonable. Cryptic. Unkind. Irrational.
Even if forced upon me, I had no answer to give. And yet, the silence was unbearably uncomfortable.
How many times had I now been thrown aside by injustice, by irrationality, by the whims of providence?
"What's… so funny?"
Nothing was funny.
"Fu, he, hehe—"
So was the one asking the question the one in the wrong?
Or was it that I simply hadn't realized—I was actually enjoying this moment?
Enjoying the situation of being straddled by a woman and strangled?
If so, then what leaked out was the rational reaction: *How unpleasant.* "What's… so funny?"
Nothing was funny. Nothing at all. And yet the question kept coming.
It wasn't even hurled from a distance. We were this close. Not even close—she was right on top of me.
Our bodies touching, breath mingling, I looked up at the beautiful face of the woman above me as her voice was smeared across me, ground into me.
It wasn't an accusation, wasn't even a degrading insult—the voice existed within that pure, crystallized hatred.
"What's so funny—"
—and then.
Repeatedly demanding an answer, the question suddenly dissolved mid-sentence, vanishing like a haze.
"—zu."
The face before my eyes swayed to the left.
It couldn't right itself. The woman's body toppled sideways and collapsed onto the white snow. Naturally, the arms around my neck fell away, and the road to suffocation was severed midway.
"Ze, aa—"
From my gasping throat, the bitter taste of blood surged upward.
I inflated my shrunken lungs, then deflated them, then inflated them again, as oxygen was pumped into my body one breath at a time. That, too, was nothing more than reflexive survival instinct. A sane human cannot will themselves to suffocate.
Whether I was sane or not was not something I wanted to debate here and now.
"——"
The composed state of mind I'd held moments before—something close to an acceptance of death—vanished completely. Now, this desperate, shamefully greedy craving for the thing called life, this oxygen, could not be released. Desperately, furiously, I gulped it down.
And then, after filling my lungs with cold air again and again, I noticed.
"——"
Under the relentless fall of white snow, the woman lay toppled on a dusting of fresh powder.
Her pallid face and lips elevated her already otherworldly beauty to something even more sublime. Ragged breaths fogged white in the frigid air, and the fading signs of life glinted almost defiantly in her eyes, burning themselves into my memory.
Looking at her, she was in a state that clashed terribly with the winter landscape.
Her uniform left her shoulders and thighs exposed—nowhere near enough cloth for the cold. Her neck, ears, and other cold-sensitive areas were left bare to the wind, making the observer feel a sympathetic chill.
Clad in nothing but what she'd been wearing when it started—though that applied to me as well.
"——"
——Click. Click. Click. Click. My chattering teeth rattled without cease.
Whether it was from the cold or from the suffocating frustration coiled in my chest, I couldn't tell.
In this moment, though, I couldn't look away from the woman before me, no matter what was happening to my own body.
"—emu—"
Fallen on the snow, half her face buried in it, the woman was still beautiful.
Undying hatred and blazing wrath seemed to be the only things keeping that frail body alive. She was so thoroughly battered and wounded that it was a miracle she was still breathing.
"——"
In the white, snow-blanketed world, countless corpses lay scattered around the two of us.
Beasts that had gathered to devour life, to gorge on souls, to desecrate what remained—all of them had ended up as lifeless husks before the woman's wind. And so only two living souls remained here. Just the two of us.
And soon, perhaps it would be just one. Or none at all.
"——"
Slowly, I rose to my feet beside the woman, who was murmuring something faint.
My fingers, stiff and numbed by the cold, had turned a dark, bruised red. My body temperature had plummeted; I could feel nothing in my icy fingers. Only a faint itch confirmed they were still attached to my hands at all.
With those unreliable fingers trembling, I managed to lift a stone about the size of a man's head.
It was utterly unremarkable—a stone that had simply fallen here by chance.
I felt a quiet, secret relief that I'd managed to lift it.
I looked between the stone in my hands and the collapsed woman.
For a split second, the stone seemed to take on the face of a woman—one who had once smiled at me. But the expression that had last been seared into my heart was that of a demon—savage, murderous, hurling nothing but killing intent and enmity at me.
As if shaking off that image, I raised the stone held in both hands above my head.
Those pale, wine-colored eyes looked up at the motion, and in a voice barely audible—yet unmistakably clear—it spoke.
"I will absolutely kill you."
——The sound of the rock striking something hard echoed dully through the snowy forest.
Echoed.
—— That day, the mansion of
Ironically, the first to sense the signs of that collapse was a woman who had fought harder than anyone to preserve the household—precisely because of that, her actions had been the cruelest.
"——"
She had always owed the master of the house, Roswaal, an impossible debt of gratitude.
So when she learned that the maid sisters who maintained the mansion were gone, that no one remained to look after their master, she rushed to his side without a moment's hesitation.
The change in her master pierced her heart with something unspeakably painful.
Those mismatched eyes that had glimmered with an eerie light, always brimming with confidence—or to put it more charitably, the garish clown-like makeup, the outfits that clawed at anyone else's aesthetic sensibilities—all of it had lost its luster. Roswaal L. Mathers, drained of light.
Confronting this hollow version of the man she'd known, Frederica clenched her fist.
"This cannot be allowed to end like this. Not for their sake—and for mine."
She had intended to protect the place they'd called home.
She couldn't do much, but she wanted to do something, so she took action.
She threw herself into rebuilding the mansion. She took the hand of a young girl who helped despite not understanding everything. She pulled her master's listless, lethargic arm, and ran herself ragged day after day.
There was no time for Frederica to stop.
Even when her legs nearly buckled under the weight of her pain, she forced herself to hold her head up.
If she crumbled here, she would never be able to face the people who mattered.
Without realizing it, she'd forgotten how to smile. Without realizing it, she'd forgotten how to greet the night with fullness.
And yet, desperately, Frederica tried to protect what she loved—cupping her hands around it like soaps bubbles scattering across water's surface, refusing to let them disperse.
And yet— "Aa—"
By the time Frederica realized it, the mansion was already beyond saving.
Her shoe soles were trapped in the frost coating the white corridor, and she lost her bearings—couldn't tell where she was.
The mansion she thought she knew had become something utterly alien.
The corridor she'd painstakingly cleaned, the kitchen where she'd agonized over daily meals, the everyday hustle of caring for those who needed her—all of it, before her very eyes, was being swallowed by a world turning white.
And the one who had done this was— "Great Spirit…?"
"I'm sorry, Frederica. You haven't done anything wrong. —It's just, if I'm going to protect what matters most to me, this is the only right choice."
The one who said this, casually washing its face with its paws in midair, was a small gray cat.
About the size of a cat that could fit in one's palm, yet a transcendent being of immeasurable power concealed within that tiny frame—the Great Spirit,
She didn't want to believe it. But there was no longer room for doubt.
He was the one who had wrapped the mansion in white oblivion, who had transformed it utterly.
"Why would you do such a thing…?"
"I told you—everything I do is for Lia. —I agreed to let Lia leave the forest because that was what she wanted, and because I believed it would keep her safe. But this place no longer holds any value. Where did I go wrong, I wonder?"
"——"
"Roswaal turned out to be a miscalculation on my part. He was just a pitiful, ordinary person."
Shaking his head, Puck spoke in an emotionless tone.
Frederica held her breath at his words. Then, biting down hard on her own sharp fangs— "To insult the head of this household, to insult the master—as a maid, I will not permit it."
"You're a pitiful one, too. You were the only one fighting desperately to protect this place, which was already finished."
"Please don't use the past tense. It is not yet finished."
She defied him. The Great Spirit. With no chance of winning.
In the face of Frederica's resistance, the small cat narrowed its round eyes and let a trace of pity surface. The gesture, the expression—every part of him was so profoundly human that Frederica leaned forward— "Lady
Would that one line cause even the slightest hesitation in the Great Spirit—would it create a sliver of an opening?
But, however— "I'm sorry to say, but I'm incredibly soft on Lia. I'm a mother cat who hasn't let go of her kitten yet."
Not a shred of hesitation. Not a sliver of an opening. Before that Great Spirit, nothing of the sort appeared.
Frederica bit down on her molars at the difference between the world she inhabited and the one he saw.
Whether that was regret, grief, or what other emotion it might transform into, there was no time left.
A white wind simply blew, and with that alone, Frederica as a person had frozen solid.
That was the beginning of the collapse of the Roswaal mansion.
—— When the demon noticed the signs of collapse, it was already too late.
"——"
With ghostlike steps, the demon walked through his own mansion.
Beneath his shoes, clumps of frigid air crunched and broke, and a biting wind crept along the nape of his neck.
He hunched his shoulders, and for a moment it struck him as odd—that he was reacting physiologically to the cold.
Lately, he had left all decisions about his wardrobe and makeup entirely to Frederica.
That brave, earnest girl was still striving to repay her debt even in this place that had gone beyond saving, and thinking of her, a faint ache throbbed in his chest—a chest that should have felt nothing at all.
——Roswaal's great ambition had, at some point, quietly reached a dead end.
The catalyst, most likely, had been losing the demon sisters.
The two of them had been indispensable keys in the plan leading to Roswaal's great ambition. When those keys were lost, and he finally realized it, Roswaal found himself alone.
Four hundred years—four hundred long years of prayer, and the path had been severed. When he became aware of that, Roswaal could no longer stand on his own.
"——Ram."
The name slipped out involuntarily—the name most closely linked to his greatest regret.
——He had, from the beginning, considered the possibility that things might end this way.
No—he had been keenly aware that his chances of failure were far greater than his chances of success. That was precisely why Roswaal had insured his own existence.
When the time came for his end, he wanted a being who would joyfully accept it.
That being had been lost before him—and that had sent Roswaal's last gear grinding off course.
"——"
And so, now, walking through his frozen mansion—this was strange to Roswaal.
He had already lost the will to stand, the reason to walk.
*"Master, please pull yourself together. If you don't, the two of them will—"* Again and again, Frederica had called out to him.
Tending to the despondent Roswaal, mired in spiritual exhaustion, Frederica had persistently, devotedly tried to rouse her apathetic master.
And so, now, the strength to walk through his frozen mansion still remained within him.
And so, now, mid-step with no destination, his gaze caught the scene beyond the window.
And so, now, he saw it—a white, frozen world, and within it, a golden-haired girl struggling against it.
"——"
He probably thought, *I must protect that.* Or perhaps it was simply a reflex.
A reflexive judgment that he had to act—there was still enough residue of feeling left for that.
And so, now, Roswaal slowly raised his arm, about to unleash a torrent of mana— "——!"
In that instant, Roswaal barely dodged a dazzling flash of sword-light aimed at his neck.
"Oh my—to dodge that was unexpected. Could it be that the Court Magician doesn't rely solely on magic, but has picked up some hand-to-hand combat as well?"
A light, casual voice came from behind.
It was the voice of a young man with deep indigo hair who had slid down the frozen corridor with astonishing speed, now turning to face this direction.
"That movement isn't something you can pull off as an extra. I'm genuinely impressed."
The man stood in a blue kimana with geta on his feet—an utterly incongruous outfit—and wore two swords at his waist. One of them was drawn, and he was tapping it lightly against his shoulder.
His features were refined, his smile easy and natural. His eyes gleamed with a childlike, mischievous light, and with his long hair tied back, he gave off a somewhat androgynous impression.
However, the preposterous, crystalline sword energy emanating from him—the kind of presence that, upon facing it, conjured visions of a thousand, ten thousand possible deaths at his blade—made any measured assessment impossible.
"If you're more skilled with your arms than with magic, that's actually a relief for me. To be honest, completely one-sided fights go against my aesthetic. Well, I'd do it if ordered to, but I'd rather avoid being cast as the villain, if possible."
"You're as big a chatterbox as they say…"
"Oh! You've heard rumors about me? Geez, that's flattering. Am I famous even in a place like this? Hehe—I just hope they're not bad ones."
Babbling away fluently, the young man scratched his head with an embarrassed grin.
Watching this unfold, Roswaal began to piece together what was happening to him, igniting his sluggish thoughts and shaking them awake.
The heat helping with that effort was the searing pain emanating from his left arm.
"——"
"Oh, by the way—that arm. If you don't treat it soon, you'll bleed to death."
"Much obliged for the advice."
At the young man's remark, Roswaal allowed his bloodless lips to relax.
His left arm had been severed so cleanly above the elbow that the limb lay on the corridor floor with an almost doll-like unreality.
When he'd dodged the first strike aimed at his neck, the arm had been taken.
At the suggestion to treat it, Roswaal pressed a hand to the wound and sealed it with a burst of instantaneous flame. Searing pain tore through his brain, but he endured it with nothing more than a slight stiffening of his jaw.
Watching the crude emergency treatment, the young man raised his eyebrows.
"I always thought wizards were more timid than that. Anya's the same type, you know… Ah, for reference, Anya is an acquaintance of mine."
"I know who you are,
"——"
"The strongest warrior of the
"Why, I'm honored."
At Roswaal's low voice, the young man—Cecilus Segmunt—performed an elegant bow.
He made no attempt to conceal his identity, no effort to use a false name—as if there were no reason to. The sheer brazenness of it was almost refreshing.
Watching that theatrical gesture, Roswaal let out a sigh.
"All the same, what a turn of events. At a time when the next king of Lugunica Kingdom is about to be decided, the Vollachia Empire commits such an act of aggression in violation of the treaty…"
"Ah, there's been a misunderstanding. Right now, I'm technically on leave from the Nine Divine Generals—unemployed, if you will. In any case, I have absolutely no connection to the Empire. I'm a commoner, a wandering swordsman, they say, the strongest in the land…"
"——"
"I'm not joking, you know. The Empire has no involvement in my actions whatsoever. Of course, my loyalty to His Excellency still burns in my heart… but I have my own reasons."
With exaggerated gestures, Cecilus emphasized his disconnection from the Empire. It was difficult to take at face value, but it was true that the Empire's involvement didn't make sense.
All the more reason for Roswaal to narrow his mismatched eyes and press further.
"Then that only deepens the mystery. You abandoned your seat as one of the Nine Generals to come here. What drove you to go that far?"
"Simple, really. —I was promised a foothold on the path to the Heavenly Sword."
"Heavenly Sword."
At that word, Roswaal furrowed his elegant brows.
Catching the reaction, Cecilus nodded deeply, saying "Yes." His expression still wore a smile, but what distinguished it now was the emotion burning in his eyes.
Joy and delight—those were what the "Blue Lightning" used to cut down his opponents.
But in this moment, the eyes of the strongest warrior in Vollachia held not joy or delight, but something with far deeper color and heat—bluntly put— "A aspiration I have never shared with the living. To have someone see through it, and then claim they'd help me on top of that… I suppose I have no choice but to accept this as fate."
"I'm surprised. You don't seem like the type to become someone else's puppet."
"Being manipulated by another person versus accepting a stage prepared by fate—are those not simply a matter of perspective? I'll accept the script of this world's star. And beyond that, it's the actor's skill to ad-lib lines and performances not written in the script, wouldn't you say?"
Shrugging, Cecilus's eyes returned to their usual emotion, and Roswaal nodded.
Indeed. He had to respect the strength of conviction at the core of Cecilus's argument. That conviction had been forged through Cecilus's accumulated victories.
It was something Roswaal—who had lived for four hundred years clinging to the unchanging—could never bend.
For Roswaal, who valued constancy above all, Cecilus's philosophy was almost like manna from heaven.
"I probably don't dislike you either, if I'm being honest. Quite the opposite. But this is also part of my duty… So, the head of Lugunica Kingdom, Court Magician First, Roswaal L. Mathers, Marquis of the Domain—I will be taking it."
Perhaps that was his way of showing respect. Cecilus sheathed the sword he'd been holding, then drew the other with a sharp ring of steel, exposing the beautiful blade to the world.
The beauty of that blade was nothing short of demonic—a demonic sword of extraordinary power— "First blade, 'Dream Sword' Masayume."
"A demonic sword that devours the soul of its wielder, is it? —Cecilus, may I ask you one thing?"
Before the killing intent pouring off the young man, Roswaal raised a finger in a casual tone.
One arm, reeking of blood, facing an unparalleled swordsman head-on in the frozen air—yet even in this situation, Cecilus tilted his head with a lightheartedness that bordered on absurdity.
"What is it? My weakness? My weaknesses are not listening to other people and having no composure even past twenty years of age. It was a frequent topic of discussion in the Imperial Parliament, you know."
"Your—employer's name?"
At that question, Cecilus raised his eyebrows slightly.
Then he lowered his sword into a guard stance, drew his back leg in, and slowly leaned his upper body forward.
"There are those who call him a scoundrel, a villain—people who whisper behind his back, 'The King of Purges'… But you see, I've been instructed to give you his proper name."
With that preface, Cecilus moistened his lips with his tongue.
Then, with elaborate deliberation, he spoke.
"——"
The name became a truth that reached the eardrums, and in that instant, the mansion's floor exploded and Cecilus vanished.
So fast that it seemed he had disappeared from the world entirely.
The "Blue Lightning" had, in this moment, lived up to his epithet—approaching the speed of lightning itself.
Therefore, the clash was over in a single instant.
However, in the span of that instant, Roswaal allowed his lips to curve slightly and whispered: "So it was you after all."
Those words, before they could truly reach the world, were slower than the arc of the "Dream Sword."
But before everything vanished into the beyond, Roswaal's consciousness thought of one thing.
The safety of the girls who had been in the mansion.
The girls who had been dragged into the collateral damage of his great ambition, for whom he had ultimately been unable to leave behind any happiness.
*There's neither the right nor the time to apologize,* he thought—and with that final thought, everything disappeared.
—— The mechanism of "Door Crossing" was, in itself, simple—it linked one door to another.
Because of that simplicity, "Door Crossing" was highly versatile, and Roswaal had been proud to count it among his finest spells. However, like any magic, "Door Crossing" was not omnipotent.
If the mechanism was exposed, its usefulness could become its weakness. That was precisely why the existence of the Forbidden Library and the effects of "Door Crossing" had to be kept secret from the outside.
Yes—from anyone outside.
——And so, this had been inevitable, she thought.
"How ironic."
The moment she touched the Forbidden Library's door,
Despite the mansion's countless doors being available as options, she had no choice—the spell funneled her toward one and one door only.
The method was simple. —All the other doors needed to be rendered unopenable.
To seal "Door Crossing," one simply needed to eliminate the choice of other doors.
This had been executed flawlessly, limiting the mansion's accessible doors to just one. And Beatrice half-understood that the being who had lent the power to accomplish this was her dear brother.
The scales were bound to tilt. That was the unspoken law of their existence.
To resent her brother over this would be misguided. And so, harboring no resentment toward him, Beatrice simply opened the door—quietly, to face whatever lay beyond.
"Well, well, Beatrice."
On the other side of the opened door, it addressed her casually, raising a hand.
That voice and manner were familiar. That was precisely why Beatrice's body trembled with dread.
The face in her memory and the face before her didn't match in the slightest.
It might have been a correct reproduction in broad strokes, but the details made it look like an entirely different person.
"What kind of eyes are those?"
Before those dark, dark eyes, Beatrice shook her head.
Refusal and denial—she wanted to add revulsion to that, because the change was absolute.
His rare black hair and black eyes were the same, but the hair had lost its luster, the eyes glowed dull with murky emotions. Dark circles so deep they seemed conjured from shadow ringed his eyes. His gaunt, hollow-cheeked face and the glimpses of his fingers' complexion were deathly pale.
He wore a black long coat, his exposed skin minimal—among the all-black ensemble, the only standout was an orange neckerchief. That alone broke vividly from the dark, oppressive impression he gave.
Some years had passed since then.
But even so, this change was excessive. Was it truly possible for a human to change this much?
"You seem to have changed quite a bit, I see."
"And you haven't changed at all. Did you miss your growth spurt? Normally, people get a little more mature after two years."
His hoarse voice responded to Beatrice with a quip.
Two years, was it? If that was what he said, then that was how much time had passed.
Two years was the blink of an eye to Beatrice. But for a human—especially for the human before her—what kind of years had those been?
Meaningful enough for a man who had been on death's door to return for vengeance.
"Do you remember, Beatrice? We used to eat together here."
"…I have no such memory. I have never shared a meal with you."
At the words of the human facing her, Beatrice frowned.
The two stood facing each other in the mansion's ground-floor dining hall. Seated in the middle chair at a white-clothed table, the human had posed a question that made no sense.
At Beatrice's response, he traced his darkened eye sockets with a finger.
"…Ah, right. You wouldn't know about that. Yeah—that was my fault. It's always my fault. It's always, always my fault."
"What happened… No, never mind. Asking now would be pointless."
For an instant, hesitation flickered through Beatrice's mind.
But the girl killed it with a single blink, then sealed away the unnecessary option together with a quiet admonishment. She turned to face the enigmatic human, extending her small palm toward him.
In it dwelled the pride of a librarian sworn to protect the Forbidden Library—or perhaps the fragile sense of mission that came with fulfilling a role no one had asked her to fill.
"Perhaps you have every right to think of revenge. Even so, Betty has her role to play. And for that reason…"
"——"
With conviction, Beatrice steeled herself in her role and glared at him, attempting to halt whatever he was about to do.
Watching her, his expression tightened almost imperceptibly—as though he were straining to contain some unbearable emotion. And in that gap, Beatrice tried to press forward— "Give me a break, Beatrice. —You promised to protect me, didn't you?"
——In that instant, the one who caused a fatal stall was Beatrice.
"…Ah."
*Contract.* At the sound of that word, Beatrice's entire body was pierced by shock and seized rigid.
And that rigidity, independent of her will, fixed itself and refused to release her.
It was not a spiritual cause. She had been physically immobilized. It was— "My apologies. But this way, you can't move anymore."
A figure materialized beside Beatrice, rising from the shadows as if born from them.
It was a beastman—a tall, wolf-faced man in a carelessly worn black kimono with a golden pipe clenched in fanged jaws.
He looked down at Beatrice from behind those thread-thin eyes—she barely reached his waist. Unable to read any emotion in those dim, hard-to-discern eyes, Beatrice's throat emitted a thin sound.
"What… is this…?"
"Something like a ninja's trick that binds shadows. Think of it as ninjutsu. Don't worry—it won't last long. …You see, you're my benefactor."
Frozen, robbed of her freedom, Beatrice had no choice but to listen.
There was no tremor in his words, no falsehood in the shared memories. Slowly rising from his seat, he walked toward her. His eyes were dark, but held no trace of malice.
Beatrice had already decided this was about revenge—that was his reason for coming here. But those eyes refused to be that of a vengeful man.
She had found something in those black pupils, brimming with dim light, that clawed at her heart.
"Back then, you let me go. Because of that, I am who I am today. I've always wanted to tell you that."
"If your way of saying that is this… then you're a troublesome man. …Truly troublesome."
"I'm sorry. But I understand now, Beatrice."
Cutting off her gritted-tooth words, he shook his head slowly. His lips curved into a smile as he looked down at Beatrice.
Come to think of it—had she ever seen him smile like this? In the handful of hours she'd permitted him in the Forbidden Library.
As Beatrice recalled this, he extended his hand and spoke.
"That you and I are the same."
"——"
His eye corners drooped, and only in this moment did his eyes return to those of the very first, the truly first version of that boy.
The one who had lived those few days in the mansion, before everything had gone wrong.
"Back then, when I'd given up, when I was certain death was the only option, but still couldn't throw everything away—you saved me. Even now, I remember that sunset again and again."
"You…"
"I'm grateful, Beatrice. …Why didn't you kill me back then?"
"——!"
Was that gratitude? Or was it a grudge?
Either way, the words, spoken with a face caught between laughter and tears, left Beatrice only staring.
And then—she accepted it. The impact of what she had done. The despair that had corroded his heart.
Naturally, the rigidity that had held her body dissolved, and her outstretched arm fell limply to her side. But with her freedom restored, there was no will left to resist.
The cycle of cause and effect had come full circle—and she accepted that with startling ease.
"Beatrice, I'm grateful to you. I think… I loved you. In that time, you were the only one who truly stayed by my side."
"…That's the worst confession I've ever heard."
"No, it's not."
At his words, Beatrice answered with an empty heart.
And in his faintly smiling black eyes, Beatrice saw the truth—understood that the dark emotion dwelling there was something painfully, achingly familiar.
It was the loathsome disease that nests in many a breast, eventually consuming all hope.
——Despair. The disease of despair was festering inside him—and inside her.
"
At her call, the beastman standing beside Beatrice raised an eyebrow.
He had been silent, observing the exchange, but now he jostled the pipe in his mouth up and down.
"…Are you sure?"
"The kunai."
Ordered a second time, the beastman swung his left arm downward.
Instantly, a mass of black steel struck the dining hall floor with a sharp sound. He crouched, pulled it free, and tested its weight in his palm.
The dimly gleaming black iron was shaped for harvesting life.
"I'm glad you remembered the contract."
She had exploited that contract—a part of her mind couldn't help noting.
But the way he said it—with a voice that gazed upon some distant happiness with an almost fragile tenderness—made it impossible to rebuke him.
"Your color is back. You look beautiful…"
"——"
And then Beatrice's eyes simply opened wide, and large tears began to fill them.
Through her blurred vision, she could see him gazing at her with that calm expression. She blinked, and tears traced her cheeks. She let them fall, wishing she could see him until the very end.
He had said they were the same.
Then the person standing before her must be her own self, as she was now.
Perhaps what she had done back then had greatly twisted the course of his life.
If that had come full circle, bouncing back to her like this…
If he was, right now, trying to save Beatrice— "You… are Betty's… 'that person'?"
He probably didn't understand the meaning of that question.
Beatrice hadn't expected an answer either.
But at the very end—if this was truly her final moment—she had to ask.
"Yeah."
——And when he smiled and nodded, Beatrice's heart shattered.
Warmth in that smile, tenderness in those words, and a blessing in the blade he raised.
"I'm your 'that person.'"
One large tear slid down the girl's reddened cheek.
—— "There's a saying where I come from: 'A drowning man will grasp at even a straw.'"
Staring at the red carpet spread across the floor, a man listened to those words.
The distance between the carpet and his face was short.
His breathing was just as rapid—his heart hammering like a drum, his breath ragged as if he'd just sprinted at full speed.
The man was nearing sixty.
With children of his own and grandchildren approaching adulthood, he carried the quiet pride of a life well-rung.
His position had required him to exchange words with many people, to negotiate and contend. His track record was respectable enough to boast about, and he had confidence in his ability to read people.
He would not call himself a once-in-a-generation talent, but he believed he had been blessed with above-average abilities and had pushed forward to enrich his life.
That was precisely why he couldn't understand his current situation—whether it was a dream or a hallucination.
——That he was being forced to kneel before someone roughly the same age as his own grandchildren.
"You understand 'straw,' right? I mean, I think there's straw around somewhere… wheat, or whatever it's called. Anyway, someone who's drowning is desperate, so grabbing hold of it won't actually save them, but they grab on anyway—"
"——"
"To put it simply, it's a proverb about how people on the brink of death fight desperately to survive. It's a bit different from the old 'crack-of-a-fire' brute strength—that one has a chance of reversal. But with straw, there's nothing but futile flailing."
The voice from above rambled on with practiced ease.
Most of it sounded like meaningless chatter, but he couldn't afford to miss a single word. Everyone knew the horrifying stories of what happened to those who displeased him.
In the two years since he'd risen to power, his ruthless and savage rumors had never ceased.
The man who had cornered his enemies, their families, their associates—using every means available—made examples of them, and continued expanding at a breathtaking pace: the leader of the organization "Pleiades."
His fearsome track record and singularly devious methods earned him a name.
——"The King of Purges."
"——"
Where the man knelt was the headquarters of an organization that had, before long, infiltrated the shadows of the four great nations and seized control of the underworld.
The reception room was in a building lavishly adorned with extravagant furnishings and paintings—the kind of opulence that bordered on gaudy.
The King of Purges—the representative—sat upon a throne deep within the room, a throne truly worthy of the word "treasure," and gazed down upon his visitor.
The splendor and lavishness of it, when one considered the amount of money spent, were dizzying. A fortune no ordinary person could earn in a thousand lifetimes—a display of financial violence hurled at the eyeballs.
Even someone slow-witted could grasp at a glance that this was a demonstration of the organization's—no, the King's—power. And anyone who couldn't grasp it, once inside this room, would never see the light of day again.
The display of power—proof of financial might—wasn't limited to material wealth.
Lined up along the walls were more than a dozen men, all renowned warriors and mercenaries. Even if it were possible to command them with money, the cost of actually doing so would be astronomical.
And beyond those men, the two who flanked the throne—their very otherness was enough to leave the kneeling man in a state of intoxication.
——The transcendent outsider, the "Worshipper" Halibel, and the "Blue Lightning" Cecilus Segmunt.
From the
"Shigelm, sir?"
"——"
At the sound of his name, called out while his mind had momentarily drifted, the man—Shigelm's—heart froze.
The King of Purges, leaning his cheek on one hand in the throne's armrest, had fixed his dim black eyes on Shigelm, his smile gone.
It felt as though his heart were being clenched in a fist.
He needed to say something—explain somehow—and his lips trembled as he groped for words. But to the man's wretched reaction, the King merely shrugged.
"Ah—sorry to make you wait. I have a bad habit of going off on tangents. I've always been this way—unless things go around in circles, I can't seem to get to the point."
"N-No… I…"
"I'm still talking."
"——"
The King's right index finger pressed to his own lips, while his left hand pointed at the man.
The quiet rebuke silenced his explanation, and cold sweat soaked the man's back. The ensuing silence—a dozen seconds that felt like an eternity—passed slowly, slowly by.
"…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. It's just, look—these two around me and the guys outside, they're on my payroll, so they'll listen. But you're not like that, are you? So, you know… I was hoping for some reassurance. Sorry about that."
"——"
Polite language. A quiet tone. And precisely because of that, the abnormality stood out all the more.
The King of Purges was courteous, deferential toward the person before him—and then, without hesitation, exercised violence.
The King's tone and the words he used seemed to carry entirely different intentions for the listener. Those nervous, uncertain eyes—were they probing his heart? All his nerves were focused on observing the other's every movement.
Those dim, dark eyes asked only one question.
——Are you with me, or against me?
"——"
Of course he should declare that he was not an enemy.
But Shigelm's words were sealed. He was forbidden from answering with his voice.
If he spoke, if he responded with his eyes, if his demeanor revealed anything—might he not displease the other?
Such fear gripped the old man's heart, stretching the longest dozen seconds of his life into eternity.
No one who had ever laughed it off as an exaggeration survived.
The organization's operations were savage, its reach extending into the heart of the underworld in all four great nations—its tendrils had become a disease that could no longer be torn free.
To survive, one had either to avoid infection or to overcome the disease.
And the only method of overcoming it was total surrender under the name of subservience.
A terminal illness one should never have contracted—unable to escape it in the end, the old man had come here.
He had prepared all the answers in advance, resolved to submit completely.
But even that thinking was naive, Shigelm finally understood here and now.
It was like having his limbs bound, his body immobilized, and then being thrown into water—his breathing grew labored, his lips gasping for oxygen. On land, in this room, under these gazes, he was being drowned.
"——"
This was not a disease. It was a curse.
The King of Purges was consumed by a curse that would never lift.
Pathological terror clouded his eyes, and a paranoia that could never be dispelled was devouring his heart.
He feared other human beings. He feared them, doubted them, hated them.
Because he himself was the most fearful of all, he was obsessed with checking whether others were being consumed by the same disease—and in doing so, he infected them with it.
A drowning man grasps at straw—the King had said as much at the start. That was exactly right.
Right now, if it would save him, Shigelm would grasp at straw, at anything at all.
"So… yes, the straw thing. Desperate to survive—right. I understand. The fact that you, Shigelm, came here to present your proposal—that was a calculated, properly thought-out decision on your part."
"——"
"I respect someone who follows the rules. Someone who's willing to negotiate is far more trustworthy than someone who comes swinging. I don't know how many of my terrible rumors you've heard, but please don't judge me by them. …I'm not looking to make waves, if I can help it."
As he spoke, the King of Purges opened his left hand toward Shigelm, and with a gentle gesture, indicated that the other could speak.
"Ah—"
Instantly, as if the rigidity had dissolved, a ragged breath escaped Shigelm's lips.
For an instant, he feared it might irk the King's nerves, but the young man before him showed no reaction. His patient silence had, barely, guided Shigelm back to the world.
"Shigelm, sir?"
"Y-Yes… I apologize. My offer is as stated in the letter I sent. I would be most grateful if the members of your organization would continue to engage with us for a long and prosperous future."
Choosing his words carefully, neither overly deferential nor presumptuous, Shigelm declared his position.
Hearing this, the King of Purges narrowed his eyes, considered for a moment, and then smiled.
"——"
The smile that appeared on his face struck Shigelm as suddenly age-appropriate—and he was startled.
Then, to the startled Shigelm, the King nodded deeply.
"Let's have a good relationship, Shigelm. For the details, arrange a meeting with the appropriate person afterward. This is the wisest choice."
"Ah…"
"I look forward to your continued support of the organization."
Raising his hand, still smiling, the King of Purges concluded the meeting.
At those words, Shigelm slowly rose to his feet. His kneeling body was so stiff he nearly lost his balance, but he barely managed to hold himself steady and let out a long breath.
"Thank you very much. In the future as well, please count on our favor."
"Mm."
Somehow, concealing the numbness in his tongue, he managed to complete his final greeting.
Bowing to the King, who nodded as if his business were done, Shigelm backed away.
"——"
A storm of relief and accomplishment raged through his chest.
The leaden tension that had bound his entire body mere seconds ago dissolved, and the man's steps grew naturally lighter as he pictured the faces and names of his waiting family, one by one, and nodded.
He had weathered the storm and somehow kept his hope alive— "——?"
At that moment.
Behind him, a faint, light sound.
The kind of sound that had long been familiar to his ears.
The sound a coin makes when it slips from the palm and falls to the floor.
"Heads."
A single word. A short voice.
Before Shigelm could comprehend what it meant— "——"
The old man's vision tilted, becoming parallel with the floor.
The carpet was closer than when he'd been kneeling. —That was the last thing he knew.
—— The headless corpse of the man collapsed, and Halibel watched it through narrowed eyes.
A clean performance.
The old man's limbs showed no convulsion, and the head that had fallen onto the carpet seemed unaware of its own death. An almost artistic corpse—lacking only the distinction of death, stripped of everything else.
Of course, a corpse was just a corpse, and Halibel had no taste for calling such things beautiful.
"O—Oh, no…"
Seeing blood erupt from the corpse, the boy on the throne covered his mouth.
He must have already seen countless corpses and countless people transformed into corpses, but his nerves remained delicate, and he showed no signs of ever growing accustomed to it.
"To order it and then react like that—aren't you essentially desecrating the dead? I'm not saying you should get used to corpses, but perhaps you could make an effort to avoid creating them in the first place?"
"I'm not doing this because I enjoy it…" the boy replied, pressing a cloth to his mouth as he fought nausea. "I'm here at the scene, even if I can't look directly. That's the least…"
"Deceit," his colleague said without mercy.
Of course, in this situation, his colleague—Cecilus—was right. That the employer didn't take offense was evidence that he recognized his own hypocrisy.
And so, to the boy whose complexion had gone even more deathly pale, Cecilus continued: "Be that as it may." His gaze was fixed on the fallen corpse, the pitiful old man.
"I'm amazed at the boss's inconsistency. You ended the conversation so amicably, and then had him killed on the spot. Even His Excellency would be startled by that change of heart."
Saying this, Cecilus puffed out his cheeks petulantly. Not a gesture appropriate for a man in his twenties, but combined with his spiritual immaturity, it suited him surprisingly well.
Perhaps it was his natural good looks and his usual demeanor that made such things acceptable.
In any case, even this outburst from Cecilus made the boy's cheeks twitch.
"Like I said—I didn't *want* to kill him. Just like I told him, I wanted to believe him. He didn't have a lying face, either."
"Then why?"
"Because even if he didn't *look* like he was lying, a liar is still a liar."
Cecilus looked puzzled, and the boy on the throne bit his lip.
That profoundly jaded worldview was the one thing about him that revealed an unshakable will.
Neither Halibel nor Cecilus knew what had happened in his past.
But something must have happened—something convincing enough to teach him this.
People who smile warmly and treat you kindly, harboring calculation and suspicion behind their facade, spitting hatred and killing intent with the same fingers, the same lips—such an experience.
That experience had taught this boy.
"Pull the weed before it sprouts. Cut the branch before it grows. I will never, ever be deceived again."
The boy's fingers dug into his own shoulder through the fabric, nails drawing blood. The merciless pressure left no doubt—the skin was broken, blood seeping through.
This act of self-harm was a necessary ritual for maintaining his sanity, and those who knew him—the aides close to him, the subordinates who had, by circumstance, remained with him long-term—understood this. No one stopped him.
Eventually, apparently satisfied with the pain, the boy rose from the throne at ease.
"Please clean up the corpse and arrange a burial. Also, send a messenger to that man's shop. We'll be confiscating everything, but if he cooperates, things will go well for his family. If he resists, kill the entire household and burn the shop. Once the transfer is complete, have the new manager come to introduce themselves. Then I'll decide whether to keep or destroy it."
In a flat, dispassionate tone, the boy issued orders loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.
Not directed at anyone in particular—a vague instruction that *someone* would handle it.
He demanded results, not process. This approach to delegation ultimately kept the organization running smoothly. Rather than one person claiming credit, everyone focused on the task at hand—and the organization maintained its flawless operations.
There was a reason for this, and a vulnerability that left them no choice.
And the vulnerability—the knowledge that if someone shirked, everything could be taken away—ensured that everyone gave their all. In a way, it was an ideal workplace environment.
For example, family. For example, lovers. For example, possessions. For example, life, and everything else.
Holding these as insurance, maintaining control over them—that was the principle of the man who led the organization.
The strategy of a fearful boy known and feared as the King of Purges.
"Boss, you forgot your jacket."
"Oh—thank you."
As the boy stood and turned toward the door, Halibel gently draped the black jacket over his shoulders.
Just over the shoulders—without a word of thanks. And in the next instant, Halibel's whiskers tingled, sensing a faint killing intent.
That intense killing intent made Halibel lower the eyes behind his thread-thin lids.
The source of it required no thought—it was the boy before him.
Perhaps because he had been standing behind him.
"…Halibel, I'd rather not kill you."
"Haha, well, if that's the case, just don't kill me. Use me well, and we'll get along fine."
"But becoming too powerful and self-destructing would be the worst, right? …Pulling a power play and dying—that's the most pathetic way to go."
Muttering to himself, the boy slipped his arms into the jacket sleeves while considering the most efficient way to kill the aide directly behind him.
He let those grumbling words pass with a light tone, but they were not a joke. If it were possible, the boy would kill Halibel.
Right now, he was simply weighing the effort of killing him against the preparation involved, and the effort of dealing with the aftermath against the preparation for that—and tilting toward not killing.
"Boss, boss. The tribute this man brought—where should I put it?"
"Tribute… what was inside?"
"The contents were… ah, magic ore. No idea where he got the idea of your preferences. After all that consideration, only to be beheaded—this man is truly pitiful, pitiful."
"Cecilus was the one who took his head…"
At the room's entrance, the boy called to a stop twisted his cheeks in annoyance. Then, sighing at Cecilus's nonchalant attitude— "Please take the magic ore to my room. Everything else, help yourselves."
"Roger that. Oh, and, Boss."
"…What?"
In an irritable tone, the boy turned—Cecilus traced a finger beneath his own eye.
"Those dark circles are pretty bad. Maybe it's time for a little nap at the princess's place?"
At Cecilus's words, the boy clicked his tongue loudly.
Cecilus laughed it off, but the other men in the room tensed. Would the boy order Cecilus's elimination right here and now, on the grounds of his bad mood?
Of course, if it came to that, killing Cecilus would be no simple matter. The entire building's forces would have to be expended, and Halibel would need to aim for a mutual kill.
"…I'll think about it."
Fortunately, the boy did not lose his temper. He left those words and turned his back.
And so, as a wave of relief spread through the room, the men watched their leader's retreating figure. Cecilus's casual wave was, for Halibel as well, a source of endless concern.
"I'm not exactly the type for group activities myself…"
Jostling the pipe in his mouth, Halibel followed the boy who walked ahead.
As the aide who had been with him longest, Halibel's role was essentially that of bodyguard. In any case, whether inside the mansion or outside, very few would dare to harm him.
The former because of fear, the latter because many didn't even know of his existence.
"——"
Carefully, Halibel watched the boy—who assessed everything with deliberate caution—through his narrow eyes.
The building he had claimed as his headquarters was decorated not only in the reception room but throughout with a variety of art, paintings, and ostentatious objects, displaying its violent wealth while maintaining a posture of defensive restraint.
Demonstrating authority through wealth, flaunting power—this was a desperate strategy to avoid creating unnecessary enemies.
*"Win without fighting"*—the boy had said as much, and it was indeed an ideal.
Of course, setting that aside, excessive wealth was a magnet for envy and jealousy. No matter what one did, enemies would only increase. The boy's approach was a sound strategy in that it reduced the absolute number of opponents.
And once the number of enemies was reduced, all that remained was to counter with superior force.
"Halibel… keep an eye on Cecilus, make sure he doesn't go off the deep end."
"Sure, sure, leave it to me. Boss—you're heading to the princess?"
"Mm."
Accepting Cecilus's suggestion was apparently humiliating—the boy twisted his face as he answered.
And so, their footsteps carried them to the innermost depths of the Pleiades headquarters—to the room known as "Pandemonium," the most heavily guarded chamber in the building.
——On that door hung an alarming number of locks and padlocks.
Nearly fifty locks—they impressed upon the viewer the gravity of what lay behind this door, the thoroughness and obsessive paranoia of the person who had arranged them.
But the most truly obsessive aspect of this door's owner was this: not a single key matching the keyhole existed anywhere in the world.
In other words, this door could never be opened by ordinary means.
To open it required— "——Puck."
"Called, appearing, nyanyanyanyan!"
At the boy's summons, accompanied by a lazy voice and an over-the-top display of light, a small gray cat materialized in midair.
With its dopey manner and adorable appearance—yet in truth, a Great Spirit of immense power—Puck drifted down and landed softly on the boy's shoulder.
"Well, it's been a while. Do you need something from Lia?"
"Open the door."
"My, my—what a way to ask. You might upset your old man, and then you won't get to see your daughter. Come on, try to empathize with a father holding onto his precious girl…"
"Puck."
The boy called the name as Puck, on his shoulder, made a gesture of stroking an imperial mustache.
Gazing at the boy's face, shrouded in dark circles, Puck sighed. "My, my."
"You held out until the very last moment again, huh? Can't be helped. I'll grant you this for your effort."
Saying this, Puck made a show of great deliberation before pointing both short hands at the door. A pale light descended into the countless keyholes— *Click.* The pale light transformed into an ice key, which turned within the lock and produced the sound of release.
The way to open a door that could not be opened—a trick that created a key that didn't exist.
"A clever blind spot, that. When there's a keyhole, human nature says to look for a matching key. I'd be in trouble if someone copied this, though."
"There's also the magic wavelength to consider. If anyone other than me did this, alarms would go off instantly for us. Besides, I'm always with Lia."
"Fair enough."
At Puck's words, Halibel nodded in understanding.
Watching this exchange, the boy placed his hand on the now-unlocked door and paused. Behind him, Halibel stood with an unperturbed expression. The boy looked up at him.
"Halibel—you may go."
"Oh? I'd also like to pay my respects to the princess once in a while…"
"You may go."
The casual offer was rejected by a flat, unequivocal tone.
Halibel understood clearly that this was an absolute refusal. There was no point in pressing further, so he clamped the pipe in his teeth and backed away.
"If anything comes up, just call for me."
"——"
With his hand on the door, the boy watched Halibel's retreating back with a guarded gaze.
Even as Halibel turned the corner and disappeared from view, the boy's stare remained fixed on his back.
Always vigilant, cautious to the point of being fearful—his employer and benefactor.
"If I ask, he probably won't summon me, will he?"
With that weary murmur, Halibel exhaled a plume of purple smoke and tilted his head skyward.
The smoke hit the ceiling and, having nowhere to go, dissipated.
——Somehow, that seemed like a metaphor for their futures.
—— His sleeping face was so peaceful it could have been mistaken for death.
"——"
Emilia watched the boy who had laid his head in her lap, sleeping on the verge of death.
The dark circles around his eyelids were so deep they looked as though charcoal had been smeared there—a testament to his severe sleep deprivation and the harsh circumstances that had made it unavoidable.
"He hasn't been sleeping well again, it seems."
"Can't be helped. With his current position, there's no time for rest. The best he can manage is probably the occasional visit to Lia."
Stroking his forehead, tracing his eyelashes with her finger, Emilia freed his sleeping face from her careful attention. Puck, floating nearby, wound his long tail around his belly and sighed.
Then he circled around Emilia's "private chamber."
A white room.
White walls, white floor. White ceiling, white bed, white furniture, white curtains—everything in the room was uniform in its whiteness.
Including the thin nightgown Emilia wore, which was also white, lending the scene a pathological air.
This room was the extent of Emilia's freedom. —A birdcage, with her as its prisoner.
Whether "prisoner" was the right word—even Emilia herself remained uncertain.
"Lia, are you still angry at him?"
"…I don't know."
At Puck's question, Emilia hesitated to respond.
It wasn't that it was difficult to say. She simply wasn't sure where her heart stood.
She had certainly been furious at first, and they hadn't reconciled.
They hadn't set aside time to apologize, or to be apologized to. They'd simply let time pass in that lukewarm limbo, continuing their half-baked daily routine.
"But I *am* angry at you, Puck. Preparing to take me away behind my back, without telling me."
"I'm sorry. But it couldn't be helped. I couldn't leave Lia with Roswaal in the state he was in, could I? It would have been irresponsible to drag you into a dangerous place and position, only to have him deteriorate like that. As far as Lia's safety goes, this place is second to none."
"——"
"The desire to keep Lia out of danger is something I share with him."
That was why Puck had agreed to the secret proposal to spirit Emilia away from Roswaal's mansion, executed her withdrawal from the Royal Selection without hesitation, and spared no effort in cooperating with the organization.
And Emilia knew none of it—only to find herself, before she could realize what had happened, a captive bird in this white room.
But Emilia also understood that she had no right to blame Puck for his judgment.
"In the end, I couldn't do anything…"
In the Royal Selection—the competition to determine the next king of Lugunica Kingdom—Emilia had suffered a humiliating defeat. A defeat by forfeit.
The primary cause was her refusal to attend the gathering of candidates, which had ultimately resulted in her exclusion from the Selection. In turn, this meant the fall of her patron, Roswaal L. Mathers, Marquis of the Domain, and his personal collapse.
In short: Emilia could not demonstrate her intent to participate; Roswaal, her patron, had lost his qualifications; and Emilia's camp collapsed before it could even function.
The result was that the ladder was pulled out from under her, and she was declared defeated without a fight.
"…My wish was…"
To create a world without discrimination.
A place where being a half-elf did not determine the entirety of one's life—that was, however clumsily, what Emilia had wished to build.
But that wish had vanished beyond the horizon of fairy tales, unable even to be spoken aloud.
And beyond that wish—the liberation of Emilia's homeland, the rescue of her companions who still lay frozen in ice on the lands of the
"Honestly, if you were going to stay in that mansion with no protection, languishing like that, you should have just gone back to the forest—but Lia couldn't even manage that. When I first received the secret message, even I was surprised."
"…I was *so* surprised. Because—"
The boy who had come to reunite with her—she had believed he was dead.
——Her non-participation in the Royal Selection had been sealed by the death of a servant girl in the mansion.
In the chaos triggered by the attack of a cursed beast, the first casualty had been the girl, Rem. Suspicion of involvement in her death had fallen on the boy who had been staying at the mansion at the time.
Unable to bear the suspicion, the boy had fled. In pursuit of him, Rem's sister, Ram, had also left the mansion—and never returned.
The collapse, perhaps, had begun there.
It was only after the neighboring villages had suffered further damage, and the irreversible disaster had already compounded, that the cause of Rem's death was identified as the curse of the cursed beast.
Following the beast incident, Roswaal failed to seize his opportunity for redemption and fell from power. Emilia, unable to announce her participation in the Royal Selection, bore the humiliation of a defeat by forfeit, and the mansion gradually descended—steadily, inevitably—toward a collapse that no one desired.
It was then.
When Emilia, crushed by her powerlessness and the weight of her sluggish days, was visited by a boy who should have been gone— "——"
As she had told Puck, Emilia had felt anger toward him.
He had disregarded her circumstances, given no explanation, hadn't even told her when he left or when he returned, and had suddenly spirited her away.
Her world had begun to crumble—perhaps he had been the catalyst.
And yet— "He came to me in such a state…"
When they reunited, the boy had worn a haggard face—exhausted by anxiety and fear, worse even than now—and clung to her, crying, begging for salvation.
And watching that childlike weeping, Emilia forgot to be angry.
Perhaps she was being soft. Perhaps she was being cheap.
But even so, she could not bring herself to scold a boy who had cried like a child, who had ultimately shown her a sleeping face as innocent as an infant's. She did not think herself so noble.
And so, the boy visited Emilia only when he came seeking rescue.
He would come to her, never uttering a word about what he'd been doing outside, and simply—clumsily—tell her of his suffering, entrusting his life to her lap.
Whether she received this as wholehearted trust, or as the humiliation of being thoroughly underestimated—that was up to Emilia, and Emilia had not yet found the answer to either.
"This is probably… really unhealthy, isn't it?"
Even the sheltered Emilia could understand that this was not a normal state of affairs.
But Emilia had no way to prove her place in the world other than to receive the tears of the boy who clung to her and watch over him as he sank into momentary peace.
"——"
If frequency were any measure, the boy came to Emilia roughly once every ten days.
The rest of the time, he was surely fighting with everything he had, grudging even the time for sleep.
They rarely exchanged many words.
But as for these visits—this once-in-a-ten-day rendezvous—Emilia— "…Looking forward to Subaru…"
—was, perhaps, waiting for them. That much, she was aware of.
—— A flipped coin that shows tails is enough to kill anyone.
At the existence of such an abnormal master, Frederica could not entirely hide her disgust.
After clearing the headless corpse from the reception room, replacing the soiled carpet, and then preparing food for the mercenaries inside "Pandemonium," Frederica bit down on her sharp fangs—the source of her inferiority complex—and suppressed the rage trembling in her heart.
She had heard that
That day, when the mansion had been flooded with freezing white air, and Frederica had been certain that she too had been killed by the Great Spirit's betrayal—somehow, by some inexplicable karma, she had awakened here.
Since then, she had been fitted with a collar and forced into servitude as a maid, bound to serve the very person she despised.
How many blunders would she have to commit before this kind of injustice stopped?
"——Master, if you'll excuse me."
It was the rule that Frederica personally deliver meals to her master's room.
No one else was permitted this task. The representative would eat nothing that Frederica had not prepared. She found no honor in this—none whatsoever.
It was not trust or taste that had placed this responsibility on Frederica. It was simply the belief that she would not pull any stupid stunts.
"Enter."
The sound of locks being removed, followed by a brusque command, granted her entry.
Following the instruction, Frederica pushed the meal cart into her master's room.
The room was strikingly different from the building's lavish interior and ornate decorations—aside from its size, it was spartan, a sterile, impersonal space.
The four corners were packed with books—masses of them, piled indiscriminately regardless of genre. For the fastidious Frederica, it was an almost unbearable space. But when she offered to clean, the master had vehemently refused.
He was likely wary of something being planted in the room.
He knew perfectly well that she would never do such a thing, and yet he remained guarded—not cautious, but fearful. A pathetically丑态, one that invited contempt.
"Master—these documents on the floor, shall I take them as usual?"
"…Mm. Yeah—go ahead. Just show them to someone who looks like they'd understand."
With a disinterested wave, the master indicated the pages scattered across the floor—sloppily handwritten notes in a chaotic scrawl.
At first glance, they looked like discarded drafts that anyone would throw away, but in truth, they were the lifeblood of this organization—the source of the King of Purges' mysterious revenues.
"That stuff's probably not much use… I don't understand how engines or any of that works at all. Food-related stuff is easier to get, I guess…"
Muttering to himself, his gaze fixed on someplace far away.
What he spoke of was knowledge or culture that no one had ever seen, discovered, or even conceived of—its origins, its endpoints.
The black-haired boy who, upon meeting people, repeated his ruthless decisions—but whom fate, in a cruel twist, had endowed with the gift of a pioneer of culture, a man of rare and extraordinary ideas.
The fragments of knowledge he spoke of had ignited the fires of the sages who toiled in obscurity.
These learned men had taken the boy's outrageous pronouncements—jumping to conclusions no ordinary person could reach—and soberly tested them, debated them, until they crystallized into viable theories.
The result was enormous profit, which had grown this penniless boy into a great villain.
*'Heh—to think I'd end up using modern knowledge for a typical overpowered cheat…'* Frederica knew that the master had once murmured this when praised for his accomplishments. She also knew that when he'd said it, he hadn't been smiling at all.
In any case, his dark genius lay in the fact that while he made countless people miserable, he also produced happiness for countless others.
Despicable as a human being, his intellect still held undeniable value.
Surely, there were no two people in the world as difficult to handle as this. —In that sense, perhaps that was why he and Roswaal had gotten along.
"——"
"Frederica—food. Take the first bite."
Lost in thought, Frederica continued preparing the meal with practiced efficiency.
The boy was skin and bones, gaunt beyond reason. It wasn't that he ate little—psychological strain was the greater factor.
Despite hurting and taking from so many, despite earning such hatred, he was surprisingly delicate—she often saw him retching. As the one responsible for meals, it wasn't pleasant to witness, but at least he wasn't doing it on purpose.
"Master, here you are."
For some reason, the meal was always prepared in two portions.
Every item, doubled—she arranged all the plates on the table, then took a bite from each to demonstrate the taster's role.
She had never considered poisoning him. Well—she'd *considered* it. But for Frederica, her role as a maid constituted the most important part of her life. The people who had taught her, the people she had worked alongside—thinking of them, she could not bring herself to commit such an act.
"Then, I'll take my leave. Please call if you need anything."
"Mm."
The master did not like being watched while he ate.
And so, once her preparations were complete, Frederica would leave at an opportune moment.
Today was no different—she stepped out of the room, intending to wait outside, and then— Something caught her eye.
On the desk, spread open, was what appeared to be a roster of the organization's members.
And beside the roster—a gold coin.
The instant she grasped its meaning, a chill raced up Frederica's spine that she could not conceal.
"Master—"
"Frederica."
As she turned, about to call out, the master's hollow black eyes were fixed on her.
In that void of darkness, Frederica held her breath. Before her, the master approached the desk, closed the open roster, and then picked up the gold coin sitting beside it. He set it on his thumb and— "Heads."
With a light flick, the coin landed in his left hand. He caught it, confirmed which side faced up, and smiled at Frederica.
"Heads, Frederica. —Your brother and grandmother are safe."
"Ah—"
"Leave. And don't come back in until you're told."
At his words, Frederica could no longer reply. She nodded like a doll, tears welling that she could not hold back, her cheeks wet with hot droplets as she left the room. Then, immediately, she covered her face and broke into a run.
"U-Uuuuu… uuuaaaah!"
She could tell no one. She was not permitted to confide in anyone.
How had things come to this?
How had things come to this?
The days at that mansion—the days with the endearing junior, the precious junior, the troublesome master—felt so far, far away. Where had that time gone?
—— Upon receiving word from the secret messenger, Cecilus closed one eye and looked up at the moon.
"Hmm, hmm hmm, hmm hmm hmm."
He tilted his head, twisted his waist, and leaned so far that his long hair scraped the ground.
Thinking had never been his forte. Cecilus was uneducated and had never had any intention of learning—his entire life, all twenty-some years of it, had been devoted to one thing.
He prided himself solely on being a swordsman, and had wielded a blade for years uncounted.
That being the case, he genuinely wished to be excused from anything complicated.
"So, what do you think? From my perspective."
He straightened up, brushed the hair that had touched the floor from his shoulders, then drew his sword with a sharp ring—spinning in a dancer's motion, he faced the other direction.
"Hey, Halibel. What's your take?"
"——What's with the bold approach? I was hiding my presence, and now I feel embarrassed."
From the balcony of the castle—Pandemonium—overlooked by a sliver of moon, a shadow deepened and the beast ninja emerged from it.
His concealment having been seen through, Halibel scratched his head and walked over to Cecilus, who showed no sign of embarrassment.
Drawing a pipe from his kimono, he lit the tip and inhaled the purple smoke, then exhaled.
"That messenger just now—who was it?"
"Oh, that? Technically, one of the 'Nine Divine Generals,' but—well, against a ninja of your caliber, getting caught is no surprise."
"Ce-san, you're just not cut out for secrecy, are you? That was you telling me loud and clear that you haven't actually cut ties with the Vollachia Empire."
"But, Halibel—you already knew that, didn't you?"
"——"
Halibel's awkward smile deepened at Cecilus's observation.
That it was not a denial was something even Cecilus could honestly acknowledge.
"After all, I've been cooperating with the Boss at His Excellency's directive. Of course, I won't deny that the Boss's pitch lured me here on its own merits."
"With the Empire's collar around your neck… well, your movements are easy enough to steer for the Empire's benefit. And whatever this knowledge is that you're bringing in from who-knows-where—it's more easily accepted by Kararagi and Vollachia than by Lugunica or
"Exactly, exactly."
Cecilus placed a hand inside his kimono sleeve and confirmed his status as a spy.
Cecilus's cooperation with the organization was, as he'd declared, at the command of the Vollachian Emperor. That said, the Emperor understood Cecilus's temperament well enough to leave him without detailed instructions—Cecilus wouldn't have remembered them anyway.
His assigned role was straightforward— "Anyone His Excellency has not named—kill whoever the Boss orders killed. As usual."
"Ce-san, for a ninja, don't you come across as more of an assassin?"
"No, no—nothing of the sort. Because I can't do things like hide underwater, coat myself in poison, or emerge from shadows. Those are outside my expertise."
With a shake of his hands and head, Cecilus humbly acknowledged the difference in their fields.
As a ninja, as an assassin, he was far inferior to Halibel. But in a head-on duel, Halibel could not match Cecilus.
"And yet, I happened upon the meeting with the secret messenger—so, what do you want to do? Shall we have a go at each other here?"
"That depends on what the message says, doesn't it?"
"Hmm—so, what does it say?"
"If it says to kill Ce-san, I'll fight to stop it."
Halibel夹着 pipe between his fingers, exhaling purple smoke, his hair swaying in the cold night wind.
Cecilus, receiving this casual declaration of willingness to fight to the death for his master, nodded with understanding.
"I've been meaning to ask—why do you fight for the Boss? I mean, for me, it's His Excellency's orders, so it's not exactly heartfelt loyalty…"
"Repayment of a debt."
"——You owe the Boss? You, of all people?"
Unexpected words flew out, and Cecilus asked again with straightforward surprise. It was a bluntness that others might have called rude, but Halibel took no offense.
Halibel simply looked up at the moon in the night sky— "When I first met Subaru, there was an incident at the edge of Kararagi. It involved the Four Great Spirits, of all things… and Subaru handled it."
"Oh! The Four Great Spirits? I've heard of them, but they're not exactly conversational, are they? And he pacified one… Wait, is the Boss stronger than he looks?"
"No, no—don't take it so combatively. Well… I can't say what the decisive factor was, but you know how Subaru sometimes shows this abnormal foresight? It was like that. That kind of feeling."
Sheathing his sword with a sharp ring, Cecilus closed one eye as he considered Halibel's explanation.
It was a response that was only partially convincing—because, in certain respects, Cecilus himself evaluated the boy who was his Boss.
Halibel called it "abnormal foresight," but Cecilus interpreted it differently.
He considered it a weapon born of preparedness—of caution. And Cecilus valued strength, found it admirable.
As long as it led to victory, he recognized as a warrior anyone who pursued it with greed.
"Well, I'm a swordsman among other things, so ideally, a sword-to-sword duel would be the most exciting…"
"Ce-san, Ce-san—are you done with my story?"
"Yes, quite enough. Besides, I've never once doubted you, Halibel. Unlike the Empire, city-states have tangled webs of motives… To be told someone is acting on another's orders is far less credible. I trust you."
At Cecilus's response, Halibel deflated slightly, his shoulders dropping. Cecilus tilted his head, then snapped his fingers as though remembering something.
"Oh—that's right, I forgot. About the secret messenger's report just now…"
"That—am I allowed to know?"
"If I don't tell you, various things might get complicated. Actually—"
Cecilus beamed, all smiles, and said to Halibel: "It seems the Kingdom is getting serious about destroying the organization, because the former Marquis's murder has been exposed."
—— And so, in a quiet, dispassionate manner, the moment of conclusion arrives.
"I am deeply grateful for granting me an audience today."
The young man who said this, having been shown into the reception room as a guest, stood boldly before the King of Purges.
"——"
This was a man believed to have killed many, to hold many lives in his hands, and to possess leverage over countless individuals.
Many before him had tried to maintain their composure, had tried to put on a brave front—so many— "Wow, you're really something, standing that tall. You're not that different from me, though."
"…I am flattered by your unexpected praise."
The one who bowed was a slender young man in a black suit and tie.
His features were gentle, but a faint darkness lurked in the depths of his eyes. His smile was probably false—and he took it as a given that this would be seen through.
Not reckless, but possessed of a solid backbone. —A contradictory young man.
"Now then, you are…?"
"In truth, I would like to expand my business operations here in the near future. So first, I wanted to pay my respects to the organization and present a gift."
"Indeed—that's very… thoughtful of you."
The brisk efficiency with which the young man pursued his role was well-received.
Taking a cue from this attitude, the boy likewise pursued his business in a measured way.
"Here is the tribute. —I was told this is what the representative desired."
"Oh?"
The young man presented the tribute; his attendant carried it in, and the lid was opened. The King of Purges' eyes were captivated.
It was filled with stones—magic ore—its purity evident in the way the ambient mana in the room thickened perceptibly.
Gazing at the tribute, the King murmured: "Which color is most prominent?"
"…?"
"Red and blue, mostly. But deeper in, there are yellow and green as well. It's quite the complete set. How very considerate of you."
The young man hesitated for the first time at the nonsensical question.
It was Cecilus, standing at the King's side, who answered on his behalf. Upon hearing Cecilus's report, the King nodded solemnly.
"I see—that is most appreciated. I accept your kindness with gratitude. Now then…"
"This is from the envoy of
"Mm—I understand. From Russell Fellow, yes. Well noted. If you ever find yourself in any difficulty…"
At this point, the King of Purges cut himself off.
The reason was that the young messenger had raised both hands, interrupting.
For an instant, a murmur of alarm rippled through the room. Interrupting the King's words—what reaction would the King of Purges have? The guards tensed.
But among those present, only Halibel, Cecilus, and the young man himself remained calm.
"Please wait. In truth, the gift does not end there."
"Oh? Even more impressive."
The King's response eased the tension slightly.
And then, in the now slightly calmer atmosphere, the young man nodded deeply.
And— "From the
——In the next instant, a blinding white light swallowed the reception room whole and shattered it.
A torrent of devastating light engulfed the opulent reception room, the demonic castle of Pandemonium, as if in purification, reducing it to white dust.
Without understanding what had happened, eighteen people had been evaporated by the white light—all were skilled fighters, renowned warriors, but they were simply outmatched.
Even if there had been a way to convey the truth to them after the fact, not a single one would have believed it.
——That the blow which had evaporated them all had been the work of a single sword.
The collapsing headquarters of the organization. The place where its most important figures had gathered, blown away.
And standing above it all, resplendent and radiant.
The "King of Purges," who had committed countless atrocities and was finally designated an enemy of the world.
To destroy him, the Dragon Kingdom had sent an assassin—none other than— "——The heir to the 'Sword Saint' lineage,
A divine hammer of irrationality—the kind that renders all effort meaningless—had manifested.
—— In the destroyed reception room, a man stood with utter composure.
Fiery red hair, blue eyes reflecting the sky—his pristine white knight's uniform bore not a single stain. The knight among knights, standing like a living painting.
In his hand, the holy sword he'd been wielding had shattered into fragments.
A single swing, and the steel forged by a legendary smith had crumbled to dust. In exchange, he had eliminated the man who had committed countless atrocities, along with his entire entourage— "You can tell at a glance, can't you, that I'm not the sort of opponent you can handle?"
"——"
A slash cut through the lingering smoke at lightning speed, slamming into Reinhard with terrifying force.
A thunderous impact echoed through the hall, and the "Sword Saint's" tall frame was driven back. But the blow had not landed on his body—it had been caught by his sword's scabbard.
Not by catching it, but by twisting his body to receive the slash on his scabbard—this acrobatic feat drew a whistle from Cecilus, who had launched the strike.
"My, my—as inhuman as ever. I'm glad to see you haven't changed, Reinhard."
"I'm afraid I can't say the same about this reunion, Cecilus."
Cecilus, who had kicked off the dust-covered floor with his geta and now rested the drawn "Demonic Sword" Murasame on his shoulder, received the greeting—and the opening strike—with a tilt of his head.
Then, peering into the depths of the room as the smoke cleared— "…It didn't reach him, then."
"No, the Boss was unharmed. Well, I wasn't exactly trying to protect him—so that was entirely Halibel's doing. I take zero credit."
Cecilus pointed with his chin toward the back of the room, where the smoke had cleared to reveal the King of Purges seated on his throne, cheek propped on one hand, with the wolf-man Halibel standing behind him.
Halibel exhaled a plume of purple smoke from the pipe clenched in his mouth.
"Ce-san, correction. That wasn't my doing."
"Whaat? Then it must be my hidden power—"
"Not that either. That was Subaru's work. …This throne appears to be protected by some kind of extremely powerful force. Even we'd never heard of it."
To Cecilus, who was staring at his own trembling hands, Halibel shook his head.
And behind Halibel, the one who had been sitting on the throne—the King of Purges—rose to his feet. Then, grabbing the orange neckerchief wound around his neck— "I saw your opening move from the vault. You should know by now—of course I'd be prepared."
His face twisted into an agonized smile.
That was the "King of Purges"—or rather,
"Subaru…!"
"You drew the short straw, Reinhard. If you hadn't helped me back in the vault, things wouldn't have turned out this way. —And in that case, you would have never met your precious young lady again. So maybe it worked out for the best for you, didn't it?"
"—!"
From behind Halibel, Subaru stuck his tongue out at Reinhard.
Reinhard's cheeks hardened, as if feeling the sting of pain. Subaru gazed at those sorrowfully wavering blue eyes, wearing the expression of a demon.
Then, suddenly, his expression vanished.
"What's this? You're still black and white, huh?"
"…? Black and white? What do you mean—"
"Shut up, you lying bastard. —At that rate, I can't even let you kill me."
In a voice emptied of emotion, Subaru looked away from Reinhard with an air of disinterest. Then, after clapping Halibel on the shoulder, he turned to Cecilus, who was still facing Reinhard.
"Cecilus—do as you please. I've lost interest."
"…I don't quite understand, but it seems the Boss and I are seeing different things. I'll gratefully accept this worthy opponent."
"Seeing different things… Ha! Naturally. You'll make me laugh until the end."
Whatever it was about Cecilus's words that amused him, Subaru slapped his knee with genuine mirth.
Then, just as quickly, the laughter vanished.
"It was fun while it lasted, Cecilus. You had no weaknesses, which made you a tough one."
"I have one, actually. —I'm afraid of mayonnaise."
"Ha!"
Cecilus declared this so brazenly that Subaru laughed from the bottom of his heart.
Subaru's form, carried by Halibel, sank into shadow. In that manner, the two of them departed from this situation— "Wait! We haven't finished—"
"——This is over, 'Sword Saint.' If you don't want it to end, catch up and start it again. But first, the King of Purges' loyal—if somewhat unreliable—subordinate stands in your way."
"Ku—!"
Reinhard moved to pursue the vanishing Subaru and Halibel, but a slash cut across his path.
A single horizontal strike across the floor—a flash of transcendent speed, the pinnacle of swordsmanship, executed so fast its draw was invisible to the naked eye.
"I'm afraid you'll have to wait a while longer for that evaluation. I'm still climbing the mountain. One more step, and I believe I'll reach it."
"Reach where?"
"The Heavenly Sword, of course."
The instant the words left his lips, the air went taut—then was torn apart, and death followed.
A swordsman who had truly reached the apex of the single blade—or rather, the crystalline sword intent of one who called himself a *swordsman*. It had already crossed into the demonic, capable of producing consequences that defied all reason.
The embodiment of the sword standing there could kill even the unseen with nothing more than a touch.
"I've waited for this moment. —The moment I cross blades with you."
"…Cecilus—before this, you and I have already fought. That encounter held great meaning for me as well. Why, then—"
"Naturally, as one who wields a blade. —On the boundary between life and death, we meet."
The second blade, the "Demonic Sword" Murasame, was drawn with an eerie gleam.
The first blade, the "Dream Sword" Masayume, bared its beautiful blade—so beautiful it seemed to beg for destruction.
Two of the ten most renowned demonic, legendary, and holy swords in existence—the third, however— "——The 'Dragon Sword' Reid."
The sword that always resided beside the "Sword Saint," yet was never drawn except against an enemy worthy of that title—its white, radiant blade was now exposed to the atmosphere.
The sound felt in the drawn edge could only be the Dragon Sword's applause.
"You must know, Reinhard—there is a wall before us."
Each bearing a holy sword, a demonic sword, and a dragon sword, two transcendent beings faced each other.
Closing the distance step by step, the world flinched from the impending collision, the atmosphere warping.
"Those who reach a certain realm find their path forward blocked by a wall. No matter what, there are those who cannot surpass it and learn to give up. But for me, that is impossible. If I cannot surpass that wall, I cannot be myself."
"——"
"And then the Boss made his offer. A way to surpass that wall… in other words, a way to cross blades with you in a genuine life-or-death struggle. Truly—the words of a drowning man grasping at straw."
"A drowning man…?"
"He said, 'A drowning man will grasp at even a straw.'"
This was the sole solution that had brought Cecilus Segmunt to this place.
Perhaps, the moment his wish as a swordsman was seen through, this had been inevitable.
Before the "Sword Saint's" wide eyes, Cecilus moistened his lips.
And then the "Blue Lightning," who smiled as he killed, declared: "I am drowning, Lord Reinhard van Astrea. Or so my employer tells me—all of us who desire something with all our hearts are drowning, every one. We are drowning continuously in some 'Oounabara' that we have never even seen."
"——"
Reinhard held his breath.
And there, Cecilus lowered his stance, set both blades in position, and kicked off his geta.
"——Swordsman Cecilus Segmunt."
The Vollachia Empire, First General, "Blue Lightning"—such superfluous titles were unnecessary.
He was, here and now, nothing but a swordsman—one who yearned for the path to the Heavenly Sword.
——Lightning split Pandemonium.
Blood sprayed into the air.
—— Tremors continued to rock Pandemonium.
The aftershocks of battle—violent shaking and impacts—thundered even into Emilia's private chamber.
The overhead light swayed violently, dust scattering through the air. Curled on her bed, Emilia was faced with a choice.
"——"
*Stay here.* That was what she had been told.
Or perhaps it was a plea—*Please stay here.* Should she believe it and wait? Should she ignore it and break free?
Caught between her circumstances and the state of her heart, she kept postponing the choice.
But— "Lia—it's decided."
"Eh?"
Amid the continuing tremors of battle, Puck called out to Emilia on her bed. She looked up at the small spirit floating before her, his violet eyes narrowed, his short arms crossed, his tiny nose twitching.
At the word "decided," Emilia held her breath.
She had done nothing, again.
Postponing her choice, then accepting the result through inaction.
She knew halfway that this was cowardice, and yet she— Before she could reserve her attitude toward Subaru— "Reinhard is here. Subaru has lost."
"——"
Emilia's thoughts froze at the continuation of Puck's words.
"Wh—"
Formless thoughts, voiceless sounds escaping her, Emilia's eyes flew wide open.
When she'd heard "decided," she had been certain of Subaru's victory. She had never once doubted it—and in this instant, she realized that for the first time.
Natsuki Subaru did not lose.
No matter who his opponent was, he would prevail with his own twisted logic and ironclad distrust of humanity, using every pawn, manipulating every possible ally, and annihilating every enemy.
And when he grew tired of thinking, when he came seeking momentary peace at Emilia's side— She had been completely convinced that Subaru would always, always come to her.
"Until today, I've never pressured Lia into making a choice. But this time, I think we have to. The time has come when you must choose."
"Choose…?"
"Whether to stay here, or to leave this place."
How much did he know? Puck's words carried the weight of certainty.
Emilia gripped the sheets tightly as Puck looked down at her. His expression held none of its usual flippancy—only the deep pity of a parent grieving for a beloved child.
The eyes of a parent watching, with worry, the uncertain path of a lost child.
"Subaru seems to have managed the information well. There's no trace of Lia's involvement with the organization. Well, Lia truly wasn't involved, but since you were together for so long, there are bound to be those who suspect—and he took the necessary precautions."
"If I wasn't involved… then what was my role?"
"You were taken from Roswaal and held captive—essentially treated as a prisoner. The ones trying to destroy Pandemonium right now are supposedly a rescue team come to save you."
At this unexpected explanation, Emilia was struck dumb.
That Emilia had been taken from Roswaal against her will was a fact. And that she had resented Subaru for it was also a fact.
But that she had not refused Subaru when he came to her begging for salvation—that she had watched him strive to protect their time together—that too was a fact.
Even knowing all of this, could she truly say she bore no responsibility for what he had become?
To insist on that would be the height of shamelessness.
"Lia—if you stay here quietly, the rescue team will play the part of saving a poor princess. But…"
Puck whispered and landed on Emilia's thin shoulder. The cat spirit nuzzled her cheek, and the words he didn't say were painfully clear to her.
If she waited, she would be rescued as a victim.
But if Emilia left this place of her own volition, she would be a perpetrator who had been granted free will.
Before that fact, her hesitation lasted not a single second.
"——"
Emilia rose and touched the solitary door of the white room.
This was the door that required a complex magical authentication from the outside—only Subaru and Frederica, her caretaker, could open or close it.
The moment Emilia pressed her palm against it from within, the sealing formula shattered without a trace.
"Subaru's… old coot."
Touching the remnants of the broken spell on her palm, Emilia whispered in a small voice.
This formula had been designed from the start to be easily broken by Emilia alone. In other words, Subaru had made it so that whenever Emilia wanted to escape, she could.
The door of the birdcage had always been breakable by the bird's will alone.
Had Subaru simply assumed Emilia would never choose to leave? Or was this his own brand of kindness—respecting Emilia's desire to escape, if she had one?
She wanted to hear the answer from Subaru's own lips.
That was the choice Emilia had arrived at, at the end of all those years of being unable to choose anything at all.
—— Escorted from the reception room, the King of Purges ran through the castle alongside Halibel, chuckling in a low voice.
"I should've taken
Would that have restrained Reinhard?
—No. More likely, enraging Reinhard would have resulted in fighting the "Sword Saint" powered up by his own fury.
Everything had proceeded exactly according to simulation.
Perhaps, when Pandemonium fell, he had always known it would come to this.
"Playing at being the big boss of the underworld was… kind of fun, I guess…"
He looked back. On the journey to this point.
How much effort had it cost? So many people's weaknesses in his grip, so much hatred directed at him—controlling their lives, and then taking those lives on a whim— —No. Not on a whim. Never on a whim.
If it had been taken for a game, that was a monumental misunderstanding.
He had never tried to correct that impression, nor even thought about it, because there seemed to be no point.
—Subaru was afraid of humans. They disgusted him.
They smiled to his face while harboring ulterior motives. That kind of person—someone who could hide the truth, who could move according to countless schemes—terrified him.
It became absurd to wonder whether the people around him could be trusted.
And so Subaru decided to simplify all human relationships.
Every human being lies.
And establishing a world where it didn't matter even if every human being hated him— Every human has a weakness. Family. Lovers. Property. Dreams. Hope.
Therefore— "—If only I could hold the weaknesses of every person in the world…"
Then, finally, Subaru would have no need to suspect anyone.
In a monochrome world, in a world where no one who was colorful existed, he could rest easy, feeding on hatred.
"——"
Halibel, who was carrying Subaru, running alongside him to escape—his form did not appear truthful to Subaru. —Subaru saw him in monochrome. Black and white. Only two colors.
"——"
It wasn't just Halibel who appeared in monochrome.
Now, the world that Subaru saw had lost all color, reduced to two tones.
People, objects, paintings, furnishings, gemstones, magic ore, blood, water—all black and white.
He couldn't tell blood from water, couldn't tell soup from poison.
Everything was monochrome. It had become monochrome.
In such a world, there were a few things that still appeared in color to Subaru.
He believed those were real.
He believed everything else was false.
Beatrice had been one of them.
Emilia was one of them.
And the last—the very last— In any case, beyond those, Subaru could not believe in anything.
Everything else appeared literally colorless.
Only the truth—the real thing—would not become a lie.
Only the real thing held the power to decide Natsuki Subaru's fate—to kill him or let him live.
"…I'd had a little hope for Reinhard, though."
Perhaps someone from before those days—from before the event that truly drained the world of color—might still appear to him as something other than gray.
But even the first time they met, Reinhard appeared in monochrome to Subaru. Such hope was faint, and that once-vivid Reinhard looked like a gray smudge. Dirty.
In the end, Reinhard was only human.
Surely he, too, had lived lying continuously. That was all.
"Master—!"
As Subaru and his companions raced through the castle, a high voice suddenly called from the side.
Looking, he saw a tall maid with long hair—Frederica—running toward them from the far end of the corridor. He couldn't distinguish her hair color, but her face was distinctive enough to remember.
Subaru had quietly been fond of Frederica. And therefore— "I will not let you pass—!"
She burst in, properly shouting the formal request for his head, and Subaru couldn't help thinking there was something endearing about that.
Of course, Frederica's stand was not going to be tolerated by the strongest warrior of Kararagi.
"Ah—!"
Her dagger was knocked from her hands, and Frederica's arm was twisted behind her back as she was pinned against the wall by Halibel. Turning only her head to glare at the wolf-man, she demanded: "Why, Lord Halibel?! If we take advantage of the chaos, we could—!"
"He could be killed. I understand the thinking, Frederica. People who have their weaknesses held would want to kill Subaru to set themselves free. But…"
Halibel opened his narrowed eyes and fixed Frederica with a hard stare. Under that gaze, her thin throat tightened.
"Unfortunately, I'm not bound by weakness. I'm bound to Subaru by debt."
"A debt?! To this man?! Don't be absur—!"
Still pinned to the wall, Frederica glared at Subaru with bloodshot eyes. Her already sharp fangs seemed to swell, her delicate feminine fingers thickening and transforming into the limbs of a powerful beast.
"I will absolutely—!"
"Subaru?"
The one who had appeared beside the desperately struggling Frederica—without anyone noticing when—was Subaru.
Frederica's eyes flew open; Halibel called out a warning. But Subaru didn't stop. In that instant, Frederica's desperately raised arm grazed Subaru's neck— And in the next moment, the cloth strip that Subaru had wound around his neck fluttered to the floor— "—!"
Frederica gasped, her throat seizing at the sight.
Halibel, too, showed a rare flicker of surprise at what he was seeing.
——On Natsuki Subaru's neck, clearly visible: the marks of fingers.
"No good, Frederica. I can't have you killing me when all you see is black and white."
"——"
To the frozen Frederica, Subaru leaned in and spoke clearly.
Perhaps he had hoped that Frederica might, at least, see him in color. But even in this moment—this decisive moment—Frederica remained black and white.
"Halibel… take Frederica and get her out of here."
"…Subaru. The informant who lured the 'Sword Saint' here—"
"I know."
Subaru cut off Halibel's words, looking at the immobilized Frederica.
He knew without being told. That Frederica had acted as a spy—that much was understandable, given what she'd been put through.
—No. It wasn't limited to Frederica. If not her, it would have been someone else.
It was simply that everyone except Beatrice and Emilia had been a miscalculation.
"You don't need to come back, Halibel. I'll settle things on my own."
"——"
"If you want to repay your debt to me, this is enough. Besides, you didn't owe me anything in the first place. …I just cheated, that's all."
Shaking his head, Subaru offered Halibel a faint smile.
Halibel had, perhaps, been sincere in his dealings with Subaru. And yet, Halibel too had not appeared in color.
Perhaps the color, once lost, could never return.
Because Subaru had lost the right to believe in anything.
And so, would the world ever again show him color?
If not, then the only thing left to cling to— "I really