Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

.

---

Re: Getting Accused of Being the Sin Archbishop of Pride in Another World from Zero!

Chapter 1: The Chronicle of Ashes

My name is Joshua Juukulius. In the aftermath of the Great Fire, I found solace not in the sword my brother once wielded, but in the quiet order of ink and parchment. I became a librarian in the capital, and in the stillness of the archives, I began a solemn duty: to record every notable event following the coronation of our Queen, Emilia.

It has been seven years since the Calamity. Seven years since the day the sky turned to ash and the world burned. We do not call it a tragedy or a disaster; we call it what it was: The Great Fire of Pride. A calamity that snuffed out the lives of twenty million souls. A calamity that left behind a kingdom of ghosts and ashes. It was not an act of nature, nor a whim of the gods. It was a meticulously crafted hell, born from the mind and will of the Sin Archbishop—no, the Devil of Pride himself.

Emilia Lugunica, the 42nd King of the Dragon Kingdom. A woman whose silver hair and amethyst eyes mirrored the Witch who swallowed half the world. Once, she was hated for that resemblance. Now, she is hailed as the hero who saved the kingdom from the evil of the Witch Cult and from the devil who surpassed them all. She is our savior.

Her reign ushered in a new era for Lugunica, an era of peace and prosperity, free from the shadow of the Cult. An era where all are said to be equal… though the lingering fear of black hair, the devil’s mark, remains a stain on that promise. After she struck down the Devil of Pride, no one could ever again question her worth. I am thankful to her, for she avenged my brother, Julius Juukulius, the Greatest of Knights. He fell by that devil’s hand.

The Great Fire was the worst ordeal Lugunica has ever endured. We lost forty percent of our population. There is not a soul who did not lose a family member, a friend, a lover. The flames proved that even the mighty Sword Saint was not omnipotent. They proved the Divine Dragon itself could be rendered useless. But our Queen, the one who looked like the Witch, she and her contracted spirit, the Beast of the End, stood against the inferno and saved those of us who remained. The very features we once feared became the symbol of our salvation. She is our virtue. Our hope. Our Queen.

—Year 1 After the Great Fire—
Lugunica is a skeleton,slowly being given new flesh. Queen Emilia reforged the covenant with the Divine Dragon Volcanica. She liberated the elves of Elior Forest and, in an act of profound grace, used the dragon’s blood to heal the Sword Saint’s mother,Lounna Astrea. Honoring the final wish of her late sponsor, Lord Roswaal Mathers, she granted his niece, Annorose, his entire estate and a portion of the dragon’s blood. Our Queen does not waver in her promises.

The Vollachian Empire was shattered in the aftermath of the Great Disaster. Emperor Vincent Abellux fell to the witch who called herself Greed. In turn, Prisca Vollachia sacrificed her own life to end the witch’s reign. Yet, even in death, Greed’s legacy persists; her undead creations still wander the former imperial lands. We later learned that her knight, Aldebaran, took his own life upon learning of his mistress's fate. Our borders remain on high alert, a constant, grim reminder of the chaos to our south.

—Year 2 After the Great Fire—
Rebuilding progresses faster now,a testament to Lugunica’s resilience. The war against the undead in Vollachia continues, a distant, gruesome conflict. In Kararagi, rumors speak of a new Great Spirit of Fire, wild and untamable, attacking any who draw near. Communication is impossible. It is a dormant threat, another variable in an unstable world.

—Year 3 After the Great Fire—
Whispers slither through the streets again.The words "Witch Cult" are uttered in hushed tones, stirring old fears. The people are anxious, but their faith in Queen Emilia is a sturdy shield. A new, more disturbing whisper also emerges: a cult that worships the Devil of Pride himself. They call themselves the Devil's Cult. For now, they are only whispers, shadows without substance.

—Year 4 After the Great Fire—
The whispers became a scream.The watergate city of Pristella was attacked in a coordinated assault by the Archbishop of the Devil's Cult and remnants of the Witch Cult. Their goal: to retrieve the remains of the Witch of Pride. They painted the canals red, massacring the citizens before vanishing like smoke. The Sword Saint arrived too late to stop the slaughter. The old helplessness returned for a day.

—Year 5 After the Great Fire—
Hope was restored when the Sword Saint,Reinhard van Astrea, slew the White Whale as it materialized near the capital. The people, who had begun to doubt their protector, saw his divine power once more and their faith was rekindled. To the south, the coalition led by Cecilus Segmunt and Chisha Gold finally cleansed Vollachia of the last of the undead. A fragile peace treaty was signed between Lugunica and the rebuilding Empire, promising twenty years of uneasy truce.

—Year 6 After the Great Fire—
A year of quiet.The most notable event was the Sword Saint’s wedding to a nobleman’s daughter, a celebration that brought a moment of lighthearted joy to a kingdom still healing.

—Year 7 After the Great Fire—
Silence from the cults.The peace holds. Lugunica continues to mend, but the scars run deep. The hatred for black-haired individuals has festered into something institutional. To enter the capital with hair the color of night is an impossibility. Thousands have dyed their hair, so that finding a natural black-haired person is now like finding a single needle in a vast desert. In a surprising turn, our Queen rejected a proposal from a powerful noble, stating softly but firmly that her heart still belonged to another.

---

Chapter Text

Flipping the rare ridged 10 yen coin he was holding, the youth sighed deeply.

He was an unremarkable youth bearing short black hair and average stature. He had some muscularity which combined with his cheap jersey gave off the air of an athlete.

His sharp eyes were his only noteworthy feature, and now even they drooped helplessly.

The banality of his appearance was such that one could instantly lose him in a crowd, however the gazes directed at him were those of hate and incomprehension, as though they were looking at something monstrous.

Obviously, there wasn’t a single person sporting black hair or a jersey among those looking at him. Their hair varied extensively, blonde, white, brown, green, blue and so on. Furthermore their outfits were armor, dancers’ clothes, monotone robes and more which possessed a certain vibe.

The youth could only cross his arms in comprehension as their brazen gazes washed over him.

“So basically, it’s like that, huh.”

Snapping his fingers, he pointed at those who were staring at him.

“Seems I’ve been summoned to another world."

[The genre is parallel world fantasy. The culture is that of your typical medieval civilization. Demihumans are common, so battle and adventure might be common as well. The animals show some minor changes but they basically serve their functions. Is that how it is?”]

The situation is hopeless. And of course I don’t know the source, I don’t even have any memories of passing through a mirror or hopping in a pond. Most importantly, where’s the beauty who summoned me?”

The heroine’s absence, by 2D standards, was an act of inconceivable negligence. To summon him and just leave him like that, it was as though he was simply thrown away.

 

I’ll do my best to… First, my current problem.”

I have no clue how or why I have been summoned here.

Do I have to defeat the demon Lord or something? Where are my powers that I supposed to receive when I arrived here? Wasn't that supposed to be first thing should have happened?

 

I clearly remember what i was doing prior to the summoning. I had just gone out for the first time in a long while to buy some cup ramen at the convenience store and was about to return home.

And why in the hell people look me like I am the Demon Lord? First of all no guide, no cute girl who summoned me , and people hate me? I am a hero don't they know? Of course they don't [sigh]

??? : So, this is how Natsuki Subaru's new life starts from zero!

The youth started walking towards dark alleyway in hope of discovering his where abouts meanwhile still thinking about his supposedly overpovered abilities
"-I can't sense any power at all maybe gods forgot to give me one? Is that even fair? So what do I have let's see"

 

As he muttered this, he once again checked his belongings. In a parallel world fantasy, starting gear was even more important than he’d imagined. He’d need everything he had, however little.

First, his cell phone (with a dying battery), his wallet (containing many video rental membership cards), the ramen he bought at the convenience store (Shoyu Tonkotsu), some snacks (corn potage flavored), his beloved gray jersey (unwashed), worn out sneakers (of two years) and more

 

-"At least I should have bought pistol or something , what do I do now? "

It seemed only his snacks would prove useful, and only to fill his belly.

 

In truth, Subaru could no longer escape reality now that he’d assessed his situation and he could only hang his head in despair.

“Oh, give me a break already. What on earth am I supposed to do here?”

Subaru moved his fingers nervously as he contemplated his future in despair. However, his expression changed when he heard the sound of footsteps echoing through the alley. He looked up to see three men blocking the exit.

 

Mission 1: “Repel the bandits” had begun. The clear condition was eliminating them, and the failure condition was probably his death.

Subaru smacked his cheeks and ignored the chill running up his spine. , hesitation could cost him his life. He at least had confidence in his decisiveness.

“Furthermore, this is another world. Considering the typical pattern I might be super strong here. Something like the gravity being a tenth of what it was or… Come to think of it, my body feels light! Maybe I can win!”

“He’s murmuring something.”

“Maybe he doesn’t get what’s going on. Should we teach him?”

Unlike Subaru, the men remained fairly calm. However, Subaru continued to face them without backing down.

“Woah there, you guys won’t be so calm for long. Let me warn you, guys like me fantasize about this sort of thing all the time. I’ll beat the crap out of you and turn you into XP!”

“I have no clue what you’re saying, but you’re going to die for mocking us and looking like the devil .”

“That’s… My line and what Devil? !”

With that declaration and Confusion, Subaru launched his preemptive attack before they could react. He flew into one of them with a full bodied right straight. He landed a direct hit on the leader’s face with such force that his front tooth cut Subaru’s hand.

He’d hit someone for the first time! And it was much more painful than expected!

This was all he’d tried in his simulations, but it was his first time actually doing it, the man he hit fell to the ground and stopped moving. Driven by emotion, Subaru immediately lunged at another man who was still in shock.

“Eat this! A high kick forged by after-bath stretches!”

“Guh!”

His foot drew an arc right into the man’s temple and slammed him into the wall. Having knocked a second person out, Subaru started to believe he was invincible due to his unexpectedly competent performance.

“Looks like this world is set to raise my power after all! With all this adrenaline I can definitely win!”

Filled with courage, Subaru turned to the last man as he prepared to take him out. However, the glint of the knife in his hand caused Subaru to prostrate himself on the spot.

“I’m sorry, it was all my fault! Please forgive me, spare-!”

He surrendered on his knees, the greatest and lowest representation of Japanese spirit.

But before he knew he was stabbed with a knife in the back and neck.

- "Die Devil "

It  was the result of neglecting to do so. In these few hours, he had already encountered many different types of horrible pain. But no matter how many times he experienced this, it would be absolutely impossible to get used to it.

 

“Hey, you seriously stabbed him?”

 

“I had no choice. What if he escaped into the street? It’d be a real pain for us.”

 

“Aaah, this is bad. You hit his guts so he’ll probably die… It’s even drenching his clothes.”

 

Subaru seeing himself covered in blood and experiencing pain unbearable thought [so that's it? That's how my story ends? Sorry mom,dad,]

 

At that moment Natsuki Subaru lost his life.

 

-"eh,eh? ―What’s going on here?”

In his confusion, all he could do was toss out that question directed at no one in particular.

 

[I died didn't I? How am I alive then? Is this my cheat code why activation has to be by death? It's the worst]

-"I call it return by death " He shouted out loud but there was nobody to hear it

[Better get out of alleys before those 3 showes up again ]

Getting stabbed any dying by blood loss again send shiwers down to his spine

After getting out of the alleyway he stopped in front of a stand that selling an apples

[I can't read these writings ,at least we speak the same language ]

―What’s the matter? Why’d you standing here , wanna buy an appa ? you are scaring customers away,speak fast”

“Hah―?”

A old-aged man with stern features called out to him, and he absentmindedly responded as such. This response caused the man’s already creased brow to wrinkle up even further as he scowled.

 

“I’m asking a question here! Are you going to buy the appa or not get out if you don't devil ”

-“Hah―? I'm sorry do you accept this kinda money,and aren't these are apples? Whats with the devil thing anyway ever since I got here couple of people called me devil but I'm human

Subaru showed his ridged 10 yen coin

 

-"I accept only lugunican money kid ,appas are appa,you have black hair that's devil's mark, you are scaring customers away get out "

The old  man shooed him away and he obediently left.

Subaru wandered around and went to other side of alley after he sat down he was lost in thought[what a shitty power I have,no cute girl,no guide,how many times can I use it? Is there a limits? Can I activate it without dying? At least not I know that I'm in Lugunica and I should be in the capital according isekai rules ] he was lost in though so he didn't even noticed 3 men who was approaching him, the moment he noticed them he got and started sweating [fuck how did they got here weren't they supposed to be other alley? ]

-"He probably doesn’t get what’s going on here. How about we go ahead and teach him?”

-"if you don't want to die give up everything you got, devil "

Subaru looked at his belongings, he couldn't give up them, so he did what any 17 year old shut in neet would do

-"Guaaaaaards!!!”

His previous Murderers were caught off guard by his sudden call for help, causing them to jump.

The volume was such that it smashed the silence of the alley, and even tore through the hustle and bustle of the main street.

His absurd sensitivity was well known when he took kendo, and had long since stripped him of any shame when it came to screaming.

Something like screaming for help did not damage his pride even slightly.

“Someone―! I need a man―!!!”

“Bastard… Don’t screw around! You’re seriously yelling at a time like this?!”

“You’re supposed to listen to us if you don’t want to get hurt, that’s how it’s supposed to be! You can’t just do this without even listening to our demands!”

“Shut up! Who gives a damn what normally happens?! Offbeat, off path, off course, wrong way, they’re all on the right track! As if I wanna deal with you guys! I just wanna Live!”

 

the people on the street simply turned a blind eye even though they knew he was getting robbed.

“So it was a mistake after all…”

“Trying to scare us like that… I was just a little nervous.”

“Just a little bit!”

“A really tiny bit!”

In unison, they denied how pathetic they were in a very pathetic fashion.

The men took a deep breath to calm down as if to regain control of the situation after Subaru’s stunt, and then they each drew their weapons.

A knife, a rusty nata, and,

“Why are you the only one without a weapon? Didn’t have the money to buy one?”

“Shut up! I’m stronger without one! Underestimate me and I’ll beat you to death, you damned brat!”

“If only I had a recording of the second time, I’d love to show it to you.”

As he thought back to his flawless overhead throw, he started to bask in his own admiration. On the other hand, his situation was now so bad his mind continually warned of danger.

They had already drawn their weapons, greatly reducing his chances of success.

Forget escaping without any injuries or losses, he wasn’t even sure he could make it out of there in one piece.

“Let me go already… I’d rather avoid the pain.”

Having died one time before, Subaru now understood that it wasn’t something you could get used to no matter how many times it happened.

Furthermore, his death until now was horribly painful ones
brought about by that knife thief was holding. That sharp pain was always fresh and electrifying, like his nerves were being scraped.

He’d really rather not go through that again, and most of all―

“I’ve been able to come back from death until now, but there’s no guarantee it’ll happen again…”

 

He couldn’t be sure that this ability didn’t have a limited number of uses.

There was no number engraved on his body or anything, but it was said that even Buddha would get annoyed if you touched his face three times. Assuming that that was the case here, he had already run out of continues. If he pathetically died a pointless death here, his life in another world would reach the BAD END.

“…. In short, the best thing to do would be to run away, even if I get injured.”

The most lethal of them was, naturally, the tried and true knife. That nata was terribly rusty, so it’d probably be no different from a normal hit if he blocked it with his plastic bag. The empty handed thug was no problem.

As he watched Thieves approach, he immediately made up his mind.

Subaru was completely focused on Thief who was holding a knife , and started counting down in his head as he looked for an opening.

―Three, two, ah, hold on just one moment, three, two…

“―That’s enough.”

That voice suddenly and clearly tore through the tension in the alley.

Its dignified tone hadn’t the slightest hint of hesitation or mercy. All those who listened to it were struck by its overwhelming presence, and were naturally inclined to obey it.

Subaru raised his head, and thieves turned around― There was a young man standing there.

What first drew their eyes was his red hair that was like a blazing inferno.

Right below were shining blue eyes that could only be described as daring.

His extraordinary good looks only further amplified his awe-inspiring presence, and a single glance was all it took to tell that he was someone of great importance.

He was tall, slender, and well-proportioned, and he wore well tailored black clothing. At his waist knight’s sword that despite its simple appearance, gave off an abnormally intimidating atmosphere.

-“The sword saint?
-"Reinhard van Astrea
-"Slayer of the white whale?

All 3of the thieves spoke with fear in their voices and started running away .

When Subaru looked at the Supposedly Sword Saint he looked like that person who saw a ghost,his face was completely pale , hatred , rage and Killing intent could be sensed . Subaru didn't knew if those feelings for him or not but before he could make a sound

-"you? ,how? who areyou ?how are you alive? "

The Sword saint took a step back but still anger could be found in his voice

Subaru's all instincts were screaming him to run, run, run nothing except run but he didn't give away to emotions
-"I am ever so thankful to you for saving my life, please allow me to express my gratitude. I, Natsuki Suba" Before he could finish he felt that he was getting choked to death by his savior

-"YOU, DEVIL,SIN ARCHBİSHOP, I don't know how you are alive but,I'll accompany you into hell Natsuki Subaru "

With that Natsuki Subaru lost his life yet again

-"This can't be right,can be?

This was only thing Natsuki Subaru could think of

-"I got isekaid, got no guide, no pover except for shitty Return by death and I died twice already what kind of story is this? Plot makes zero sense, why do people call me devil? Even supposedly Saint wants to kill me, fuck my life, it is the worst "

After he took a deep sigh he took completely different route, because he didn't wanted to meet the sword saint or the thieves who took his life .

He just couldn't understand the reason people staring at him with hatred and murder intent.

[They called me devil, sin arch Bishop something like that,I need information,only thing I know is black hair called devil's mark is that the reason people hate me? For my hair color?]

As Subaru continued his inner monologue he continued moving forward among the hateful watch of crowds of people.

After wandering into another alleyway as he sighed in front of him appeared a purple sphere

-"are you the one who summoned me here?Can you talk? Subaru asked with a dry voice

-"are you an idiot? Of course I can talk I'm a Spirit of Yin,and what's with the summoned nonsense? " Childlike voice replied

-"a spirit? Hm after all this is a fantasy world he muttered

-"you're clothes strange, you're strange, you must be really really dumb or really really strong to walk around capital with a black hair, but I think you're stupid" Purple sphere started orbiting Subaru's head

-"hey ,I don't know , I today got summoned to this world , I don't know anything at all where am I? Who summoned me? Why black hair bad?

Subaru's voice had a despair within it, after all dying twice both in painful ways, he remembered all of them, all the pain was still within him

Purple sphere stopped orbiting him after his plea for answers

-"are you from beyond the great waterfall?

This time childlike tone was gone it was more of serious question

-"what does that term mean? If you mean another world yes I am, i am not from anywhere you know "

Subaru was also getting serious because this spirit might be his only way to survive in this new world.

-"I want to form a contract with you

-"a contract what do you want my soul?

Subaru was a taken back by whatever was this contract thing

-"I don't want to take anything from you, spirits like me,we are selfish we act only according to our goal and I like you, you have high spirit affinity even your magic type is same as mine thanks to your spirit affinity I can grow much faster and become great spirit , I want to learn about your world, and I'll teach about mine, do we have a deal?

-" It's not like I have choise I really need someone to guide me right now, but sure you have fill me up with information, anyway let's introduce ourselves , My name is Natsuki Subaru, I'm Clueless and broke beyond compare

Silence stretched out for a minute or so Subaru waited for an answer meanwhile Spirit was stunned

-"Subaru Natsuki same name as the Devil of pride?

Spirit finally spoke but this it was cold, if speaking of some kind of taboo

-"what do you mean devil of pride?
[What's wrong with them,did the devil of pride had the same name as me?]

-" Aw man it's gonna be awkward so listen close....

“Long ago, the earth was at peace — untouched by sorrow, unmarked by fear. But peace is fragile, and from the black depths rose a Witch whose name froze the world in terror. She was called the Witch of Envy… Satella.”
She scoured the earth, tearing it in half, searching for her beloved in the depths of hell. Hurricanes followed her footsteps, and fire crowned her grief. But where despair rises, so too does hope
The Holy Dragon Volcanica. The Saint Sword Reid. The Sage Shaula. Three heroes who stood as one. Together, they sealed the Witch away.”
And yet… not all stories end. From the blackest pit of hell, the Witch’s voice lingered — sweet as honey, sharp as poison. For four hundred years, she whispered, and those who listened became her servants. Thus, the Witch’s Cult was born. For centuries, they spread chaos… until a darker shadow walked free.”
He was the Witch’s lost beloved — the one she had sought across earth and hell alike. Clad in black, with hair of shadow and eyes of burning red, he took the title of Archbishop of Pride. His true name… was Natsuki Subaru”
Now, when the fog rolls in from the Flugel Tree, mothers tell children: "Beware the Prideful One." He was no demon from folklore but a man who chose evil—who wore pride as a crown and built a throne of our ruin . His name is cursed in every district, a reminder that the greatest monsters are not born; they are forged in the fires of their own arrogance.
But fear not. Far in a distant village, a girl was born beneath the Witch’s curse. With hair of silver and eyes of amethyst, she carried the mark of Envy. Though scorned and hated, she did not bend. She fought on… slaying the Archbishops one by one.
And so it came to pass, that in a final battle of fire and fury, the Devil of Pride was struck down! Defeated, he fell…”

 

After Spirit ended the tale There hunged a silence, a silence which none of them dared to break

-"do you think I'm him?

Subaru was afraid of the spirit now, and he understood all the reasons of people hating and glaring at him but still Devil having the same name as him was unsettling

-"I don't think so ,you look like you're gonna cry if I were to push you little bit, but still that name if yours don't use it it's a taboo, i recommend using alias

-"thank you!what about you what's your name?

-" I never made a contract before and I don't have a one, maybe you'll give me one

Spirit was back at it's childlike tone but still it didn't lessened Subaru's unease, Who would even be calm at his situation. He has no money, no knowledge, no place to stay.
But he got a companion so maybe this world isn't that bad?

"-What about Nyx?

Nyx it was the Greek goddess of the night, but also a star name.
Subaru himself was named after one of the star systems so why not name his new friend like himself?

-" Nyx ,I like it, so we have choose alias to you you can't say Natsuki Subaru if you say you might get yourself killed

Subaru bit his lip [so sword saint killed me because of a name?disgusting how is he even a saint if he kills people because of their name ]

-"Alcor call me Alcor then

Subaru was now calm and had his mind on single goal find a place to stay

-do you know somewhere to stay? I don't have money though

-" Before that, let's set the terms of our contract
-"how do form a one?
-" It's easy you and I have to set our terms and both of us has to agree to it and both of us has to know that we are making a contract ,that's all .

-" Then my terms are :
1-No lying to each other
2-No killing innocents
3-you'll teach me magic and everything you know about this world in exchange I'll tell you everything about my world
4-and we are gonna treat each other with respect as if we are a family
Do you agree?

-"I also do have some terms

1-you will not make any contracts with any other yin spirits, but you can make contract with other type spirits
2-i'll take mana from both you and from atmosphere
I'll accept your terms Will you accept mine?

-"I'll accept

-" that's all

-" We made a contract? Just with words? Wasn't something supposed to happen?like flashy magical things?

-"no , it's my first time making contract if you close your eyes you can sense me we are linked with invincible rope

Subaru closed his eyes and felt something in front of him and Felt another string linked to him in a far away

-"I can feel another string too

Subaru said awkwardly

-"have you ever made a contract before me? Nyx asked suspiciously

-"not that I remember, I learned what spirits are today, and I came to this world today how can I make one?

Subaru shrugged

-"I dunno but it's a spirit contract 100% I'm sure and it looks like a great spirit? What?

Nyx started rotating around Subaru , meanwhile Subaru couldn't understand anything -what's even an great spirit?

-"there are less than 7 great spirits in the entire world each of them so strong that can destroy whole kingdoms on their own

-" What and you're telling me that I'm contracted to 1of them? Which one?

For a first time after two of his deaths Subaru's mood lighten up
[Wow so gods of this world did gave me something powerful I just have to find it]

 

-"I don't know which one but that pull is coming from far far away looks like Kararagi

-"our next destination is Kararagi then

Subaru exclaimed happily, finally a power I deserve

-"first of all we have get you out of lugunica safely with this look of yours people of lugunica aren't gonna welcome you

Nyx was right he needed to hide or dye his hair

-"white hair will suit you I think

-"wait what did you read my mind? All are spirits can do that?

-"no, not all ,maybe 3 or 4 I'm a special case , I can cast all kinds of Yin spells, remove curses, read mind only thoughts little bit of it, and I can tell if people are telling the truth or not

-"You're pretty overpovered Nyx , but I'm happy that I got you

Subaru gave Nyx a happy smile

-" I would be smiling back at you if I had a mouth

Chapter Text

The merchant’s jaw practically hit the floor. He’d never seen anything like the glowing, flat Metia Subaru showed him.

"Eighty! Final offer!" the man sputtered, his eyes wide with a mix of greed and awe.

Subaru puffed out his chest, trying to look like a shrewd businessman and not a completely lost kid. "You drive a hard bargain, but deal!" He handed over the phone, his last piece of home, and felt the heavy weight of a pouch filled with 80 gold coins land in his hand.

«We’re rich! We’re rich!» Nyx’s voice squealed in his head, doing a little happy dance.

The chill of the Lugunican night seeped through the thin walls of the inn room, but for the first time since his summoning, a flicker of warmth persisted in Natsuki Subaru's chest. The source wasn't a fireplace, but the small, floating spirit of Yin magic, Nyx, who pulsed with a soft, silvery light.

"The transaction was… acceptable," Nyx's voice echoed directly in Subaru's mind, a cool and analytical tone that was becoming familiar. "The merchant's greed was palpable, but his fascination with the 'Metia' outweighed his suspicion."

Subaru patted the now significantly heavier coin purse secured inside his tracksuit pants. "Acceptable? Nyx, we're rich! Well, I don't exactly know how much can 80gold coins can last, but we're not broke! I can actually afford a bed and a meal that isn't suspicious street meat." He grinned, the expression feeling strange yet genuine on his face. Selling his flip phone had been a smart move it's battery was ending. But as the shopkeeper's eyes had widened at the glowing, moving images within the "artifact," haggling over its origins became a secondary concern to the gold it could fetch. With Nyx's subtle guidance, nudging the merchant's thoughts towards avarice rather than accusation, they had secured a small fortune.

"Still," Subaru's grin faded as he glanced out the grimy window at the bustling, hostile city, "this money won't last forever. And my hair…" He ran a hand through his trademark black spikes. "It's a target. Tomorrow, we find a disguise."

_________________________________

 

The night passed with a strange, newfound comfort for Subaru. With Nyx's guidance, he had successfully sold his Flip phone as a Metia for 80 gold coins. After paying for an inn and adjusting to his room For the first time since arriving in this world, he wasn't entirely alone. The silent, floating spirit was a presence he could lean on.

 

Sleep came easier than expected, and the morning sun found him determined.It was his 2nd day in this new world.His first mission: acquire a disguise.

The innkeeper had pointed him towards a modest-looking shop tucked away in a less-traveled alley, a place known for sturdy travel gear. A bell chimed as Subaru pushed the door open, the scent of leather and dried herbs filling his nostrils. The interior was cluttered but organized, with cloaks, hats, and bags hanging from every available space.

An elderly man with kind eyes and a web of wrinkles that spoke of a long life looked up from behind a counter. "Good morning, young man. Looking for something to keep the sun or the eyes off you?"

Subaru flinched slightly at the man's perceptive question. "Uh, yeah. A cloak, preferably with a hood."

"Of course. Let's see what we have for your frame." The shopkeeper, whose name Subaru learned was Old Man Gerth, moved with a gentle slowness. He pulled down several cloaks, commenting on their material and weave. He wasn't pushy, just helpful in a way that felt genuinely caring.

It was this unexpected kindness that gnawed at Subaru. After the hostility he'd faced, it felt alien.

«He is sincere,» Nyx's voice echoed in his mind, a cool, calming stream. «There is no deception in his words.»

Finally, as Gerth held up a heavy, dark grey cloak with a deep hood, Subaru couldn't hold back his question. "Excuse me for asking, sir... but you've been really kind. Most people here... they don't seem to like someone who looks like me." He gestured vaguely to his own black hair.

Gerth's hands stilled on the cloak. The gentle smile on his face didn't vanish, but it became tinged with a profound sadness. He looked at Subaru, really looked at him, and his eyes seemed to see someone else.

"My son," Gerth began, his voice soft but clear, "Kael... he had hair as dark as a moonless night. Just like yours."

Subaru's breath hitched. He stood frozen as the old man continued, his gaze distant.

"He was a good boy. Full of life. But there are small-minded people in this world, fueled by fear and old superstitions." Gerth's knuckles were white where he gripped the cloak. "One day, he didn't come home. They found him in an alley... just for the color of his hair.Just because of that they killed him."

The air left Subaru's lungs. The casual cruelty of this world, which he had experienced himself,after all he also got stabbed in the back just for his looks in his very first day in this world.

Gerth looked back at Subaru, his eyes shimmering. "When you walked in, for a moment... you reminded me of him. The same nervous energy, the same determination in your eyes. I could never harbor hate for a feature that belonged to my beloved boy. Instead, I feel... a need to protect. A foolish old man's wish, perhaps."

«His grief is a deep, old wound,» Nyx observed quietly. «But his compassion is stronger.»

"I... I'm so sorry," Subaru stammered, his throat tight. He didn't know what else to say. The tragedy was too immense.

Gerth shook his head, the sad smile returning. "Don't be,That wasn't your fault,It's all that Devil's fault. Here." He pushed the dark cloak into Subaru's hands. "This one. It's not just wool. My late wife was a minor spirit arts user. She wove a simple enchantment into the fabric. It won't make you invisible, but it will help you blend into crowds, to be a little less memorable to prying eyes. It should help keep you safe."

Subaru stared at the cloak, then back at the old man. "I... I can't accept this. It must be expensive."

"It is paid for," Gerth said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Consider it a gift from a father to a son who reminds him of his own. A gift he wishes he could have given his boy to keep him safe."

The words struck a chord so deep in Subaru that his eyes stung. The rejection, the fear, the loneliness of the last day melted away under the sheer, undeserved warmth of this act. He bowed deeply, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you. Thank you so much, sir. I... I won't forget this."

Gerth simply nodded, patting Subaru's shoulder gently. "Go on, now. Be careful out there."

Clutching the enchanted cloak to his chest, Subaru left the shop, the bell chiming softly behind him. The weight of the fabric felt like a shield. As he stepped into the alley, he swung the cloak over his shoulders, pulling the hood up. The world seemed to soften at the edges slightly, the sounds of the street becoming more muted.

«The enchantment is subtle, but effective,» Nyx commented, floating beside him. «A powerful blessing from a kind heart.»

"Yeah," Subaru whispered, his voice steadier than it had been in days. He felt a new resolve solidify within him. This world was cruel, but it wasn't devoid of goodness. There were people like Old Man Gerth. And he had Nyx. He wasn't the same helpless boy who had appeared in the capital.

"Okay, Nyx," he said, a determined glint in his eyes visible even from under the shadow of the hood. "I'm disguised. I have a power I can actually use. Now... let's figure out how to survive in this world. For real this time."

The spirit pulsed with a soft, approving light. For the first time, the path ahead didn't seem quite so dark.

The enchanted cloak was a marvel, a soft grey fabric that seemed to drink the light around it, but Subaru’s black hair remained a glaring beacon of otherness. As he walked through the market, the hood pulled low, he felt a new impulse, not of fear, but of opportunity. The money from his phone—a bittersweet severance from his old life—weighed heavily in his pocket. It was capital. A means to transform himself.

«The cloak is a reactive measure,» Nyx’s voice echoed, cool and logical. «Changing the color of your hair should be main priority now. The resources from the sold Metia allow for this.»

"Exactly!" Subaru whispered, a grin spreading across his face. He wasn't trying to hide his excitement. "A new look for a new life! If I'm gonna be an isekai protagonist, I can't look like every others like Kazuma or Krito. We need a signature style! And white hair? That’s top-tier protagonist material right there."

He asked a vendor for directions to someone who could "change hair color," receiving a grunt and a gesture toward a dingy alleyway. There, a sign with a faded painting of a leaf and a droplet hung above a narrow door. This wasn't the warm apothecary he might have hoped for; it was a practical, borderline hostile establishment.

A bell clanged harshly as he entered. The air was thick with the acrid smell of chemicals and dried herbs, a far cry from the pleasant aromas of the main market. A woman stood behind a counter, her arms crossed. She was middle-aged, with a severe face and hair pulled back in a tight, greasy bun. She looked him up and down, her eyes lingering on his cheap tracksuit with undisguised scorn.

"What?" she barked.

Subaru, undeterred by her demeanor, pushed back his hood. "I need my hair dyed. White."

The woman’s eyes narrowed at his black hair. She let out a short, dismissive snort. "Difficult. Expensive. Five gold coins. Up front."

«Her price is inflated,» Nyx observed. «She thinks you're an idiot and she is correct.»

Subaru didn't care. The thrill of transformation was too strong. "Deal," he said, slapping the coins on the counter without hesitation.

The woman scooped them up, her expression not softening. "Sit," she commanded, pointing to a rough wooden stool stained with countless colorful spills.

The process was anything but gentle. She mixed a pungent paste from a powder that smelled like lye and a sharp, acidic liquid. Without ceremony, she began slathering it onto his hair and scalp. An immediate, intense burning sensation set in.

"Whoa! It stings!" Subaru exclaimed, more in surprise than pain.

"Of course it stings," the woman said, her voice flat as she worked the paste in with rough hands. "It's stripping the color. Don't be a baby. White isn't a natural color. It takes force."

«The compound is caustic,» Nyx informed him. «It is breaking down the melanin. The discomfort is to be expected. I can attempt to numb the sensation.»

"No, it's fine!" Subaru said, his eyes watering slightly even as he smiled. "This is part of the experience! The pain of rebirth! It's kinda awesome, in a messed-up way. This is real alchemy stuff!"

He sat there, the burning intensifying, but his mind was racing with excitement. He imagined himself with stark white hair, commanding respect, wielding power. He wouldn't be "that devil looking guy" anymore; he'd be someone new, someone unique.

After what felt like an hour, the woman gruffly ordered him to a basin where she rinsed his head with cold water. The water ran dark at first, then clear. She thrust a small, tarnished metal mirror into his hands.

Subaru took it, his heart pounding with anticipation. He raised it.

The reflection was shocking. His hair was now a brilliant, bone-white. It was stark against his skin, making his features seem sharper, his eyes more intense. The transformation was absolute. He looked…Handsome and at the same time more scarier than before .

"Wow," he breathed, a wide, genuine grin spreading across his face. "It's perfect! It's absolutely perfect! Thank you!"

The woman just grunted, already wiping down her counter. "It will not fade. Now get out. I have other customers." There were no other customers.

Subaru didn't mind her harshness. He pulled the enchanted cloak's hood back up, the white locks now hidden, a secret weapon. He felt invigorated.

Stepping out of the shop, the world seemed different. He wasn't a fugitive anymore; he was an agent of his own destiny. The disguise was complete, but for the first time, it didn't feel like hiding. It felt like putting on a uniform.

"Okay, Nyx," he said, his voice buzzing with energy. "Phase one: complete! New identity, activated! Now, phase two:how do I get the fuck out of Lugunica?"

_____________________________

 

As Subaru moved through the bustling streets of the capital, he noticed it right away. People's gazes just… slid off him. It was like he was wearing a "do not notice me" field. He didn't feel afraid anymore. He felt… sneaky. And it was awesome.

"Okay, Nyx, phase two!" Subaru whispered, a grin spreading under his hood. "We need to get to Kararagi. That's the merchant nation, right? They've gotta be way less hostile about devil thing !"

Subaru laughed, heading towards the noisy, smelly, and incredibly lively merchant district. The air was thick with shouts, the smell of strange spices, and animal dung.

He needed to find a caravan. But how do you do that? He decided on the direct approach. He walked up to a burly man unloading crates from a giant, lizard-like creature—a ground dragon, he remembered.

"Excuse me! Are you, uh, heading to Kararagi by any chance?"

The man grunted, not even looking up. "Packed full. No passengers. Get lost, kid."

Subaru shrugged. "Worth a shot!" He moved on.

He tried a woman selling maps. "Kararagi? Try the western gate at dawn. Some groups head out then." It was a better lead.

His big break came when he spotted a merchant who looked less grumpy than the others. The man was overseeing the loading of several wagons filled with Lugunican wool. Subaru approached, trying to look confident.

It is a thin, grey-haired man who scratches their head in response to Subaru.
With his slick black suit and black tie he could look like someone returning from a funeral, but a
closer inspection reveals the unobfuscable scent of death upon him.
His features are gentle, as are his eyes, but the way he casts his gaze around his surroundings
reveals clear wariness of others, and signals that he has survived slaughters.
But most of all, his dreary eyes. Those were the eyes of someone who found no benefit in living.

«He's thinking about the price of wool,» Nyx reported. «And he's worried one of his drivers is sick. He's stressed but not mean!»

Perfect. "Sir! Are you leading a caravan to Kararagi?"

The merchant,
And at the moment Their eyes met, the thin man stopped breathing for a second.

"Subaru Natsuki? "

Was all he could mutter, he knew this person was without a doubt Natsuki Subaru, his hair color was different than before,wearing something that he used to call "Tracksuit, "but his eyes were the same.

"No ,I'm not him my name is Alcor" Subaru answered while sweating, he was already panicking (who is this person?someone who knew pride?did pride looked exactly same as him? )

Chapter Text

Emilia —

The royal bedchambers were silent, save for the soft crackle of the hearth. Moonlight, pale and cold, streamed through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like forgotten spirits. Emilia sat at her vanity, but her eyes were not on her reflection. They were fixed on a single, Jacket: A white, zipped, stand-up collar jacket with deep-grey sleeves and shoulders, featuring an orange line down the side of the sleeves and orange cuffs. Which she took from her beloved's dead body.

Seven years. It felt like both an eternity and the blink of an eye. To the public, she was Emilia Lugunica, the 42nd King, the savior who slew the Devil of Pride. A hero.

The title was a cage.

Her fingers trembled as they traced the locket's cold metal. Behind her, a soft blue light coalesced, and a small, furry form materialized on her shoulder.

«Lia,» Puck’s voice, a gentle chime in her mind, was laced with concern. «Your thoughts are so loud. They’re hurting you again.»

“I’m fine, Puck,” she whispered, the lie tasting like ash on her tongue. She was never fine. The victory parade had ended, the cheers had faded, and all that remained was the memory of his eyes in that final moment. Not the burning red of the Devil the stories spoke of, but the wide, bewildered boy named Subaru.

“He killed them all for me, didn’t he?” The words escaped her lips, quiet and broken. “The other Sin Archbishops. Greed, Gluttony, Wrath… I never understood how they fell so easily, one by one. It was always him. He cleared the path. He made me a hero.”

She saw it now with horrifying clarity. Every “lucky” break, every defeated foe that paved her way to the throne—it was all the work of Natsuki Subaru. He had orchestrated her rise on a foundation of corpses, his own soul crumbling with each step, until only the monster of Pride remained.

And she, the beneficiary of his carnage, had been the one to strike the final blow.

“I ended it,” she said, her voice cracking. “I stopped the Great Fire. I saved everyone. But I killed him, Puck. I killed the only person who loved me. The boy who killer for me, over and over again, until there was nothing left but the Devil I had to put down.”

A sob wracked her body. The strong, regal Queen vanished, leaving only a grieving girl. “What does that make me? His greatest enemy was the one he loved most. How is that fair?”

Prick nuzzled her cheek, his cool fur a small comfort against her feverish skin. «Lia, you cannot chain your heart to a ghost. The boy you knew was consumed long before that final battle. What you fought was a shell filled with fire and arrogance. You saved the world from the monster he became.»

“But did I save him?” she cried, clutching the locket. “Was there ever a chance? Or was I just the final page in the tragic story he wrote for himself?”

She saw the proposal she had rejected yesterday. The nobleman’s hopeful face. How could she ever explain that her heart was a tomb, buried in the ashes of a city he had burned for her? That the only man she could ever love was the one she had been forced to kill.

«You carry the weight of too many lives, my daughter,» Puck murmured. «You carry the living. That is your duty now. The dead… must be allowed to rest.»

But as Emilia looked out at her peaceful kingdom, she knew the truth. Natsuki Subaru would never rest. And neither would she. His was a ghost that did not haunt the streets of Lugunica, but the throne room of its Queen.

"I am a truly a witch aren't I? Subaru"

— Reinhard —

The Astrea estate was a mausoleum of honor, and Reinhard van Astrea was its most dutiful relic. He stood in the training grounds, the Sword Saint, the slayer of the White Whale, the strongest being alive. His sword, the Dragon Sword Reid, remained silent at his hip. It had not sung for him in seven years, not since the Great Fire. A constant, silent judgment.

His muscles moved with divine precision, each swing of a practice blade perfect, controlled, and utterly empty. The power that coursed through him felt like a curse. It was the power that had failed to stop a single, determined boy from plunging the nation into hell.

I saw him today.

The thought was a shard of ice in his gut. His composure had shattered the moment those eyes—his eyes—had met his. The same eyes from the burning capital, filled with a mad, possessive love for the half-elf he had doomed. Reinhard’s body had moved before his mind, driven by a hatred so pure it felt like sanctity. He had choked the life from a boy who called himself Subaru Natsuki.

And then… nothing. The body was gone when he turned back. A ghost. A hallucination born of his own unforgivable guilt.

“Monster,” Reinhard whispered to the night air, the word a confession. He was the monster. He possessed the power to protect anything, and yet he had failed to protect everything that mattered.

His father, Heinkel Astrea, had died protecting his sleeping mother, a broken man long before the Fire finished him. His grandfather, Wilhelm, had fallen in battle against the White whale, his legendary skill no match for the fanatical tide. Reinhard had been elsewhere, “protecting the kingdom,” while his family crumbled.

If I had been smarter…… If I had been wiser…

The Divine Protections were a cruel joke. They gave him the strength to hold the world on his shoulders, but none of them could teach him how to stop it from bleeding.

A soft sound from the manor broke his trance. He turned to see a light in his wife’s window. His wife. The concept was still strange. A marriage of political convenience, a gesture to stabilize the kingdom. He did not love her, and she, a noblewoman who understood duty, did not love him. But he was kind to her. It was the least he could do. And she was a reason to keep the mask firmly in place.

And then there was his mother. Lounna Astrea, restored to life by the Queen’s grace. A second chance he did not deserve. To see the love in her eyes, a love untouched by the bitterness that had consumed his father, was a pain more exquisite than any wound. He had to be the hero for her. He had to be the stable knight for his wife. He had to live for them, because the man named Reinhard had died seven years ago in the ashes of his failures.

He was the Sword Saint. A title, a weapon, a shield for others. But inside, he was just a boy drowning in a sea of blood he could never wash away, haunted by the ghost of a Devil he could not kill .

Felix —

The room was opulent, a gilded cage. Silk drapes, polished mahogany, the faint scent of antiseptic and dried herbs—this was the world of Felix Argyle. He sat perfectly still on a plush chair, staring at his own reflection in the dark surface of a medicine cabinet. The person staring back had a sweet,cat-like ears,cat-like smile, but the blue eyes were empty, like polished glass.

A key turned in the lock, and the door opened. A stern-faced Argyle retainer entered, carrying a tray of medical supplies. "Felix. Your presence is required in the east wing. Lord Argyle's gout is acting up."

Felix did not move. His smile remained fixed. The retainer sighed, a familiar routine.

"The order comes from Subaru-sama," the man said, his voice flat with practiced patience.

A transformation. The emptiness in Felix's eyes vanished, replaced by a radiant, fervent light. He sprang to his feet, his movements suddenly fluid and alive. "Of course! Why didn't you say so?! Subaru-sama's will must be done immediately! Is he pleased with my work? Does he need me for something else?"

"He will be pleased once Lord Argyle is comfortable," the retainer said, guiding the now-pliable Felix out the door.

This was the only law in Felix's shattered mind. The world was a meaningless noise of demands and expectations, a chaotic play he was forced to watch. But there was one voice, one will, that cut through the static and gave him purpose. Subaru-sama's voice.

He tended to the gouty noble with expert, gentle hands, his mind elsewhere. In his world, Subaru-sama was not a dead devil. He was a silent, absent king. Every healing Felix performed was a prayer to him. Every patient cured was an offering laid at his altar.

This will please him, Felix thought, applying a cool poultice. Keeping these useless nobles healthy. They are tools for his grand design, even if they are too stupid to know it. I am maintaining his assets.

Back in his room, the door locked once more, Felix went to his true work. Hidden beneath a loose floorboard was his shrine: not to the Divine Dragon, but to a shadow. A lock of hair, jet black, obtained from a pillow in a ruined mansion seven years ago. A scrap of cloth from a tracksuit, stained with a faint, cherished drop of blood. These were his holy relics.

He knelt before them, his breathing quickening. "Subaru-sama," he whispered, his voice a mixture of reverence and desperate longing. "I am obeying. I am healing them, just as you wish. They think they command me, but they are merely speaking your words without understanding." He giggled, a soft, unhinged sound. "They are puppets, and your will is the only string that moves me."

He traced the outline of the bloodstain. "You are testing me, aren't you? Hiding to see if my devotion is true. It is. It is!" His whisper turned fervent. "I will heal everyone you point me to. I will make this kingdom whole for your return. And when you come back, you will see. You will see that I was the only one who never forgot. The only one who truly understood."

Felix Argyle was not just insane. He was a devout follower in a religion of one, waiting for his god to return and pass judgment on a world that had wronged him. And until then, he would follow every "order" given in that holy name, a perfect, powerful, and utterly broken instrument in the hands of a his own Family.

Roswaal -

There was a moment, a singular, pathetic moment, when Roswaal L. Mathers considered simply letting the candle burn out.

It was after the debacle at the capital. The half-elf girl had returned to the mansion alone, with a failure she did not even fully comprehend. The boy—Natsuki Subaru—was gone. Vanished. And with him, Roswaal’s four-hundred-year-old Gospel, the meticulous script for resurrecting his teacher, became a worthless scroll of empty promises.

The plan had been perfect. The Royal Selection would pressure the girl, her isolation would bind her to the boy, and the boy’s peculiar, desperate strength would be the engine that pushed her toward the throne, creating the conditions for the ultimate ritual. But without the boy, she was just a silver-haired doll, doomed to break under the weight of a world that despised her.

He had stood in his study, the silence of the mansion pressing in on him. Four centuries of scheming, of manipulation, of living with a soul split in two, all for nothing. The flame of his purpose, which had burned so fiercely for so long, guttered. To live on without that goal was not life. It was a tedium worse than death.

And then, the Devil came knocking.

He did not arrive with fire and brimstone. He simply appeared one evening in the study, as if he had always been there. His hair was a mess of black spikes, his eyes shadowed with a fatigue that seemed centuries deep. But in their depths burned a new, terrifying light: absolute, unshakable conviction.

“Roswaal,” the boy—no, the man—had said, his voice calm, devoid of fear. “You wanted Emilia to be queen. I will make her queen.”

Roswaal had merely stared, his painted smile a brittle mask. “And what~ could you possibly offer, I wonder?”

Subaru’s lips curled into a smile that did not reach his eyes. It was a cold, sharp thing. “I’ve read the book. Your Gospel. I know what you really want. And I’m the only one ruthless enough to get it for you. Emilia on the throne is just the first step. I’ll burn through every obstacle. The other Archbishops? The nobles? The Dragon? I’ll break them all for her. I’ll make this kingdom a pyre if that’s what it takes to crown her.”

He laid out his terms. A new soul contract if Rooswal were to break it nobody could save him.His soul would be perished. Details were Roswaal would provide unwavering, public support. Resources, influence, a legitimate framework for the carnage to come. In return, Subaru would deliver the throne to Emilia, no matter the cost. And there was one non-negotiable clause, spoken with a venom that chilled even Roswaal’s ancient blood: “You will never harm her. Not a scratch. Not a single word to break her spirit. Her heart and her body are mine to protect. You touch her, and our deal is void. I’ll turn my attention from your enemies to you.”

It was madness. It was the offer of a fiend. And it was the only spark left in the darkness. This was not the bumbling boy from the capital; this was a force of nature that had stared into the abyss and decided to conquer it. In that moment, Roswaal saw not a pawn, but an equal. A partner in the grand, bloody theater of their ambitions.

He agreed.

The years that followed were a masterpiece of orchestrated chaos. Roswaal watched from the sidelines as Subaru, the newly proclaimed Archbishop of Pride, systematically dismantled the Witch Cult that birthed him. Each fallen Archbishop was a checkmark on their list, a step closer to the throne. Subaru was magnificent—a artist of atrocity, painting the path to the throne with the blood of his former comrades. He was everything Roswaal had needed four hundred years ago: a friend who would walk through hell with him.

The Great Fire was the final, terrible act. The necessary catastrophe to break the old world and allow the new one to be built. Roswaal had played his part, and in the ensuing chaos, his original body had met its end. A calculated sacrifice.

His soul, guided by the final entries of his now-relevant Gospel, slipped into a vessel prepared by the contract’s terms: his young niece, Annorose. A new, smaller shell, but with all the dragon blood and authority he had bargained for.

And now, in the present, the goal was achieved.To resurrect a dead you would need their body preserved and especially their soul,the moment person died their souls would go back to od Laguna, but his teachers was kept in Sanctuary, both body and Soul, resurrecting her with the dragons blood wasn't a problem.

And now.He sat in a sun-drenched parlor of a restored Mathers domain, not in his own body, but in Annorose’s. The form felt strange, light, but the mind inside was centuries old. And across from him, sipping tea from a fine porcelain cup, was Echidna. His teacher. The Witch of Greed. Whole, real, and regarding him with those bottomless, curious eyes.

Beside her, Beatrice sat stiffly, her small hands clutching her own cup. She did not look at Roswaal; her gaze was fixed on the table, a mixture of relief and profound sorrow.

Ram stood behind his chair, her usual deadpan expression in place. She's been serving as the new head maid of the house,since her sister's death, her loyalty a silent, unshakable constant.

“It is a most peculiar blend, Roswaal,” Echidna remarked, setting her cup down. “The taste of a world changed beyond my records. I am… intrigued.”

“All according to your teachings, Teacher,” Roswaal said, his voice a higher pitch than he was accustomed to. “The pursuit of knowledge, no matter the path.”

But his thoughts were not entirely on Echidna. As the tea warmed his borrowed throat, he thought of the architect of this moment. Natsuki Subaru.

He had considered the boy a tool. Then, he had recognized him as an equal. And now, in the quiet victory, he felt a pang of something akin to loss. Subaru had been the only one who understood the scale of their ambition. The only one who looked at the impossible and saw a checklist. In another life, they could have been true friends. They were friends, in the only way monsters like them could be.

Subaru had gotten his wish: Emilia was queen, loved by all, untainted by the blood it took to get her there. And Roswaal had gotten his: his teacher was by his side.

The cost had been a nation’s worth of souls and the soul of the one man Roswaal had ever respected. A fair trade, by any rational measure. But as he sat there, with the ghost of a friend hanging over the table, Roswaal L. Mathers allowed himself a single, quiet thought, hidden behind a sips of tea.

It was a worthwhile journey, my friend. I only wish you could have been here to see the ending you bought for us.

— Otto’s POV —

Otto Suwen believed in deals. He believed in contracts, in the clear, unambiguous language of commerce where obligations were defined and, with enough sweat and shrewdness, could be paid off. That belief was the cage that had trapped him.

It started with a simple trade agreement gone sour. A shipment of high-value Kararagi spices, lost to a sudden, unnatural swamp dragon migration. A catastrophe no sane merchant could have predicted. But his employer, the notoriously merciless Russell Fellow, did not deal in excuses. He dealt in balances. The loss was astronomical, and with a flick of a pen on a contract Otto had signed in a moment of ambitious folly, his life was forfeit. Not just his assets, but his person. Debt slavery was a legal, if brutal, reality in the underbelly of Lugunican commerce, and Russell Fellow was its master.

One day, Otto was a promising merchant. The next, he was property. His days were spent managing Russell’s legitimate fronts, while his nights were haunted by the darker tasks: moving unmarked cargo, bribing officials, and cleaning up the messes left by his employer’s less savory associates.

It was during this time that Russell began dealing with him.

The Devil of Pride. Natsuki Subaru.

Otto was present for their first meeting. He remembered how the black-haired boy, no older than himself, carried an aura of chilling authority that made the ruthless Russell look like a fawning supplicant. They were forming an alliance. Subaru’s cult needed logistics, supply lines, and a veneer of legitimacy. Russell’s network provided it. In return, Subaru offered power and protection.

And as part of the deal, as a sign of “good faith,” Russell offered a gift. His most useful, disposable asset.

“The boy is yours,” Russell had said, clapping a hand on Otto’s shoulder like a farmer presenting a prized pig. “He’s clever. He’ll clean up your… operational overspill.”

Subaru’s eyes, old and tired in a young face, had scanned Otto. There was no malice in that gaze, only a cold, pragmatic assessment. “Fine. See that he does.”

And just like that, Otto Suwen became the personal “mess cleaner” for the most feared man in the kingdom.

His despair was bottomless. He had gone from a merchant to a slave, and now to a servant of the Devil. But a strange thing happened as he worked in the shadows of Subaru’s empire. He began to see the architect behind the monster.

Subaru was a strategist on a level Otto could scarcely comprehend. It wasn't just brutality; it was a terrifying, flawless calculus. Otto was tasked with erasing evidence, redirecting investigations, and ensuring that no loose end could ever lead back to Subaru or his ultimate goal: Destruction of Lugunica. He saw the plans unfold.How he killed the archbishops.The assassination of the 2 Candidates.The "miraculous" discovery of a plot against the candidate Priscilla about her being Vollachian royalty.
Every move was a piece on a grand board, and Subaru was playing both sides against the middle with a genius that bordered on clairvoyance.

Otto once dared to ask him, during a late night arranging false documents, “What if the Sword Saint himself comes for you? What then? No plan can account for that.”

Subaru had given him a wan, hollow smile. “Reinhard van Astrea is a weapon. And weapons are predictable. You don’t block a landslide; you divert it. Or you make sure you’re not standing where it will hit.” He spoke of the invincible Sword Saint not with fear, but with the weary familiarity of a man who had already calculated a thousand ways to evade him. Otto realized, with dawning horror, that Subaru’s plans did account for the Sword Saint. They accounted for everything. Failure was not an option he entertained.

The most chilling demonstration of this came months before the capital burned. Subaru called Otto into his study. “You have a sister, don’t you? In a village near the Flanders region.”

Otto’s blood ran cold. “Please… she has nothing to do with this.”

“I know,” Subaru said, not looking up from a map. “Take this money. Invent a family emergency. A rich, dying uncle in Kararagi. Get her, your parents, everyone you care about, and go to the city of Banan. Stay there for the next 2 months. Don’t tell anyone why. Not even Russell.”

It wasn’t a request. It was an order. But there was something in Subaru’s tone—a strange, almost merciful finality. Otto, conditioned by now to obey the unspoken currents of Subaru’s will, did exactly as he was told. He fabricated the story, secured leave from a suspicious Russell, and evacuated his family.

He returned to the capital alone, a knot of dread in his stomach. He knew something cataclysmic was coming. Subaru was tying up every loose end. Otto just never imagined how literal that would be.

The day of the Great Fire, Otto was with Russell Fellow in a fortified counting house near the city's center. The sky turned orange. The screams began. Russell was panicking, trying to save his ledgers, his gold. “That madman! That devil! He’s burning it all down!”

Otto stood by a window, watching the world end. He felt a surreal calm. Subaru had known. He had known exactly what would happen, and he had given Otto a chance to save what mattered. It was a flicker of humanity in the heart of the apocalypse, and it confused Otto more than any of the Devil’s cruelties.

A burning support beam gave way, crashing through the ceiling. Russell Fellow, clutching a chest of jewels, was buried instantly. The sound was final. In the hellish glow, Otto Suwen looked at the body of his master. The contract was burned away. The debt was paid in ash.

He was free.

—

The following years were a blur of rebuilding. Otto used his sharp wits and the remnants of his merchant knowledge to carve a new life. He became a successful trader again, a man who had miraculously survived the Great Fire. He never spoke of Russell Fellow. He never spoke of Natsuki Subaru. He married, had a child, and built a life on the foundation of a secret debt he could never repay.

Maybe they could have been friends?

And then, he saw him.7 years after.

Otto was overseeing wool wagons, negotiating a price for Lagunican wool for a Kararagi-bound caravan.Then he approached A young man with white hair and a face same as pride. His voice was same as pride, his hair was wrong, but the way he gestured—a sharp, decisive chop of his hand—the cadence of his speech when he was trying to sound confident…

Otto’s blood turned to ice. His heart hammered against his ribs. It was impossible. He had seen the reports, heard the Queen herself confirm the Devil’s death.

The white-haired youth. For a single, fleeting moment, their eyes met.

There was no recognition in ‘Youth's gaze. Only the vague politeness of a stranger.

But Otto Suwen saw past it. He saw the ghost in the machine. The weary sharpness in those eyes was exactly the same. The architect of the fire was walking the earth again, disguised as a simple traveler.

"Sir! Are you leading a caravan to Kararagi?" The Youth asked

"Subaru Natsuki?" It was a choked whisper

The youth was panicking

"No, I'm not him! My name is Alcor"

Chapter Text

Guys i use ai to polish the work, correct mistakes, and details, at first I send my own work to ai so it analizes it then I'll ask it to do the things that I stated . With it if my Chapter was 3k words after ai it will be about 5k or more I'll use ai but, idea and plot scenes mine

Chapter Text

Otto Suwen was haggling with a wool supplier when a voice cut through the noise.

"Sir! Are you leading a caravan to Kararagi?"

He turned, a polite rebuttal on his lips, and his world froze.

The young man had white hair and a traveller's cloak. But the garment underneath—the one he wore like a second skin—was a faded black and yellow jersey with a zipper and coarse matching pants. A tracksuit.

Otto’s mind went blank. The wool merchant's words became meaningless static. His heart hammered against his ribs like a wild thing. He saw not a stranger, but a ghost clad in the most intimate, bizarre uniform of his nightmares. Only a handful of people in the entire world would recognize the significance of that outfit. He was one of them.

His professional composure shattered. The color drained from his face. He took an involuntary, stumbling step back, his hand flying out to brace himself against a nearby wagon. A strangled, breathy noise escaped him.

"You…" he whispered, the sound torn from the depths of his soul. His eyes were wide, locked on the tracksuit with a horror that was seven years fresh. He wasn't seeing a resemblance; he was witnessing a resurrection. His gaze snapped up to the face—the white hair a flimsy veil—and saw the same sharp, weary eyes. "It's… it's you."

He didn't shout the name. He breathed it, a cursed secret shared between them. "Natsuki Subaru."

The reaction was so visceral, so specific, it hit Alcor with the force of a physical blow. This wasn't a case of mistaken identity. This man wasn't reacting to a legend. He was reacting to him, to the clothes on his back, a detail no one should know.

Alcor stumbled back, panic seizing him. "No! I'm not him! My name is Alcor!"

«He's not lying about his shock!» Nyx's voice was a sharp, panicked chime. «His recognition is absolute! He knows you! He knows the clothes!»

That was the most terrifying part. The clothes. This man wasn't just seeing a face he remembered from wanted posters. He was recognizing a piece of clothing that had no business existing in this world, a piece of clothing that belonged exclusively to the Devil. The suspicion that had been a shadow in Alcor's mind now solidified into a cold, hard truth. This was proof.

Otto, seeing the sheer terror on Alcor's face, seemed to realize the cat was out of the bag in the most devastating way possible. There was no pretending this was a coincidence. He pushed off from the wagon, his movements jerky. He closed the distance between them in two quick strides, his voice dropping to a low, frantic whisper meant only for Alcor's ears.

"The tracksuit," Otto hissed, his eyes burning with intensity. "Only a few of us would know what it means. And if one of them sees you… If Reinhard sees you in that, he won't ask questions. He'll just kill you. Do you understand? He will cut you down where you stand."

He grabbed Alcor's arm, his grip like iron. "You want to get to Kararagi? To disappear? Then you will get in my wagon at dawn. But you will hide yourself.Never wear it where Reinhard can see.This is not a negotiation. It is the only way you walk out of capital alive."

He wasn't offering passage. He was issuing a desperate ultimatum. He was containing a walking secret that could get them both killed.

Alcor, trapped by the man's grip and the terrifying certainty in his eyes, could only give a shaky, mute nod.

Otto released his arm, his own hand trembling. He took a step back, his chest heaving. "Dawn. Western gate. The wagon with the blue flag."

He turned and walked away, not looking back.

—

Alcor didn't remember fleeing the market. He found himself in a deserted alley, his back pressed against the cold stone, sliding down until he sat on the filthy ground. He hugged his knees, staring at the grey fabric of his tracksuit pants.

"It's true, isn't it?" he whispered into the silence. "I'm him. I'm the Devil. I'm the one who… who burned everything."

The silence stretched. Then, Nyx's purple sphere pulsed softly in front of him, its light a gentle, steady glow in the dim alley. "The merchant believed it completely," Nyx said, its voice softer now, losing its sharp edge. "He knew about the clothes. It's… very likely."

Alcor squeezed his eyes shut, a sob catching in his throat. "Nyx… if I am him… if I really did all those horrible things…" He took a shuddering breath. "Does that… change anything? Between us?"

The spirit floated closer, its light pulsing gently, like a comforting heartbeat. "Oh, Subaru," Nyx said, its tone now warm and unwavering. "Look at me."

Subaru opened his tear-filled eyes.

"I am your spirit," Nyx said firmly. "I don't care about the person you might have been. I care about the person you are now. The person who shares his snacks with me, who named me, who treats me like family. That's the Subaru I made a contract with. Whatever happened in your past life... it doesn't change what we are now."

The words were an anchor in a storm-tossed sea. In a world that wanted to kill him for a past he couldn't remember, his companion judged him not on the ghost he might be, but on the person he was now.

A single, hot tear traced a path down his cheek, followed by another. He wasn't the Devil. But he was carrying the Devil's name, the Devil's face, and the Devil's sins. And the only one who didn't condemn him for it was a spirit who saw his true heart.

He looked down at the tracksuit. It was a death warrant. But it was also his last link to a home he couldn't go back. He would hide it, as Otto said. He would bury that part of himself deep, and step into the wagon at dawn, placing his fragile future in the hands of a man who looked at him and saw the end of the world.

The Lugunican sun beat down on the western gate, but Natsuki Subaru—no, Alcor—felt only a cold that seeped from his marrow. The cloak Otto had given him felt less like a disguise and more like a shroud. Beside him, the merchant in question, Otto Suwen, was a whirlwind of false cheer and sharp commands, his voice cutting through the morning bustle.

“—tighten that harness, you want it to slip in the ravine? And you! The food wagon goes in the middle, are you trying to feed bandits instead of my drivers?” Otto’s commands were efficient, his smile never quite reaching his anxious, blue-green eyes. He was a man of average build, grey hair tied back, looking every bit the harried but competent merchant. But Alcor saw the way those eyes, the color of a restless sea, flickered back to him every few seconds. A warden checking his most valuable, most dangerous prisoner.

«He’s incredibly stressed,» Nyx’s childlike voice chimed in Alcor’s mind, the purple spirit a hidden, pulsing warmth against his chest beneath his clothes. «But his focus on you isn’t hostile. It’s… calculating. Like you’re a complex ledger.»

[Calculating. Right. Because he knows I’m a bomb that could blow his entire world to hellish cinders. Again. But I’m not that bomb. I’m just a guy who bought the wrong cup ramen.]

Their departure was a blur of noise and motion. Just as Alcor thought he’d be sealed away in a dark wagon, Otto clapped a hand on his shoulder, the grip deceptively friendly and unshakably firm.

“Everyone!” Otto announced, his voice projecting a warmth Alcor knew was a lie. “This is Alcor. My new personal assistant and apprentice. He’s a bit quiet, so don’t overwhelm him. You listen to him as you’d listen to me.” He turned the friendly grip into a steer, pulling Alcor towards the lead wagon. “You’re with me. We have work to do.”

The claustrophobia was immediate and suffocating. Trapped in the open, under the sun and the gaze of two dozen strangers, was infinitely more terrifying than hiding in the shadows.

“Why?” Alcor hissed under his breath, the sound swallowed by the creak of wheels.

Otto didn’t look at him, his eyes scanning the road ahead. “A man hiding in a corner draws eyes. A man working in plain sight is invisible. You will stay by my side. Always. You will learn, you will help, and you will not give anyone a reason to look twice at you.” His tone was that of a master craftsman explaining a basic tool’s function. It was dehumanizing. “Think of it as your first lesson in survival.”

The first day was a special kind of torture. Otto forced a ledger into his hands. The numbers swam, the Lugunican script a tangled mess.

“The numbers, Alcor. They tell a story. This column is for tolls paid at the last bridge. Cross-reference it with the travel time. See the discrepancy?” Otto’s finger, calloused and stained with ink, tapped the page. “Someone’s pocketing the difference and blaming it on delays.”

Alcor, his head pounding, saw it. A simple pattern. “The third driver,” he mumbled, pointing. “His ‘delay’ reports always match the stolen toll amounts.”

Otto went very still. He looked from the ledger to Alcor’s face, his expression unreadable. “Yes. The third driver.” He leaned back. “He had a way with patterns, you know. My old business partner. Could see the lies woven into a spreadsheet as easily as reading a children’s book. A brilliant, twisted mind.”

The words were a poison dart. Alcor felt a chill, but he met Otto’s gaze. “It’s just numbers. Anyone could see it if they looked.”

“Could they?” Otto mused, not breaking eye contact. “I wonder.”

When Alcor successfully haggled for fresh apples at a waypoint, Otto remarked, “He had a way with words. Could convince a man the sky was green and make him thank you for the revelation. It was terrifying.”

“I just offered a fair price,” Alcor retorted, a edge of frustration in his voice. “That’s not strategy, it’s basic decency. Stop seeing his ghost in every shadow.”
When a wagon’s axle cracked and Alcor suggested a way to reinforce it with spare leather and rope, Otto observed, “He’d have engineered a solution from nothing. Saw connections and resources no one else could.”

“It’s common sense!” Alcor shot back, his patience wearing thin. “Or are you telling me this ‘Pride’ invented being practical?”

[He’s determined to paint me with that brush. Every time I breathe, it’s a reminder of that monster. But I’m not him. I won’t let him make me believe I am.]

 

«He’s telling the truth about the memories,» Nyx whispered, her presence a small comfort. «But he’s projecting them onto you. It’s not an observation; it’s a confession of his own trauma .»

The true torment began when the sun went down. After the campfire stories and the drivers had retired to their bedrolls, Otto would lead Alcor to the supply wagon under the pretense of taking inventory. In the cramped, dark space, surrounded by sacks of grain and crates, the interrogation began.

“Let’s review the day,” Otto would begin, his voice a low, relentless murmur in the near-darkness, lit only by a single, guttering lantern. “When that child ran in front of the wagon today, you grabbed the reins. Your first instinct. Why?”

Alcor, exhausted, didn’t shrink. “To stop. To not hit her. It’s what anyone would do.”

“Was it?” Otto pressed, his gaze intense in the flickering light. “Or was it a calculation? Preserving the asset of the wagon and its cargo, avoiding a messy scene that would draw attention? He was very good at reducing people to variables.”

“That’s a sick way to look at the world,” Alcor said, his voice flat. “And I’m not him.” He leaned forward, the shadows sharpening his features. “You keep talking about his ‘brilliant mind,’ but all I see is you, jumping at shadows. If he was so perfect, why are you so terrified of a memory? What did he do to you that you can’t let go?”

It was the first time Alcor had directly challenged the source of Otto’s fear. Otto blinked, thrown off balance. “What he did… he remade the world in fire. And I was there. I had a front-row seat.”

“Doing what?” Alcor pushed, his tone firm. “What was your job? You weren’t a soldier. You’re a merchant. What did he have you do? Manage his finances? Keep his books?”

Otto let out a short, harsh laugh. The sound was brittle in the small space. “Is that what you think? No. Nothing so clean.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, laced with old shame. “I was his mess cleaner. When his plans left… spillage. When there were bodies, or evidence, or witnesses that needed to become unlucky accidents. That was my duty. To make the problems he created disappear.”

The term hung in the air, ugly and final. Mess cleaner. Alcor felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. The reality of what Otto had lived through was far darker than he had imagined. He seized on the opening.

“And before him?” Alcor asked, his voice low but insistent. “You said you were given to him. Who owned you before that? What kind of man owns another man and just… gives him away?”

Otto looked away, into the dark corner of the wagon. The question had struck a nerve far more raw than those about Pride. “His name was Russell Fellow,” he said, the name a curse. “A merchant. The worst kind. He traded in anything that turned a profit, and people were just another commodity. I was young, ambitious, and I made a mistake. A single lost shipment, and my life was forfeit. I was property. And one day, my owner decided to gift his property to a more powerful partner.”

“So, you went from one monster to another,” Alcor stated, not with pity, but with a cold, clear understanding. “You’re so haunted by the architect you can’t see the chains you still carry. You keep trying to find the monster in me to justify the part you played for both of them. But I’m not him. The only thing I’m guilty of is having his face.”

The dynamic had shifted entirely. Alcor was no longer a suspect being grilled; he was a prosecutor presenting a new, unsettling theory: that Otto's obsession was a form of penance for his own past actions, a desperate attempt to prove he had served a uniquely evil master to justify his own survival.

You’re so haunted by him that you see his reflection in a puddle of water.” He looked Otto dead in the eye. “I am not The Devil of Pride. I don’t know him. I don’t have his memories, his goals, or his sins. The only thing connecting me to him is your testimony and this face. And I am getting very tired of being punished for a crime I don’t remember committing.”

Otto stared at him, the lantern light dancing in his wide eyes. The relentless prosecutor finally had no retort. The boy in front of him wasn’t a broken ghost; he was a person, defiantly asserting his own existence.

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, he reached over, uncorked a waterskin, and placed it gently on the sack next to Alcor. “Drink,” he said, his voice stripped of its earlier sharpness. It was just tired.

The next morning, everything was different. Otto’s demeanor had shifted. The aggressive prosecutor was gone, replaced by a grim archivist of a painful history.

As they rode, the only sound the rumble of wheels, Otto began to speak. Not with accusations, but with the heavy tone of a man recounting a disaster he’d narrowly survived.

“I was in debt slavery,” he started, his eyes on the horizon. “To a monster named Russell Fellow. He traded in anything that turned a profit, legal or not. I was young, ambitious, and I made a mistake. A single lost shipment of Kararagi spices, and my life was forfeit.” He spoke now not because he was forced, but because Alcor had earned the right to hear it. “One day, Russell gave me to him. I became Natsuki Subaru’s ‘mess cleaner.’” Otto’s voice was flat. “I saw it all. The plans. The cold, flawless calculus that saw people as pawns. I believed I was serving a devil.”

He glanced at Alcor, who listened silently, no longer interrupting.
“Then,one day, he called me in. He told me my sister’s name. The village she lived in. He told me to take his money, invent a story, and get my entire family to the city of Banan. He told me to stay there for two months.” Otto’s knuckles were white where he gripped the wagon’s seat. “He gave the order with the same tone he used to order an assassination. No emotion. Just… fact. I obeyed. I saved them.”

He finally turned to look directly at Alcor, his expression one of profound, exhausted confusion.
“The Great Fire happened.Russell Fellow died. I was free. My family was alive because of a warning from the architect of the apocalypse.” He let out a shaky breath. “He was a monster. But he saved my family. That debt is a chain around my neck. I look at you, and I don’t see that monster. I see a boy. And I realize my debt… it now extends to you.”

Alcor absorbed this, the full, tragic picture of the man beside him finally coming into focus. “You don’t owe me anything,” Alcor said quietly. “But thank you for telling me.”

The rest of the journey passed in a different kind of silence. It was heavy, but not hostile. Otto stopped testing him. He started teaching him—genuinely. How to spot quality wool, how to judge the temperament of a ground dragon, how to speak to border guards. It was the education of a merchant, a trade, a normal life.

And then, they were there.

The border river gleamed in the sunlight, separating the verdant, haunted landscape of Lugunica from the arid, open plains of Kararagi. The air itself felt different—lighter, free from the spectral weight of a million ghosts.

At the crossroads, Otto handed Alcor a heavy pouch. “Your stake. As agreed.”

Alcor took it, the coins feeling like the weight of a potential future. “Thank you! I think your debt is paid” he said, his voice quiet but steady.

Otto shook his head, a faint, weary smile touching his lips. “No. It’s not. A debt like that is never fully paid. But it is for now.” His expression grew serious. “Remember this. You are not Pride. You are Alcor. You carry his shadow, but you write your own story. Do not let his past become your future. The world here doesn’t know your face. Use that.”

Alcor met his gaze, the self-doubt still a familiar chill in his gut, but now joined by a fragile, newfound resolve. “I know.”

He watched as Otto’s caravan, the last tether to the hell of his past, turned and began its journey back towards Lugunica. He was alone. Truly alone, save for the spirit nestled against his heart.

He opened his bag and looked inside. There, folded neatly, was the black and orange tracksuit. The last relic of a home he, the uniform of a devil. He didn’t see a death warrant anymore. Nor did he see a comfort. He saw a reminder. A headstone for the person he was, and a warning for the person he could become.

He closed the bag. He turned his back on the kingdom of Lugunica, on the ghost of a devil. Taking a deep breath of the foreign Kararagi air, Natsuki Subaru, now and forever Alcor, took his first step into an unwritten future. The road ahead was his, and his alone, to define.

Chapter Text

The air of Kararagi was a peculiar brew—a mélange of sizzling street food, incense from roadside shrines, and the faint, ever-present scent of ozone that clung to spirit arts users. To Natsuki Subaru, now known only as Alcor, it was both alien and disconcertingly familiar. The Wafuu architecture, with its wooden lattices and tiled roofs, the people gliding by in kimonos and zori… it felt less like a fantasy world and more like a historical reenactment populated by extras from a high-budget anime. He half-expected a samurai to round the corner, only to be met with a cat-eared woman haggling over the price of fish.

It was a feeling that gnawed at him, this cultural dissonance. It couldn't be a coincidence. This "Japaneseness" had to be a stain, a footprint left by someone like him, another poor soul dragged through the great waterfall. The thought was a cold stone in his gut, a reminder that he was not a pioneer, but merely the latest in a long, likely tragic, line.

[Alcor: I'm sorry, Nyx. It went awful. I tried my best, but it was just awful...]

His shoulders slumped as he replayed the morning's failed attempts to mimic the local Kansai-like dialect. Each mangled phrase had earned him nothing but confused or pitying stares.

A purple sphere of light, visible, pulsed with amusement near his ear. «Why are you even trying to talk like them? You sound like a dying frog trying to recite poetry.»

-"Well, I know I'm not good," Alcor muttered, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers, "but you know what they say, 'When in Rome, do as the Romans do'. I'm doing my best to fit in as soon as possible. I can't stick out more than I already do."

The streets of Banan, the second-largest town in Kararagi and the cradle of this Wafuu style, should have felt like a welcome reprieve from the Gothic spires and overt hostility of Lugunica. But instead, it just felt… off. It was a pale imitation, a fantasy cosplaying as his homeland, and the uncanny valley effect was stronger than he'd anticipated.

he whispered to himself, his voice barely a breath, "——It feels like the Edo Period, or going back a bit forward, the Meiji Era and Taisho Era."

He coughed, the sound swallowed by the din of the marketplace. He saw buildings constructed with wood lined up neatly, stores with their sliding doors wide open, inviting and yet isolating. The people wore their Wasou with a natural grace he could never hope to emulate. Among them, beast-humans of all kinds moved with an ease he envied. They belonged. He was a ghost in a borrowed cloak, the enchanted grey fabric from Old Man Gerth a constant, bittersweet weight on his shoulders. Gratitude for the old man's kindness warred with a sickening guilt. [If he knew it was me… the other me… the one who set his world on fire…]

[Alcor: It's like people in a fantasy cosplaying. Well, the material is nice so it looks good on everyone, and it all comes together perfectly, though.]

The thought was a hollow comfort. He and Nyx had arrived in Kararagi just two days prior, the heavy pouch of coins from Otto Suwen a tangible link to another life, another self. The money would keep them afloat for months, a fact for which he was endlessly grateful. But they hadn't come here for sanctuary alone. The true purpose of their journey was a pull, an invisible string tied to his very soul, leading east. Nyx had confirmed it—the faint, persistent thrum of a spirit contract, one he had no memory of making. A Great Spirit, powerful enough to shake nations, was inexplicably bound to him. Their goal was to find it.

"Al! You know we should go to the Public Employment Security Office that mutt told us about."

Nyx's voice, a petulant chime in his mind, snapped him from his reverie. Alcor frowned. "Hal-san isn't a mutt, be a little nicer to him, Nyx! We don't want to have to go searching for a different apartment. We have to buy me some local outfits, too."

He picked up his grey cloak, swinging it over his shoulders. As the familiar fabric settled, he felt a phantom touch of the old man's hand, a memory of undeserved compassion that both warmed and chilled him.

Just as he and his spectral companion stepped out of their tenement house and into the bustling street, a familiar, languid voice called out.

[Halibel: What’s wrong, Al-san? You’re walking with a serious look…what a scary face!]

[Alcor: Don’t be so rude about people’s serious looks……]

Alcor turned to face the speaker, his frown deepening. The man was a study in casual insolence.

[Alcor: With that dog face, you must be Hal-san. Don’t startle me.]

[Halibel: “A dog face”. Don’t put it that way. I’m a wolf, of the dog family.]

The demi-human, Halibel, was tall and lean, a head taller than Alcor. He was clad in a simple black kimono, a stark contrast to the vibrant colors of the street. His wolf-like features were sharp, but his eyes were perpetually narrowed into amused slits, giving him a fox-like cunning. A golden kiseru was clamped between his teeth, a wisp of sweet-smelling smoke curling into the air. He was their neighbor and the self-proclaimed manager of the tenement house, a title that seemed to involve a lot of napping and very little managing.

[Halibel: You look like you want to say, “If you’re not a dog, then you’re a fox”. Al-san, you just don’t know when to stop, do you?]

[Alcor: Don’t make complaints based on people’s looks. I really was thinking that, though.]

[Halibel: I am neither a Kobold nor a Fox. I’m a Wolf. We are a rare species on the verge of extinction, so don’t make that mistake. It kinda feels like I’m carrying the pride of our kind.]

Alcor highly doubted the pride of an entire species, especially one on the verge of extinction, should be entrusted to someone with Halibel's napping habits. He was friendly, sure, but trust was a currency Alcor was bankrupt of.

[Alcor: I can’t chat with you right now. I’m burning with the will to become a hero. Don’t get in my way.]

[Halibel: Come on, Al-san, that sure is a cold way to greet me. I’m really depressed, so stop it. Besides, even if you’re burning with the will to be a hero, you don’t have any power. It’s just cinders.]

[Alcor: I’m also really depressed, so can you not!?]

His voice cracked, the truth of Halibel's words striking a nerve. The wolf-man simply chuckled, the kiseru bobbing as he exhaled a plume of smoke.

[Halibel: Go ahead and get more and more depressed.]

[Alcor: You don't know anything about me! If I wanted to, I could beat you up!]

It was an empty boast, and they both knew it. Alcor’s shoulders slumped in dejection. Halibel let out a hearty, "Harharhar!" at his expense.

[Alcor: Did you come here to make fun of me? Or did you come here to cheer me up?]

[Halibel: We’re both jobless, and I thought we could have a pity party or something.]

[Alcor: No way! I need my heroic adventures. Maybe I have to save some silver-haired damsel in distress.]

He shook off Halibel’s attempt to sling a comradely arm over his shoulder, rejecting the notion of a shared failure. Besides, Halibel wasn't truly jobless. He was a "manager," a fact that only deepened Alcor's frustration.

[Alcor: Basically, Hal-san is a dazzling being out of my reach.]

[Halibel: Don’t say something so sad; we can be friends. It’s true that I can get money just by lying down all day and playing with the frayed spots of my kimono, but putting that aside, I think it’s precious how Al-san is working hard to get strong? Isn’t it just lovely? You're maybe the 3rd spirit arts user I've ever seen.]

[Alcor: Shut up, you slacker! ……Actually, who did you go to to become a manager?]

[Halibel: Hmm, sorry to disappoint, but I just happened to be acquaintances with the owner of the tenement house. With that connection, I was able to be a couch potato……Sorry, Al-san, I’m a winner.]

[Alcor: Damn you!!]

Alcor hissed, a genuine spark of anger flaring in his chest. Personal connections. It was always about who you knew. In this world and his last, he, Natsuki Subaru, was a master of having none. The only people who "knew" him here were a Sword Saint who wanted him dead and a cult that worshipped a phantom of his own sin.

[Alcor: ──And so, I came to the public employment security office to start my heroic journey.]

He declared this to no one in particular, a mantra to steel his resolve as he arrived at his destination.

The employment agency was a modest, single-story wooden building tucked away from the main thoroughfares. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of old paper and ink. Help-wanted posters and bounty notices papered the walls, a tapestry of desperation and opportunity. Behind a reception desk sat a man who was less a man and more a mountain of scales—a lizardman of such impressive girth he resembled a bipedal toad, a fact accentuated by the cute, frilly apron he wore over his kimono.
____________________
[Crane: ──Ugh! Welcome]

The greeting was less enthusiastic and more of a pained grunt. The lizardman, Crane Donahue, owner of the town-approved agency, looked up at Alcor with undisguised annoyance.

[Alcor: Umm, hello, sir. Are there any jobs that suit a spirit arts user?]

[Crane: You're a spirit arts user? Wait please, young man.]

Crane’s demeanor shifted from bored to mildly intrigued. His large, reptilian eyes scanned Alcor up and down, assessing his cheap tracksuit and youthful face with clear skepticism.

[Crane: How strong do you think you are? Can you do some dirty work?]

[Alcor: Er, well, you see, I'm not totally into dirty work, but I'll see.]

[Crane: Hmm, a job for a Spirit Arts user… we have a couple. Dangerous ones. Can you manage? You look so young.]

Alcor was about to protest when Crane’s eyes drifted past him, widening in recognition. A sycophantic smile spread across his broad face.

[Crane: Oh! It’s Halibel! Sorry for not contacting you for quite a while!]

[Halibel: Oh, it’s fine, don’t worry. I just came to check on Al-san’s future.]

Alcor looked between the suddenly obsequious Crane and the lazily smiling Halibel, his brow furrowed.

[Alcor: You know this playboy?]

[Halibel: Playboy! Playboy! Why does it have such a lovely ring to it? From now on, I’ll be calling myself ‘The Eternal Playboy’. Does it sound good? Does it sound bad?]

[Alcor: What’s bad is that you actually like it.]

As Alcor quipped, he watched Crane visibly sweat, his large hands wringing the edge of his apron.

[Crane: Dimwit……I mean, Mr.! I don't know your name, but you made it big. I knew you could do it.]

[Alcor: You can’t just blatantly change the way you treat someone!]

[Crane: Well, of course I’m going to use ‘Mr.’. Who do you think Mr. Halibel i……]

Crane cut himself off, a look of sheer panic flashing in his eyes. He coughed, looking away.

[Crane: Mr. Halibel is, you know……a─an eternal playboy.]

[Alcor: He got that name just a second ago.]

[Crane: Anyway! Moving on! So what’s the matter? How can I refer you, Mr.?]

[Alcor: Alcor. Just Alcor will be fine. So, is there any job for a Spirit Arts user?]

[Crane: Of course, Mr. Alcor! Let me see.]

Crane busied himself scanning the bulletin board, a clear attempt to regain composure. Alcor’s eyes drifted over the wall of postings. Monster exterminations, bodyguard details, courier missions to hostile territories… each one seemed to scream 'certain death' in its own special way.

[Alcor: If I accept exterminating a dragon and fail, your reputation would be damaged as the one who got me the job.]

[Crane: I would never ask you to do that, and I’d leave the country once something like dragon extermination was announced.]

[Halibel: If it was in an empire, I’d exterminate a dragon with pleasure. If you have a good plan to kill it, you might even defeat the kingdom’s God Dragon. Then you could take the country and……]

[Alcor: Oh! Crane! That’s it! Let me check out that ‘Zarestia Bed Search’!]

Alcor’s voice cut through Halibel's dangerous musings. He strode to the wall and dramatically snatched a particular poster, reading its contents aloud.

[Alcor: Let’s see… “Recruiting investigators for the bed of the Great Spirit Zarestia! The habitat of the Great Spirit that has been a mystery for many years ─ the time has come to recruit members to explore it! Working conditions are negotiable, and the reward depends on results!” This! This……this doesn’t sound good at all……]

[Crane: Why are you talking so loudly to yourself, Mr.! Also, I’ll be putting that back. Give it back here, please.]

As Alcor’s eyes glazed over at the sheer suicidal audacity of the offer, Crane snatched the poster back. He glanced at it and grunted.

[Crane: I forgot to take this off. Applications closed quite a while ago. It’s just a crappy recruitment form I left on there just because I was told to do so. Just forget about it.]

[Alcor: Did it actually happen?]

The idea of a group of people willingly marching into the lair of a Great Spirit was insane. According to Nyx, each one was a natural disaster given consciousness.

[Crane: There are a lot more idiots in this world than you think, Mr.]

The blunt reply sent a fresh wave of depression through Alcor. He hoped those daredevils had, at least, died quickly. Seeing his expression, Crane misinterpreted his despair for determination. He tapped a claw on his apron.

[Crane: So…….I really don’t know if I should give you this……!]

[Alcor: So you’re saying you have a job that’s better than pretty much suicide!?]

[Crane: Actually, you know what? Take a look at this!]

Crane handed him another, slightly less weathered poster. Alcor took it and read: "Great Spirit of Fire has been located near the borderlines of the east. We recruit members to investigate it. Working conditions are negotiable, and the reward depends on results!"

His breath hitched. The East. The pull.

«Al,» Nyx's voice was a sharp, excited whisper in his mind. «Wait a minute. The pulse… it's coming from the east. Could it be… my spirit?»

«Take the mission, Al. We'll see. But I'm pretty sure it's him. Or her.»

Alcor looked up, his earlier despair replaced by a flicker of desperate hope. This wasn't just a job; it was a thread leading directly to the mystery shackled to his soul.

Crane: "So?"

Alcor: "I'll take it."

Halibel, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up, his tone uncharacteristically serious. "Al-san, are you sure? It's a hard mission. If you die, we can't resurrect you."

The words were a bucket of ice water. They slammed into Alcor, dragging up visceral memories—the searing pain of a knife in his back, the crushing finality of Reinhard's grip on his throat. Return by Death. If he died on this mission, where would he respawn? Back at that damned apple stand? Was there a limit to his cheat-code? Would the next death be his last?

A cold sweat beaded on his temple. But the pull from the east was a siren's call, a promise of power, of an answer, of maybe, just maybe, a way to survive in this world on his own terms. He couldn't back down now. He had to believe he would make it.

He forced a confident smile onto his face, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Trust me, Hal-san. I'm sure."

Crane shrugged his massive shoulders. "I mean, sure. You just have to wait here for now. The one who put the sign up said that she would be back in the evening."

Alcor nodded, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He had taken the first step. The road east stretched out before him, a path leading toward a fiery spirit, unknown dangers, and the ghost of the man he might have been.

Chapter Text

There was a silence in the forest that was not merely an absence of sound, but a presence. It was the silence of deep roots and older magic, a hush woven into the very air of the hidden elven enclave. Here, among the trees that whispered secrets in a language only they understood, children were born without names.

To receive a name was to be gifted an ego, a self. And a self was a barrier to the sacred art, the dream-technique that was their clan’s legacy and their burden. It was a delicate, terrifying magic—the ability to walk the gossamer threads of memory, to gentle nightmares, to reshape the landscapes of the mind. To do so, one had to be a clear pool, reflecting the dreams of others without the ripples of one’s own desire to distort the image. They were taught to be vessels, empty and still.

The girl who would one day be called Shion was one such vessel. For fifteen years, she was simply a presence, a pair of wide, observant eyes in a face as pale and smooth as moonlight on bark. She learned the meditative forms, the subtle hand gestures that could pluck a memory like a fruit from a branch. She practiced the art of unwinding herself, of becoming so still inside that she could feel the dreams of the sleeping sparrows in their nests. She was good. She was diligent.

But she was not empty.

A secret, fragile ego had taken root in the silence of her heart. A longing to be more than a vessel, a desire to have a story that was hers alone. She would watch the named adults, her parents included, and see the subtle weight of their identities in the set of their shoulders, the light in their eyes. She craved that weight. It was this tiny, stubborn seed of self that doomed her.

The final test was conducted in the Grove of Whispers. Under the gaze of the elders, she was to enter the dream of a captured nightmare beast—a creature whose mind was a tempest of fear and rage—and calm it into eternal slumber without leaving a single trace of her own consciousness behind.

She knelt. She breathed. She reached out with her spirit, and for a moment, she was the clear pool. She felt the beast’s chaotic dreams, a storm of red and black. She began to weave a lullaby of peace, her will a gentle pressure smoothing the jagged edges of its terror.

And then, the thought surfaced, unbidden and triumphant: I am doing it. I am succeeding.

It was a ripple. A single, selfish thought.

The beast’s dream-mind, sensitive to any foreign presence, recoiled violently. The lullaby shattered. The psychic backlash threw her physically from the grove, her small body slamming against the trunk of an ancient tree. The beast, now driven to greater madness, had to be put down by the elders, its death a stain on their peaceful creed.

The judgment was swift. She had failed. She had polluted the sacred technique with her ego. The punishment was not death—that would be a recognition of a self that had no right to exist. The punishment was exile. She was cast out from the only home she had ever known, not as a person, but as a broken tool, still nameless, her fifteen years of life rendered meaningless.

Alone in the vast, terrifying world, the girl stumbled through forests she did not know. The silence that had once been sacred was now a crushing loneliness. Hunger gnawed at her, and fear, a emotion she had only ever felt secondhand in the dreams of others, became her constant companion.

It was this fear that led the slavers to her. Rough hands seized her. A sack was thrown over her head. The world became darkness, the jostling of a cart, and the smell of unwashed bodies and despair. In that pitch-black terror, the training of a lifetime evaporated. The stillness shattered. The vessel broke.

She was no longer a clear pool, but a stormy ocean. And from the depths of that ocean, a new voice surfaced, sharp, desperate, and fiercely possessive.

I don’t want to die.

It was not her thought. It was… other.

As one of the slavers, a man with a cruel smile and rotten breath, leaned in to inspect his new property, the girl began to weep, her body shaking uncontrollably.

“Please,” she sobbed, her voice a ragged thing. “I don't want to die. I don't want to die.”

The slaver laughed, a harsh, grating sound. But then, his laughter died in his throat. The girl’s sobs had ceased abruptly. Her head lifted, though the sack still covered it. The posture of her body changed, the cowering fear replaced by a wire-taut tension.

From within the sack, a new voice spoke. It was still her vocal cords, but the cadence was different—oflatter, laced with a chilling pragmatism. It was the voice of the survival instinct, given form and will. It

You are tired,” she" said, her words not a plea, but a statement of fact. “Your limbs are heavy as stone. The fire is so warm. You haven’t slept in a long, long time.”

"She "wasn’t just speaking." She" was pushing. "She" was using the dream-technique not as a healing art, but as a weapon. "She "reached into the slaver’s mind, past his lust and his cruelty, to the base, animal part of his brain that understood exhaustion." She" didn't create a dream;" she" imposed a waking one. "She" poured the sensation of leaden limbs and overwhelming drowsiness directly into his nervous system.

The man blinked, confusion warring with the foreign sensation suddenly flooding his body. “Wha… what sorcery is this…?” he slurred, his grip loosening.

“No sorcery,” she" cooed, her voice a hypnotic lullaby. “Just truth. Your eyes are so heavy. You can barely keep them open. Sleep now. Just for a moment. It’s safe to sleep.”

"She" reinforced the command, weaving a tapestry of false security and profound weariness. The man’s head nodded forward. His weight settled on her, but now it was the dead weight of sudden, irresistible slumber. A deep, guttural snore escaped his lips.

In an instant, "she "was moving. "She" shoved the unconscious bulk off her, her movements efficient and devoid of the girl’s former fragility." She" didn’t look back at her would-be violator. He was already a solved problem, a piece of scenery. Her only goal was distance.

"She" fled into the night, purposeful energy driving her legs, until the camp was far behind. She scrambled up a rocky outcrop, lungs burning, and risked a look back toward the distant, hidden valley that had once been her home.

And " she" saw it.

A hellish glow on the horizon. Orange tongues of fire licking at the stars. The slavers, perhaps enraged by her escape or following some other vile design, had found her village. The ancient, silent trees were now a pyre. The home that had exiled her was being erased from the world.

A sound wrenched itself from her throat—a raw, broken thing that was part sob, part gasp. It was the sound of the last bridge to her past collapsing into ash.

In that cataclysmic moment, as the survivor, solidified her control within their shared mind, a name surfaced. It was not a gift. It was a verdict. A label for the hollowed-out creature that remained, for the grave of the life that was now burning before her eyes. It was the name of the one who had been broken so that "she"could be born.

The world after the fire was a cold, sharp place. Survival was no longer an abstract concept whispered by "her" from the depths of their mind; it was the daily, grinding reality. The girl without a name.

__________________________________________

Her first few months were a blur of stolen fruit, hiding in ditches, and the constant, gnawing hunger. The dream-technique, once a sacred art, became a tool for petty theft. She would brush against the mind of a market vendor, planting a fleeting distraction—a memory of a dropped coin, a sudden worry about a child—long enough to snatch a loaf of bread. It was a desecration, and each time she felt a piece of her soul flake away. But "her" voice was a cold comfort in these moments: We eat. Or we die. There is no third option.

It was this ruthless pragmatism that led her to the shadowy door of the Assassins Guild. She wasn't a fighter, not in the physical sense. But she was a ghost who could walk through walls of memory and make locks forget their purpose. Her first contract was a nervous nobleman who wanted a rival’s trade documents altered. She didn’t steal them; she spent a night in the inn next door, slipped into the rival’s dreams, and subtly twisted the key financial figures in his memory. The man woke up believing his business was failing and sold it for a pittance.

The Guild took notice. Her methods were clean, untraceable, and left no blood—physical blood, at least. She became known as "The Weeper," for the single, unconscious tear that would often trace a path down her cheek during a job, the only protest her original self could muster.

It was this unique skillset that drew the attention of a… different kind of client. The message came not on parchment, but through a dream—a cloying, perfumed, and utterly invasive dream that felt like being smothered in silk. It was an invitation, or perhaps a summons, from the Sin Archbishop of Lust, Capella Emerada Lugunica.

The meeting was held in a gilded cage of a manor. Capella, a horrifying, mesmerizing spectacle of fluid flesh, found the hollowed-out weapon fascinating.

"A little doll whose strings are tangled!" Capella had crooned. "You don't even know who holds them, do you? You are a perfect portrait of self-loathing! You shall be one of my children meatbag. My little broken toy."

The girl could only bow. To refuse was death, or worse, a reshaping into one of Capella's mindless "children." This was simply another layer of survival.
_________________________________
Her missions grew darker. She didn't just alter memories; she erased them. She didn't just plant distractions; she crafted full-blown paranoias that drove targets to madness or suicide. Each job was a stain, and Shion felt herself becoming a canvas of blackness. The friendly, hopeful part of her was buried so deep she wondered if it had ever existed at all.

Then came the mission with Elsa Granhiert.The Bowel Hunter

The contract was vague, sourced through the Guild but carrying the distinct, perfumed stink of Capella's influence. She was to assist the "Bowel Hunter" in the acquisition of a certain key from a noble household in Lugunica. Elsa was the blade; She was the silence that would allow her to work.

The details of that night were… gone.

It wasn't like a forgotten memory. It was a black hole in her psyche, a void with jagged edges. She remembered meeting Elsa—the beautiful, deadly woman with a terrifying warmth in her violet eyes. She remembered the scent of blood and old wood. And then… nothing. A gap. A scream of static in her mind.

When she awoke, she was miles away, her clothes clean, her dagger spotless, but her soul feeling violently scrubbed. The only thing that remained was a voice. Not Elsa's, not Capella's. A new voice, echoing in the empty chamber the mission had left behind.

It was a young man's voice, laced with a strange, upbeat desperation. And it spoke words that made no sense, yet felt more real and familiar than her own name.

"Isekai protogonist huh…" the voice sighed in her memory.
"Just Like a true NEET!"
"It's like something out of a rom-com…"
"This is the final boss."

The words— "isekai," "NEET," "rom-com," "final boss"—were alien. They were loanwords, but not from any language in this world. They felt like… home. A home she had never known.

In the wake of that nothingness, two things emerged with crystal clarity, as if they had always been there.

The first was a name. "Her" name.

Shion.

It felt right. It felt like her. It was the name for the one who carried the weight, the one who smiled with borrowed warmth and navigated the waking world.

The second was the awareness of the other. The cold, pragmatic presence that had guided her survival was no longer a nameless instinct. It had an identity, a resonance.

Lilac.

They did not question these names. They did not remember receiving them. The names were simply fact, emerging from the amniotic silence of the lost mission, the only solid artifacts salvaged from the void. They were labels for the two souls sharing one vessel, a fundamental truth that required no origin story.

"Lilac," Shion would whisper internally, feeling the presence shift in response. "What do we do now?"

The response was not in words, but in a wave of cool focus, a survivalist's assessment. They were a team now, more defined than ever.

____________________________________

The following months were a curriculum in cruelty, taught by a mother whose love was a whetstone for suffering. The lesson was seared into Shion’s soul during a mission to eliminate a minor noble. She hesitated. Not out of mercy for the man, but from a sudden, paralyzing flash of the girl she had been in the elven enclave—the one who believed in stillness and peace. That single moment of weakness was all it took for the noble’s guards to intervene, and the mission failed.

Mother’s response was not anger. It was a delighted, artistic fervor.

"Oho? My little meatbag forgot how to be useful?" Capella’s voice had purred, a sound of oily malignancy. "Don't worry, Mama will remind you~! Let's see what you look like on the inside!"

The world dissolved into an agony beyond comprehension. It was not mere pain; it was the utter unraveling of self. Bones lost their purpose, flesh its form. She was a screaming, conscious mound of meat, a lump of sensory torment with only a single, unblinking eye and a lipless mouth to voice a silent, endless scream. In that form, there was no Shion, no Lilac—only a raw, exposed nerve of existence, and the only thought it could form was a plea for the final, black silence of death.

After an eternity measured in heartbeats of pure horror, her original form was restored as capriciously as it had been taken. She collapsed on the cold floor, gasping, whole again but forever fractured.

Capella leaned over her, a vision of beautiful malice. "There, there, my precious little failure. See how kind Mama is? I could have left you as a rug~! Now, remember this lesson, meatbag. Disappoint Mama again, and next time... you'll stay as my new favorite paperweight."

The thought of escape was a ghost that haunted every one of Mother's children, a terrifying dream quickly stifled. To run was to be hunted. To be caught was to become a living monument to her displeasure—a frog, a chair, a screaming knot of flesh forever.

When two of Mother's most prized assets—the peerless assassin Elsa and the beast-tamer Meili—vanished without a trace, the cage shook with Capella's wrath. "My beautiful weapons! My beloved daughters! How dare they hide their love from me!" she shrieked, her form flickering through a gallery of nightmares. The order was absolute: find them.

Shion was dispatched as part of a large hunting party, her dream-arts meant to track their psychic residue.

The journey was a silent, grim procession. The cave mouth loomed like a jagged wound in the earth, exuding an aura of cold foreboding. As they ventured inside, the darkness was broken by the flickering light of torches, revealing a subterranean network of tunnels that served as a stronghold.

They hadn't gone far when a group of black-robed figures emerged from the shadows, blocking their path. These were no mere fanatics; these were disciplined witch cultists , their eyes burning with a cold, intellectual fervor. Their leader, a stern-faced man with a scar across his cheek, stepped forward, ready to issue a challenge.

But then his eyes fell upon Lye and Roy.

The change was instantaneous. The defiance melted away, replaced by sheer, unadulterated awe. The scarred man dropped to one knee, bowing his head deeply. Behind him, his entire contingent followed suit, a wave of obeisance rippling through the cavern. The reverence was not for Capella, not for their mission—it was for the sacred office of the Sin Archbishop.

"We... we did not know you were gracing this humble place, Your Eminences," the scarred man stammered, his voice filled with reverence. "To what do we owe the honor of hosting the Archbishops of Gluttony?"

Roy giggled, the sound echoing unnervingly in the cavern. "We're looking for Mother's runaways, tsu! Elsa and Meili! Are they here?"

Before the cultist could answer, a new voice, calm and laced with a familiar, terrifying authority, cut through the damp air.

"Now, now. Causing a scene in my home, and interrogating my followers? I expect this from the slut of Lust's rabid dogs, but from my fellow Archbishops? I'm a little disappointed."

From a deeper tunnel, he emerged. He wore robes of a sin archbishop, his black hair messy, his eyes holding that ancient, weary sharpness that belied his youth. He didn't walk with menace, but with an air of absolute ownership.

The kneeling cultists bowed even deeper, their foreheads nearly touching the stone floor. "Lord Pride!" they chanted in unison.

Pride ignored them, his gaze fixed on Lye and Roy. He offered a thin, cold smirk.

"Lye. Roy. A pleasure, as always. I assume the whore sent you to fetch her toys?" He didn't wait for an answer. "You can tell her that her property has been repossessed. They now belong to me. And as per the covenants that even she wouldn't dare break, what one Archbishop claims, another cannot touch." He tilted his head, his eyes glinting. "Or would you two like to explain to the Witch why you started a fight over a run away assasins?"

The silence was absolute. Roy and Lye exchanged a look. The fervent obedience of the cultists, the unshakeable calm of Pride, the weight of the Cult's ancient laws—it was a checkmate.

"...We are leaving, then," Lye said, his usual sing-song tone flattened into resignation. "Mother will be... very unhappy with you, tsu." Roy finished.

He turned, and Lye followed with a disappointed pout. The Lust assassins needed no further orders; they retreated quickly, the confrontation having ended without a single blow being struck. Shion fled with them, her mind a whirlwind. As she glanced back one last time, she saw Pride standing amidst his prostrate followers, his expression one of utter boredom, as if the entire affair had been a minor inconvenience.

---__________________________

The return to the guild was a march of the condemned. The air in the ornate hall was colder than the cave they had just fled, thick with the scent of fear and old blood. They had failed. The weight of that single word pressed down on them, heavier than any chains.

Capella was waiting on her grotesque throne of fused flesh and precious metal. She was perfectly still, a vision of beautiful, contained fury. Her eyes, like polished gemstones of pure malice, tracked them as they entered. She noted the missing Lye with a flicker of annoyance, but her gaze settled on Roy and the rest of the assassins.

"Well?" she purred, the sound dripping with false sweetness. "Where are my lovely daughters? Where is the proof of your… devotion?"

Roy, for once, was not smiling. "Mother… the Archbishop of Pride… he claimed them. He cited the ancient rules—"

"Rules?" Capella’s voice sliced through his explanation, sharp enough to draw blood. "You come back to me empty-handed, and you dare speak to me of rules?"

Her form shimmered, flesh rippling. In a blink, she was no longer a beautiful woman but a towering monstrosity of teeth and claws, her voice a guttural roar. "You let that arrogant, black-haired vermin make fools of you! Of ME!"

She pointed a single, elongating claw at Roy. "You first, my hungry little boy. You need to learn what true hunger feels like!"

Roy’s eyes widened in terror. "Mother, please—!"

His plea turned into a choked gurgle as his body began to warp. His limbs twisted and contracted, his robes dissolving into his changing flesh. His form shrank, his skin turning a mottled green, his mouth stretching into a wide, frothing grin. Within seconds, where the Sin Archbishop of Gluttony had stood, a single, large frog now sat, its throat pulsating with silent, panicked croaks.

The other assassins stared, paralyzed with horror.

"But a lesson for one is a lesson wasted on the many!" Capella shrieked, her form shifting back to its beautiful state, though her eyes burned with hellfire. She gestured dismissively at the remaining assassins.

Their screams were a symphony of agony as their bodies were un-made and re-forged. One man’s legs fused into a single, fleshy pillar. Another’s arms elongated into useless, boneless tentacles. A third was turned inside out, a screaming, pulsing mass of organs that somehow still lived, a living anatomy lesson in torment. The hall echoed with their muffled, inhuman cries.

Shion stood frozen, waiting for her own transformation, her mind screaming for Lilac. But Capella’s gaze passed over her, for now.

She knelt, picking up the frog that was Roy, stroking its slimy back with a single finger. "There, there, my child. Think about your failure in there. Think about how you disappointed Mama."

She dropped him, and the frog hopped frantically in a circle, confused and terrified.

Then she stood, her voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow more terrifying than her roar. It was a whisper filled with centuries of spite.

"That meatbag," she hissed, the word laced with pure acid. "That upstart, Pride. He thinks his little rules can protect him? He thinks he can steal from me? He thinks he can humiliate me?"

She began to pace, her heels clicking on the stone like a countdown to an execution. "I am going to peel that pride away layer by layer. I will take everyone he has ever smiled at, everyone he has ever thought about, and I will turn them into my prettiest, most screaming works of art. I will make him watch. I will make him beg."

She stopped, turning a smile toward her collection of tortured living sculptures. A smile of absolute, unhinged hatred.

"Let him have his little victory today. Let him hide behind his rules. It just makes the hunt more interesting." Her eyes gleamed with a dark, joyful promise. "I am going to make that meatbag pay in screams. And when there is nothing left of his pride but a bloody stump, I will personally tear out his heart and make him eat it.

That… is all."

---________________________________

The following year was a paradox carved into Shion’s soul, a twelve-month stretch that was simultaneously the most horrific and most hopeful of her life. News, filtered through the Cult’s grim channels, spoke of a silver-haired half-elf, the Royal Candidate Emilia, systematically hunting the Sin Archbishops. Greed, then Wrath, then Sloth—each name was struck from the list, one by one, until only three remained: Pride, Gluttony, and their own monstrous Mother, Lust.

With each announcement, a treacherous, desperate hope bloomed in Shion’s chest. Let it be her next, she would pray to any entity that might be listening, the hatred for Capella a cold, hard stone in her gut. This hatred had been forged in the crucible of the past year. She had failed only 2missions , but each failure had been met with a punishment so creatively sadistic that the memory of it was a screaming wound. It was only Lilac’s cold, pragmatic intervention—using their dream-arts to surgically excise the most visceral memories of the torment—that kept Shion from shattering completely. She was left with the ghost of the pain, the knowledge of its occurrence, but mercifully spared the full, soul-scarring replay.

When the news came that the Rooswal L.Mathers supporter of Royal candidate Emilia had cornered and slain both Lye and Roy Batenkaitos, a silent, fierce joy surged through her. The Gluttony twins were monsters, but they were Capella’s favored monsters. Their end felt like a portent. She is next. She has to be.

Three months later, the summons came. Every remaining "child" of Mother was ordered to the main audience hall of the organization's stronghold. A palpable tension filled the room, a mixture of fear and a sliver of that same hope Shion felt. They stood in rows, waiting for the familiar, shifting silhouette of their tormentor.

The figure that emerged from the shadows was not Capella.

It was a boy. He wore the ornate robes of a Sin Archbishop, his hair a nest of untamable black, and his eyes held a sharp, ancient weariness that was utterly terrifying. Shion’s breath hitched. Pride. What was he doing here? Confusion rippled through the assembled assassins. Whispers suggested it was another of Mother's cruel games, a new form to test their loyalty.

The boy, stopped before them, his gaze sweeping over the room as if taking inventory of tools.

"Some of you are undoubtedly wondering," he began, his voice calm and unnervingly clear, cutting through the murmurs. "Who is this person? And more importantly, where is your 'Mother'?" He paused, letting the silence deepen. "The answer is simple. There is no Mother. She chose to play a game with someone she had no chance against. And she lost. Permanently."

A silence descended upon the hall so absolute it felt like a physical blow. It was a silence of shattered reality. Their Mother—immortal, monstrous, a force of nature—was gone? It had to be a lie. A trick. The most elaborate test yet.

"You may not trust me," Pride continued, his tone utterly matter-of-fact. "But there is nothing left of her. Not a scrap of flesh. Not a single ash. So, you are now presented with a choice."

He held up a single finger. "One. You can be useful to me. In which case, you will be fed, housed, and allowed to keep the forms you currently wear."
A second finger joined the first."Or two. You can die. Here and now."

It was no choice at all. It was the same brutal calculus that had always governed their lives, just with a new master. But the terms were different. Survival was no longer a reward for flawless obedience, but a transaction for utility.

"From this moment forward," Pride announced, his voice gaining a subtle, chilling edge of authority, "the assasins organization belongs to me. To the Sin Archbishop of the Witch's Cult, representing Pride—Subaru Natsuki." A cold, hollow smirk touched his lips. "It's your pleasure to meet me."

Shion felt the world tilt. She had wished for Capella's death, and her wish had been granted by a devil. The Devil of Pride had taken them.

_______________________________

In the weeks and months that followed, the changes were profound. They were paid. Actual, tangible coin for completed contracts. Failure was not met with transformative torture, but with a simple, financial penalty; you simply wouldn't get paid. The targets shifted exclusively to the Lugunican nobility. It was a systematic, focused campaign of destabilization. He hates them, Shion realized. Pride hates Lugunica with a passion that makes Mother's whimsical cruelties seem almost innocent.

A months passed

And then, she saw the culmination of that hatred. Standing on a ridge, looking down at the Lugunican capital, she watched the world burn. It wasn't a metaphor. The sky was blotted out by smoke, and the city below was an ocean of flame, a roaring, consuming inferno ignited by the Devil of Pride himself. To set an entire nation ablaze, to end the Royal Selection not with a coronation, but with a holocaust... it was a act of malice so vast it felt like a dream. But the heat on her face, the smell of incinerated lives carried on the wind—it was terrifyingly real.

After the Great Fire, everything ended. Twenty million souls. The number was too large to comprehend, but the result was simple: there was no one left to hire assassins. The economy of an entire kingdom had been reduced to ash. Their work, their purpose, was gone. And their leader, the architect of it all, was confirmed dead, struck down by the new Queen, Emilia, and the Sword Saint.

Shion stood in the aftermath, a free woman. The chains of the Assassins Guild and the Witch Cult had been melted in the very fires that had consumed a nation. She was liberated, not by an act of heroism, but by an apocalypse.It was a hollow, ash-choked freedom, but it was hers. And for the first time since she was a nameless girl in an elven forest, her future was her own to write.

She chuckled if she thought about it her life looked like a fan fiction, how does she even knows these words? Yeah she still had to find the person who loaned these words, with half of nation is gone maybe that person is also gone.

Following years were peaceful she worked as a mercenary in Lugunica then now she was in Kararagi. Some noble asked her to investigate the Great spirit of fire, and she had given a poster to the employment agency, what was she even thinking investigating a great spirit? But if they were to find a way to remove the spirit there was reward of 300holy gold coins. 300gold coins they wouldn't have to work for a years . As she entered to the building she saw a boy in a blue kimono with a white hair talking with a floating spirit. She couldn't see the boys face but she heard

"Come on, Nyx," Boy muttered under his breath, . "You have to admit, this is all kinds of weird. One month ago, I was a shut-in NEET, worrying about my next bowl of cup ramen. Now? I'm with a demon lord's name, a spirit in my head, and a supposed super-weapon waiting for me somewhere in fantasy-Japan. I'm either the potential protagonist of the world's most convoluted isekai, or its final antagonist, and I don't even know which one."

Anime? Shut in net? Protogonist? Antagonist? Isekai?Japan? Maybe he is the one who she loaned the words from .