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When it comes to something as versatile as words, Reigen considers himself to be an expert.
He finds it a bit alarming, sometimes, just how good he is at communicative skill. It's a natural talent that he has polished over the years—many times, it has granted him the hard-earned capabilities to slip through any tough situation, win every single argument, even land himself a solid deal here and there.
As such, words have never failed him.
He wields his words like shields and swords, and every quest he undertakes rakes in more and more and more. It comes as easy as breathing, all of that speaking and writing that he does, and once he starts he can never seem to stop. He just knows words like he knows how to eat: bit by bit, then all at once. With words, the whole world can be fitted into his hands.
And yet.
And yet, he still can't seem to figure out how much they weigh.
The end of the world—no, the end of his world, is heralded by television screens, jeering laughter, and flashing lights. When his words finally fail him, his heart does not.
Yes, his heart doesn't fail him—it starts to rattle and crumble, thrumming relentlessly against his rib cage, the incessant beats telling him the same thing over and over again, shouting at him to run, run faster, run away. Call it survival instincts.
For the first time, his mind is blank.
His words are scattered on the floor, blowing away in the wind, falling between the cracks of the floorboards.
No, he wildly thinks. This isn't the end. I can still use them. I can.
So he tries.
When his own voice is out of commission, he uses his fingers to write his words, to type them into a machine. He taps the keys quicker, taps every one with a purpose.
But all the other words are louder, somehow.
Reigen had always prided himself in his precision with his words, carefully deliberated strikes and calculated jabs, guaranteed to win anyone over. The people behind the screen, though, use their words with a blunt force he's unfamiliar with. They swing and throw their words with heavy-handed blows.
Fraud. Jerk. Asshole.
Liar.
Liar.
LIAR.
So what if he lied?
Does that mean, then, his words weigh nothing at all?
He closes his laptop screen.
When his own hands are out of commission, he uses his voice to speak his words, to put them through a microphone.
At first, he regains his footing. The words start to flow, and it's a bit of a comfort. Forbidden words begin to push behind his teeth, though, screaming to be let out. I can't, he thinks. I shouldn't.
Without warning, they start falling again, those words of his, and the flashes of cameras and the voices of the reporters start piling up against him. He fights—he polishes his sword and shines his shield, preparing for battle.
But then, his sword turns on him, pierces him, and the searing pain is suddenly unbearable.
"I want to be somebody."
It all rushes back.
This isn't the first time he'd failed with his words.
An image floats into his mind—a gifted youth, a middle schooler, a kid, a protégé. A person he admired.
The word guilt settles in his brain, and it's utterly suffocating.
Mob.
Hey, Mob, are you watching?
You've grown up so much. You know that?
They meet on the bridge, a master and his pupil.
Mob is the same as always. Dimple watches close by, attentive.
Reigen swallows. He can't let his words fail him, not this time.
"Hey, Mob...do you know?" he asks, tentative.
His breath hitches. His heart starts pounding again, but he can't run away, not anymore.
Mob waits for a moment before he speaks. "I've always known," the boy says. "From the beginning—"
Reigen looks away. His hands tighten into fists, nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood. The world is starting to spin off its axis, again—he can feel it, coming up to consume him, everything in hopeless disarray.
It's not like he didn't expect this, but it hurts all the same.
"—what my master really is," Mob continues.
What I really am?
What am I?
"A genuinely good guy."
A sharp sting singes the back of his eyes, but strangely enough, the pain he'd hidden all this time is gone. His heart has slowed, its gentle, syrupy beats telling him over and over again, it's safe, it's safe here now. He releases a breath. He feels light, airy, free. He feels whole again, feels that his words do mean something, because—
—because Reigen's world has returned to him, and it has begun anew.
"Mob, how much do words weigh?"
"I think you know the answer to that, Shishou."