—Standing frozen, clutching the Book of the Dead inscribed with "
"—"
Eyes wide, Subaru felt his throat going rapidly dry.
Shocked or dumbfounded didn't even begin to cover it. What struck Subaru at this moment was something far more devastating and deeply personal.
A lethal poison that worked on no one but Subaru, yet was devastatingly effective against him alone.
The Book of the Dead bearing "Natsuki Subaru" pierced through him with that kind of searing intensity.
"How... why..."
Why did this Book of the Dead exist here—when it shouldn't?
The third floor of the
Or was he supposed to believe he'd simply stumbled upon the book of some other person who happened to share the same name?
"If this weren't another world, that explanation might have held some weight..."
The possibility that surfaced in his mind was immediately dismissed.
Obviously, this was another world—this place whose very rules for naming diverged wildly from anything Subaru knew. How could a name like "Natsuki Subaru" possibly arise here?
And before all that, there was a fundamental problem.
The title of this "Natsuki Subaru" book was written in kanji.
"—"
From everything Subaru had observed so far, this other world used an entirely different writing system. So to anyone who didn't recognize the characters of Subaru's world, this title would probably look like nothing more than pictographs or some alien script.
The more he thought about it, the clearer it became that Subaru finding a Book of the Dead for "Natsuki Subaru" here could only be the result of extraordinary, almost supernatural fortune— "—Someone's predetermined path."
That was the only way he could interpret it.
"—"
Clutching the Book of the Dead, Subaru fell silent again and pondered.
He'd found this book by following the faint resonance of Cor Leonis—his own authority. It wasn't the first or second time he'd searched this library for a specific volume, so Subaru knew firsthand how excruciatingly difficult it was to locate a particular book among this staggering collection.
Without some invisible hand of God guiding the process, it was practically impossible.
"Or maybe it wasn't God—maybe it was someone else's..."
He was certain it was someone's will at work.
The remaining question was the authenticity of this Book of the Dead—whether what was recorded here truly depicted the life of "Natsuki Subaru." And if it did, by what mechanism?
As a hard fact, Subaru was alive and standing here right now.
If his Book of the Dead existed here— "Does losing your memories count as being declared dead...? The Books of the Dead in Cauglia, that corridor of memories—does it also observe worlds where I've died...?"
If that were the case, it wasn't impossible to imagine that some process had captured Subaru's "death" and shaped it into a Book of the Dead. But if so, what about Return by Death— "I've wondered whether I'm rewinding time or rebuilding the world itself..."
If he assumed a mechanism by which the Book of the Dead generated the volume for "Natsuki Subaru," the highest probability seemed to point toward the latter. In that case, the phenomenon surrounding this Natsuki Subaru wasn't something as quaint as Return by Death—it was— "Am I an idiot? Yeah, I'm an idiot. ...What a coward."
Sensing his thoughts veering off on a tangent, Subaru cursed himself.
He quickly identified the source of that deviation: his own cowardice. He was simply terrified of the Book of the Dead.
What would happen if he read the book of "Natsuki Subaru"?
He was paralyzed by fear of that entirely unknown event. So he was chasing baseless hypotheses and looking for ways to delay, delay, delay.
The simple act of opening the first page of the book in his hands.
"—"
It wasn't the five-minute hypothesis, but the existence of a Book of the Dead for "Natsuki Subaru" here, paradoxically, was a kind of salvation for Subaru.
It served as proof that he hadn't just sprung into existence out of nowhere at this very moment.
But at the same time, it also meant that another "Natsuki Subaru" had existed, walking his own path through this other world—and that Subaru was trampling all over those footprints from above, smearing them away.
So all that remained was to verify it.
"First of all, assuming this is the Book of the Dead for 'Natsuki Subaru'... where does it begin, and where does it end?"
With Meili, he'd been able to trace her entire life story from her earliest childhood—roughly from when she first gained the ability to form lasting memories up through her formative years.
But what would it be like for Subaru? Even if the Book of the Dead were readable, would it begin, like Meili's, with the dawn of self-awareness, follow his growth, and end... where?
The Natsuki Subaru who had lost his memories hadn't died. It was "Natsuki Subaru" in the original kanji who was being counted as dead. So naturally, shouldn't the book begin by tracing the memories of "Natsuki Subaru" from just before those memories were lost?
Or would it trace the memories of the current Subaru who had woken up in the tower after losing everything? In that case, which death would be chosen as the ending?
Or perhaps, like Reid's Book of the Dead, only the hollow remnant of erased memories would remain.
Just as Reid's recorded memories had been withdrawn from the book to recreate him as this Watchtower's examiner, perhaps the memories of "Natsuki Subaru" had been withdrawn as well.
So what he'd see upon opening this book wouldn't be "Natsuki Subaru's" memories at all—but rather— "In the end, what do you even want, you spineless coward?"
Did he want to look, or not?
He despised himself for being unable to even produce an answer to that much, berated his trembling legs, and exhaled.
At this point, choosing not to look was not an option. Even if the choice surfaced, actually selecting it was inconceivable.
So, so, so, so, so— And then, and then, and then, and then, and then— "—!"
He exhaled sharply and opened the Book of the Dead.
And so began the journey of "Natsuki Subaru"—its beginning and end unknown.
△▼△▼△▼△ —This is seriously bad.
"—"
His face pressed against something hard, his abdomen searing with a heat that felt like it was burning through his brain.
The ferocious heat made even breathing difficult; his head throbbed as though magma were being pumped through his veins. Yet his limbs were cold and heavy, and this contradictory sensation threatened to upend his very existence.
What happened? his thoughts pleaded. I have to do something, they urged.
Those impulses mingled together into something close to a scream.
But the thought of "I have to do something" was useless.
The moment he reached to touch the source of the burning—his abdomen—his palm came away slick with blood, and he could feel more of it pooling across the floor.
—Ah. This is all my blood, isn't it?
He couldn't tell how much had spilled on this soaked floor, but this was far beyond a mere blood donation. This steady hemorrhage of life's essence couldn't sustain even the feeblest candle of existence.
In short, the body had already begun its countdown toward death.
The only reason the soul hadn't yet departed was that there remained a final mission—something this dying body had to accomplish before the end.
—He had to raise his voice.
He had to call out.
Danger. It's dangerous. Don't come. Run. Don't look back—just run.
He had to warn her.
He had to tell her, make her understand she must not enter this place.
But— "—"
No sound came out.
What spilled from his throat instead was a hot, viscous clot of blood. With his airway choked by it, words became utterly impossible. He coughed, and the burning in his abdomen spread further.
Pain and suffering, helplessness and confusion, and then— "—aru?"
A voice like a silver bell stepped into a space where it absolutely should not have set foot.
"—"
He had to stop her.
But he was too late.
He had to prevent this even at the cost of his life—yet because his stomach had been torn open, he couldn't.
"—!"
A scream, followed by a violent crash, and someone collapsed to the floor.
The hand of that fallen someone overlapped with his own—and the sheer cruelty of that irony was beyond words. The spitefulness of fate was something no tongue could adequately express.
"—"
Trembling fingers gently clasped the hand that had found his. Subaru clung to that desperate, pleading grip, and with it, along with a thick glob of blood, he exhaled.
"...I'll protect you."
Blood clots spilled, life drained away. There was no stemming that flow.
It was completely hopeless. This situation was a dead end.
All because of one powerless, useless man, everything had fallen apart.
So this blood-colored vow—meant nothing at all.
Knowing it was hopeless, yet still trying to swear an oath—how foolish.
Knowing it was over.
Knowing it would end.
And yet, as though it hadn't ended at all, as pathetically as could be, he swore it.
"I will—"
—I will save you.
The next instant, he—Natsuki Subaru, "Natsuki Subaru," "Natsuki Subaru"—lost his life.
△▼△▼△▼△ —At the instant the connection severed, Subaru registered a hard pain at the back of his head.
"Gu—!"
The impact reverberating through his skull made him think someone had struck him from behind, but he quickly realized that was wrong. His body was collapsing straight backward, and the full expanse of his back was pressed against a cold floor.
"Wh-where..."
Not in some dingy, dimly lit building, but in the Cauglia library.
Slowly rising, shaking his dazed head, Subaru looked around—then frantically touched his stomach.
There was supposed to be a wound there. A wound deep enough to cost him his life.
But— "It's... it's gone. It's gone. No wound. I'm not—my stomach isn't cut open..."
He touched his abdomen repeatedly, confirming that the burning agony had vanished. The most vivid sensation from the scene he'd just witnessed had disappeared entirely.
He'd heard that extreme pain could trick the brain into perceiving "heat." The same phenomenon must have been at work. In other words— "—A memory of having my stomach slashed open and dying."
Being split open by a sharp blade, drowning in blood and helplessness in his final moments.
What made it worse was that dying alone might have been forgivable. But that wasn't what happened.
"
The name he murmured was that of the girl he couldn't save at the very end—a false name, at that.
In that memory, the silver-haired girl he'd known had lied about her name and gotten close to Subaru. Whatever the reason for that, it was clearly not born of malice.
"...And yet, what a pathetic way to die."
He pressed his hand to his forehead and replayed what had happened to him.
Summoned to another world, wandering the streets with a foolish optimism, getting accosted by thugs and nearly killed—then saved by Satella, and subsequently helping her with her search— "Not only did I fail to be of any use..."
At the final moment, unable to even convey the imminent danger, he'd dragged her down with him.
It wasn't just a pointless death—calling it a dog's death would be an insult to dogs.
That was how irredeemable the death of Natsuki Subaru—"Natsuki Subaru"—had been.
"But"
It wasn't as though he'd gained nothing at all.
"—This is the Book of the Dead for 'Natsuki Subaru.'"
That much, that single absolute fact, was beyond any possibility of error.
"—"
A hopelessly foolish, weak, irredeemable "Natsuki Subaru."
He'd inflated his delusional sense of self-importance, continued turning a blind eye to the accumulated hurt he'd caused his parents, and when all was said and done, he'd used his summoning to another world as a convenient escape from reality—performing a twisted kind of optimism to try to deceive himself, those around him, everything.
That extraordinary foolishness was what had led to the tragedy in the loot house.
How naïve, how shortsighted, how foolish his mistakes had been.
Why had he let himself remain so defenseless in such a dangerous place? What had given that baseless confidence to such a fool? That level of recklessness would have gotten him killed even in the real world, let alone another world. And the result was—what he'd just witnessed.
If he hadn't already been dead, the sheer patheticness of it would have made him want to kill himself.
"A hopeless, utter idiot... but"
It was indeed a fatally stupid mistake, but having confirmed that fact was a stroke of fortune.
Suppressing his anger, holding it back, he examined the truth with detached clarity.
The Book of the Dead had functioned. That book had recorded the death of "Natsuki Subaru." And while this was only natural for "Natsuki Subaru" himself, the Natsuki Subaru reading it now was confronted with countless facts he'd never had any way of knowing.
For example—the circumstances through which he had acquired the power of Return by Death.
If this had been the standard, run-of-the-mill isekai trip, the one who had summoned Subaru to another world should have been a god, or some other supernatural being of comparable power.
But that "Natsuki Subaru" had no memories of contacting any such supernatural entity, nor any indication that someone had bestowed power upon him and that he'd become aware of it.
Having witnessed that "Natsuki Subaru's" final moments firsthand, Subaru could state this with certainty.
At the very end, while he'd muttered something defiant, at that moment "Natsuki Subaru" had possessed no conviction that he could leap beyond death and rewind time.
At least, he—Subaru himself—hadn't. And with that thought, he suddenly realized.
He wasn't maintaining proper objectivity between himself and "Natsuki Subaru."
The reason was obvious.
"I'm sinking deeper than when I read Meili's..."
When he'd read Meili's Book of the Dead and relived her life, the psychological toll had been considerable. His personality had partially merged with the girl's; Meili had manifested as a hallucination inside his head, saying whatever she pleased and turning Subaru inside out.
Of course, that Meili had ultimately been a false construct born from Subaru's own consciousness—a phantom born from internal dissonance, with no connection to the real Meili.
"—"
But this time, the Book of the Dead was in a league entirely different from Meili's.
In that case, despite everything, there had been clues to differentiate himself from her: differences in gender, age, values, and more.
Using those anchors, he'd gradually been able to peel himself away from her, achieving the understanding that they were separate beings.
This time, however, that wasn't possible.
The person he was confronting was none other than himself. A "self who is not himself"—a scenario that by all rights shouldn't exist—was driving Natsuki Subaru into an involuntary battle with his own identity.
A battle with himself. The phrase sounded like the most hackneyed cliché imaginable, yet it precisely described the situation Subaru now found himself in.
And in truth, the odds were against him.
Merging with himself was tantamount to overwriting himself. Like dipping a clean brush into the murky water used to wash away the black paint of "Natsuki Subaru," watching himself become stained.
"—
Like an incantation, Subaru called Emilia's name to counteract the sensation of being erased.
The reason was simple: the "Natsuki Subaru" in this Book of the Dead didn't recognize her as Emilia.
He'd believed the false name he was given, playing the fool right up until the very end.
That, then, was the difference between the current Subaru and "Natsuki Subaru."
"—"
Teeth chattering, terrified by the feeling of himself being scraped away, Subaru looked down. The book he'd involuntarily dropped lay on the floor.
"—"
He'd observed up to the point where "Natsuki Subaru" died—once.
Strangely enough, the Book of the Dead had begun from the very instant he'd arrived in the other world—that idiotic face screaming in bewilderment at the changes around him. Meili's had properly started from the point where she first became self-aware. But no—none of that mattered now.
The question was what came next in this Book of the Dead.
"You're the same way, aren't you, 'Natsuki Subaru'..."
Thanks to the Book of the Dead, he'd been able to witness the first death of "Natsuki Subaru" upon arriving in this world.
But that was only the beginning.
This "Natsuki Subaru" must have also wielded the power of Return by Death.
Or perhaps it wasn't Return by Death—it may have manifested in some entirely different form. No—that version actually made more sense.
Being able to rewind time freely—now that carried far more weight.
For the Emilia, the
If that was the case— "There has to be more ahead."
Natsuki Subaru, who appeared to be no different from himself. Yet there must have been something decisive that had transformed that "Natsuki Subaru" into the Natsuki Subaru Subaru knew.
Seeking that answer, Subaru picked up the book once more.
Then he closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
"—"
Still holding the book, Subaru counted his heartbeat—one, two. Steadying himself, he began to walk slowly.
His steps were measured, but there was no hesitation. Straight forward.
Eventually, Subaru arrived before a bookshelf. He reached out— "—Volume two."
The next book of "Natsuki Subaru" was calling weakly to Cor Leonis from its place on the shelf.
△▼△▼△▼△ —The journey of "Natsuki Subaru" was pathetic, haphazard, and beyond saving.
"Completely useless. Looks like an amateur from head to toe, movements are sloppy. No blessing, no skill, and when you think maybe at least he could use his head—nope, nothing there either. Why on earth does he even bother?"
Being toyed with by a powerful enemy, unable to mount any decent counterattack, cut down again and again.
Surrounded by his own battered body, an old man drenched in blood and a blond girl both collapsed on the ground—and he could save neither. He couldn't even move.
"Twitching, twitching, twitching, twitching, twitching... writhing."
Eventually, his stomach slashed, his eyes slashed, his vision stolen—his remaining life measured out in agonizing increments, each second spent in the company of terror.
Right up until the final moment, trembling, shuddering, terrified, and utterly pathetic— △▼△▼△▼△ "Oi, you stabbed him, didn't you?"
"Couldn't be helped. If he'd gotten out the front door, you think that'd end well? It'd be a nightmare."
"Oh man, this is bad. The stuff inside his guts is all messed up—gonna die, huh. ...Your kimono's soaked through too."
What an absurdly casual conversation was taking place over his prone body.
If he hadn't been using his brainpower for such pointless thoughts, he'd have had to confront the excruciating pain stabbing into his back.
His knack for fleeing from pain—his expertise in avoiding anything that might protect himself—was truly, spectacularly exasperating.
Truly a pointless death. A dog's death. Irredeemable.
Calling a girl who wasn't Satella by Satella's name, getting berated for it by her directly, failing to grasp even the most glaringly obvious circumstances, abandoning all rational thought, and then picking a fight with someone who was way out of his league—and dying for it.
A fitting end. Why, from the very first moment to the very last, sparing not a single second, pouring in every ounce of his being—couldn't he just live?
Enough. This world is over. I knew it from the start.
I came here knowing I'd see "death"—so if there's nothing decisive, this world is finished. It's done. It's over. So move on. Move on, next, next next next next. Because if not—the pain, the pain, the pain pain pain pain pain so painful so unbearable painful—and yet something has to carry over— △▼△▼△▼△ Death that comes during sleep carried a cruelty like ice water injected into one's veins—jarringly at odds with how inconsequential the end itself felt.
A death so imperceptible that you don't even realize you've died—compared to every prior death tangled up with pain and agony, one might think it'd be the gentler way out.
But nothing could be further from the truth.
Why did I die? Was I even truly dead, to begin with?
Among those who fear death, no doubt many wish for a death as peaceful as falling asleep. But having experienced it firsthand, Subaru could say with certainty: that was not the death to wish for.
Death had meaning to it.
An end to one's life—the final curtain—had to come bearing a discernible conclusion.
Amid confusion and despair, shock and anguish, Subaru searched for the next Book of the Dead. He had to know what had happened. He had to know what had killed him— △▼△▼△▼△ —One mystery breeding another, re-experiencing incomprehensible and unjust deaths.
The ends piling upon ends, the tragedies repeating.
He'd refused death in his sleep, but being shattered, being hollowed out—dying in those ways brought no joy either.
Life after life, targeted, stolen, broken, and ultimately betrayed.
Why—he couldn't understand anymore.
Why did he need to save the blue-haired girl who had killed him?
Why, while desperately fighting to save her, had she crumbled—and why had she pushed so hard on the back of Subaru when he'd already been on his knees?
Why had her words given him the strength to go on?
On the other side of betrayal—he yearned.
A world that would validate the hope: that he hadn't truly been betrayed.
"Natsuki Subaru" could save someone—a hollow, heartbreaking delusion—offered up at the cost of his own life, wrenched open by sheer force.
Meeting Emilia, meeting
△▼△▼△▼△ "Gu, bgh—"
Clutching his mouth, Subaru was met by death once more and dropped to his knees in the Cauglia library. Unable to support himself, he toppled forward onto the cold ground.
"Haa, haa..."
His breathing was ragged; drenched in profuse cold sweat.
Was it heat? Was it cold? Bitter? Sweet? Painful? Pleasurable? Every emotion—pleasant and unpleasant, black and white—had churned into an indistinguishable mess, and he couldn't tell which way was up.
It felt as though he'd been beaten relentlessly from every conceivable angle without a moment's rest.
"—This makes eight."
He'd found the Book of the Dead for "Natsuki Subaru" and had been reading through them one after another—eight volumes now.
Calling them "volumes" was itself strange. They weren't numbered, and a book shelved in this library shouldn't belong to the same "series" as any other.
Yet the books of "Natsuki Subaru" progressed smoothly through their volumes, continuing one after another.
Even more strangely, the next book of "Natsuki Subaru" could only be found after finishing the current one—the sequence unfolded in order, as though on rails.
Without skipping any of the deaths in between, he'd been able to follow the footsteps of "Natsuki Subaru."
And as he followed those footsteps, he reflected.
On how stubbornly, how incurably naïve "Natsuki Subaru" had been.
Especially when he looked at the final volume—the eighth Book of the Dead and its ending.
After the Royal Selection was announced, "Natsuki Subaru" had a falling out with Emilia at the castle, and ultimately he hurt her heart again and again—without apology, without reflection, dying in a haze of confusion.
Reading the book, Subaru's consciousness had nearly fully submerged into the subjective experience of the Book of the Dead.
Because he was the same person, the effect should have been even more acute—and even so, it had been nearly unbearable.
There was a part of him that thought: Why can't they understand?
And another part that answered: How can you blame them for not understanding?
"Don't become trapped in the past..."
He'd just witnessed that tragedy with his own eyes. The pain was enough to tear his body apart.
But it was in the past. Nothing more than something that had happened before.
For the "Natsuki Subaru" who met death in that instant, it was an event happening right before his eyes.
For Subaru, in sync with that "Natsuki Subaru" at the moment of death, it too was happening right before him.
But it was the past. A wound that would remain, indelible.
So right now—catch your breath and escape the shock. Forget it. Who killed Emilia and the others. Who created that carnage in the village.
If you don't, your mind will break.
If Subaru's mind broke here and he couldn't get back up—then what?
Who would do what for him? "Natsuki Subaru" wasn't here. There was only Subaru himself to find a way.
"Not... yet..."
—He hadn't found it.
"—"
There had to be something. Something decisive, something given specifically to "Natsuki Subaru."
Something that would serve as the definitive key separating Natsuki Subaru from "Natsuki Subaru." Until at least that key was obtained, this journey through the Books of the Dead was not over.
The decisive key that would allow Natsuki Subaru to transform from "Natsuki Subaru" into something greater.
The key that would allow him to become a savior who could embrace Emilia, Beatrice, Rem, Ram, Echidna, Julius, Meili, Shaula, Patrasche, Garfiel.
So far, there was no sign of it.
"Natsuki Subaru" was nowhere near being a savior or a hero or anything grand enough to rescue anyone. He lacked both the conviction and the capacity.
What he possessed was an extraordinary refusal to give up, and the extraordinary good fortune of being surrounded by good people.
But it wasn't just that.
It wasn't something so intangible as "that."
There had to be something more obvious, more concrete—something you could identify at a glance, something that would make everyone nod in understanding and agree: yes, this is the key. This is what makes it possible.
It had to exist. And so, seeking it— "—Volume nine."
Into the swirling vortex of confusion and chaos, betrayal and despair, the cycle of "death"—he ventured once more.
Please, "Natsuki Subaru." Hurry up and become someone worthy.
—Before I can't take any more of your footprints, your wounds, your deaths.
△▼△▼△▼△ —The deaths keep piling up.
—The endings keep stacking.
Every time he hurt, every time he suffered, every time he lost, every time he was stripped of something—he could hear the cracking of his own mind.
Screaming why, grinding his back teeth to stay standing, spitting blood and hauling himself forward, covered in wounds.
There was something raw and desperate in the struggle of this man.
Once, twice, three times, four times—driven into corners, dying each time, yet still holding on to break through the sealed labyrinth.
That was impressive. Truly impressive. Deserving of respect.
Never giving up—that was something extraordinary. Fighting through all of this with teeth clenched was extraordinary. He'd been moved. He'd been impressed. —But no.
No, that wasn't it. No. That wasn't what he needed.
"Something has to be..."
—There had to be "something."
There had to be "something." If not, it didn't make sense. If not, the whole thing fell apart.
With "something" there, the powerless, irredeemable Natsuki Subaru was supposed to transform into a "Natsuki Subaru" who could save everyone—save someone—save Emilia and the others.
And so he searched for it with frantic desperation, with feverish eyes.
With every Book of the Dead he consumed, tossed about by the changed circumstances, he experienced the shock and terror and agony of death that "Natsuki Subaru" had felt—desperately searching for that elusive answer.
And yet—not a single clue— "Ugh, AAAAAARGH—!!"
He slammed his forehead against the floor.
While he'd been reading, it had been bearable. But the instant he came back, the humiliation ravaged his mind.
"Mom... Dad..."
There had been a "Natsuki Subaru" who spoke to his parents—father and mother—and apologized to them both.
A "Natsuki Subaru" who, having been flung into another world and needing to live in this place, bid them farewell.
And here he was, having forgotten even what he'd done, knowing he'd caused his parents grief—yet self-satisfiedly conveying words of love— "Ugh, bugh, urgh—"
He retched. Tears spilled.
The pain, the agony—he understood "Natsuki Subaru's" feelings all too well, and worse: he realized that his parents would forgive him for it.
Don't forgive me. Curse me. Call me an ungrateful son.
But they didn't.
Father and mother—they weren't the kind of people who could be swayed by Subaru's whims. He'd wanted them to comfort him, to say small, reassuring things the way small people do. It was impossible.
Subaru's father, Kenichi. Subaru's mother, Naoko. —They were the finest parents.
There was a part of him that felt glad, a part that sympathized with "Natsuki Subaru's" choice, a part that tried to accept salvation it didn't deserve—and that self was repulsive.
—Is this it? Is this the reason? Is this why he could become "Natsuki Subaru"?
"No... no, no, no! That's not it! It's not like this!"
He clawed at his head, punched his throbbing forehead with his fist, and cursed himself.
What Subaru was seeking wasn't spiritual salvation. He needed something more concrete, something that would function as a genuine, proven special key—power.
Something Subaru didn't know, something only "Natsuki Subaru" knew—a special power.
Just as Subaru had succeeded in manifesting Cor Leonis, there had to be a "something" that only "Natsuki Subaru" had awakened to.
"This has to be the key to changing all of this—I have to believe that..."
Touching his abdomen where the fatal wound had been—the wound that should have been there—Subaru murmured.
His memories were beginning to overlap with what he'd seen in Meili's Book of the Dead. The attack on the mansion. Meili's precious but troublesome elder sister. Elsa's assault. "Natsuki Subaru's" nemesis.
But that was the story of a world already finished.
A world "Natsuki Subaru" had already overcome.
What mattered wasn't empathy with "Natsuki Subaru." It was exposing the trick—the one trick that only "Natsuki Subaru" should have been pulling—and claiming it for himself.
For that reason, and for that reason alone, he was reading the Book of the Dead.
—For that reason alone, Natsuki Subaru was "approaching death."
"Tell me, 'Natsuki Subaru'! —Why are you special? What makes it so that only you can be special? There has to be 'something,' right!?"
"There has to be 'something' that changed you! There has to be 'something' that turned you from a helpless, worthless nobody into who you are!"
"Change me—the weak, pathetic, insignificant, utterly useless version of me! I'm so sick of it! I'm sick of watching everyone suffer!"
"Something... 'something'! There has to be, right? If there isn't, that doesn't make sense... There has to be 'something,' and that's why you're... different from me... Otherwise..."
—Otherwise, he'd be forced to accept the truth.
"That you're the same as me—weak, insignificant, with no power to do anything..."
—That every time he nearly fell to his knees, someone had always been there to strike him on the back, and because the people around him had been kind, because he wanted to repay them, because he wanted to return that warmth— "Please, 'Natsuki Subaru.' I'm begging you. Please, just stop..."
—It would have been so much better if he'd been a superhuman.
—He wished he'd been something that transcended his own weakness entirely, body and soul.
—He wished "Natsuki Subaru" could have convinced him: the impossible things you can do are because you are not like me.
But even so— Clawing at the books, wrenched from the shelves, his skull battered by death after death, his soul shattered each time, desperately—desperately—like a starving man scraping for scraps, life after life corroded— And yet, even at the very end, unable to throw away that last sliver of possibility— "—"
He opened the book in his hands.
Bracing for his brain to be ransacked, his soul violated, his very essence violated—bracing for all of it, he opened it.
Because losing his last hope was far worse than any pain or suffering.
"You understand, don't you, 'Natsuki Subaru'..."
As though seeking agreement, he called out to someone who wasn't there.
The defeated tone of his voice—the complete absence of vigor—was only natural.
After all, this wasn't a figure who inspired confidence.
He wasn't that kind of man. —And while Subaru wished he had been, his fingers still reached out and drew the Book of the Dead from the shelf.
And then, with the feeling that he was going in for the final blow— "—Yeah. I understand."
"—"
A white, white world.
Before he knew it, Subaru was no longer in the library—not as an intangible being merged with memory either, but transported to a place he recognized yet was not here.
And there— "I understand, Natsuki Subaru."
"—"
"Because after all—you're me."
Standing in the white world, a pair of familiar, listless eyes had been waiting for Natsuki Subaru.