To Serve and Protect (6)

By the time I’ve closed the distance, Soren is on the ground. His breathing is uneven, and Galebrand lies by his side, a black object sitting neatly on its point like a skewer.

I can’t bring myself to care about it right now.

I glance at his injury.

If there’s one thing to be thankful for in all of this, it’s that his wound is completely cauterised. Even if his stomach is missing and those parts of his intestines will probably never recover, there’s a world where—

“Ugh…”

Kenshi’s still alive.

My focus turns away from Soren.

I can’t save him. My only choice is to try and force Kenshi to help us out.

He’s nothing but a husk now. The hollow in his stomach is gushing out putrefied ooze. It’s disgusting.

I point Sumirezaku at him.

“Get us out of this dimension. Now.”

His response is punctuated with coughs of blood.

“Heh… Or what? You’ll kill me?”

“...”

“Why don’t… you focus… on putting back his GI tract together inst—”

My body moves instinctively, and Sumirezaku lashes out for his neck. But just before it connects, I stop myself.

Stay calm. This is what he wants.

The Oni smiles.

“Heh. Coward.”

“Teach me how to get him out of here.”

“You… figure that out yourself. You invented this.”

“...”

Talking to this man is a waste of time.

I turn back to Soren. By this point, the heart has dislodged itself from his blade and pushed off, looking like it had never been stabbed in the first place. It’s fully reformed and regenerated, pulsing once more.

I figure it’s a good idea not to let Kenshi get his hands on that. I pick it up with my left hand.

Cold.

Then I turn my attention back to the injury. Maybe, if I wish for it hard enough again, miraculously, my body will—

“...Quantum,” Soren says, his voice distorted.

“Don’t talk. One of your lungs collapsed. Let me get you back to Maelle and Anna first. You’ll be as good as new once they fix you up.”

“Your sword technique… and your cape. They look beautiful together.”

“Please. I just said don’t talk.”

“I’m grateful… to have witnessed it.”

Soren reaches out for his visor.

It doesn’t shatter, and there’s no flash of blue light. It simply fastens off with a click of air, and his face is revealed—pale, like he’s not who he’s meant to be.

“This is the end for me.”

“...”

“But I’m not afraid. Because… you are worthy.”

With the last bits of his fading strength, he gestures for me to come closer.

I have no choice but to listen.

Soren is right.

Blood loss isn’t going to be an issue. But in this state…

…

It’s pointless. Even if he lives on, his life is functionally over.

I silently kneel down next to him, and he pushes the visor towards me. His body is trembling.

Warm.

When he reaches me, I hear him smile.

Because I can’t see anything.

“...Promise me. No regrets. Tell Maelle… that I…”

His strength leaves him.

His gauntlet hits the floor.

Without his hand to hold it in place, the visor clatters off as well.

There’s nowhere for it to fit. The void left by his absence is too massive for someone like me to fill.

“...”

I’m sorry.

If I were faster, I could have saved you.

If I were stronger, you wouldn’t have had to sacrifice yourself.

If I were more mature, then Kenshi…

Galebrand and his body begin sinking into the void.

The visor too.

The process is not slow or drawn out. It’s mercilessly rapid, indifferent to my grief. In a few more seconds, all of him will be gone.

No regrets.

“...Why would you say something like that? Why would you…”

Before this world can force a decision on me, I let go of the heart.

Soren would want her to know.

The organ clatters loudly on the floor, like a metallic object. Then I retrieve his visor from the void.

In my hands, it feels larger than life.

The rest of him sinks into nothingness.

That’s… it.

He’s gone now.

He’s floating somewhere, missing in action forever.

He will never… ever come back.

…

Soren is dead.

“...Pah. How melodramatic… ack. I can’t stand how gross you’re being.”

Kenshi can barely choke out his taunts. Every single time he chooses to utter a sentence, his lungs convulse. Blood is seeping out of the mask and dripping off his chin, and it’s clear that these too are his last moments.

I squat down next to him.

“Tell me… why do this?”

“Because you forced my hand.”

“No… stop that. You’re already done. Just take the high road and die in peace. Why can’t you just be normal? Are you so far gone that these are the only things that make you happy? Why?“

“Heh. All of this performance for some stupid Templar when it’s clearly your fault. Inspiring behavi—”

“Let me tell you something, Kenshi. Even though you wouldn’t get it. Even though you’re going to die, pitifully, and this wisdom is wasted on you. Soren isn’t you. The only sacrifice you’ve ever known is as a pretext for self-sabotage. Or maybe to disguise your pathetic attempts at suicide. But he isn’t you. He has people to live for. A child to protect. So talk as if I’m desperately trying to pretend like I’m moved by his decision, just because you don’t understand basic human decency, but not everything you disagree with is because others are stupid. You are wrong. You sicken me. The idea that I’m putting on an act just to convince you makes me want to heal you back up so I can stab you myself. If you think this makes me want to become more like you, you are wrong. I will never, ever become you. You’ve forgotten everything about yourself. You’re not supposed to be like this. You… I don’t understand what’s going on in your head. You’re supposed to be me. You should be moved by this. This should be the moment where it finally clicks for you. But even in your final moments, you’re still insisting on being irredeemable. Why? Have you just lost your mind? If you’d just told me something… anything about what happened, I was ready to forgive you and move on. I want to understand you, Kenshi. I don’t want to hate you. So why? Why choose to be like this?”

“You know the answer, Daisuke. Surely, you do.”

This isn’t going anywhere.

In Kenshi’s defense, a huge part of my personality revolved around being a sore loser—even up till the point where I was “confessing” to Annabelle under that tree, I was still in complete denial about how much everything meant to me. I only came to terms with my true desires thanks to a goddess pushing me to the brink, and even then, it was a begrudging admission.

Compared to someone omniscient, Soren is just an example. An amazing one, and one that should solidify in Kenshi’s head that he’s taken a horrible path. But it’d be asinine to crucify him based on that, when Aunt Sumire spent so much time beating me over the head with ideals of kindness and self-sacrifice over the course of my previous life.

We made the same mistakes there.

We’re only different people because of here.

Maybe he was just unlucky, and the only difference between us was that I spawned into a slightly different version of the world. One where I ran into Anna, Soren, and Maelle.

Don’t spiral.

Stop caring so much.

Forget about Kenshi. Just get one look at his face before you say goodbye to him.

I reach out for his mask with Sumirezaku, then turning it on its hilt—I crack it open.

It splits into two with ease.

The pieces fall, sinking into the void.

I’m prepared to see a version of myself that repulses me so much that my resolve is permanently tempered, forever, and I’m never again tempted by the idea of reneging on my path.

I’m also prepared to see a version of myself so unnervingly close to who I am now that it brings doubts into my mind about the “change” I’ve enacted. But then, all I’ll have to do is think back to Soren and Anna’s sacrifices, and I’ll be steadfast in my goals.

Whatever’s behind the mask… I’m ready.

Nothing could shake me now.

Or so I thought.

Because, when my vision settles… I see someone who isn’t Watanabe Daisuke.

“…What…?”

Heterochromia.

“Kenshi” has one amber and one black eye.

He looks like someone from Calice. But also not. His face is Japanese, but it also isn’t.

His smile—despite the blood staining his teeth—is slightly crooked, like mine. But it’s also noticeably distinct. The size of each tooth is off.

His signs of age… they should be there. He’s someone who fights with vastly more experience than I. But he looks like someone who passes for 23, maybe 24.

His hair—the top of it is dyed black. But at the roots… Those are red strands, and they aren’t stained by blood.

An impossible thought enters my mind.

He looks something like Alicia.

But he acts somewhat like me.

I stand up.

The number “5” is tattooed under his eyelids.

The Fifth Circle.

The pieces of the puzzle slowly fall into place.

“Take a good, long look at me, Daisuke. I’m Kenshi. Watanabe Kenshi, one of your appointed False Gods. Do I ring any bells? How about the Circles of Hell, Sin Cards, or the organisation that you instructed us to create 403 years ago, before you fell into a slumber at the hands of your ‘defeat’?”

“…”

“No—I’m just kidding, of course. It’s not that you don’t remember. You simply don’t know any of this. You know why? Because you’re just a pretender. My techniques, my skills, my knowledge—they were bestowed upon me by my Father, the Prime God, regnal name Asmodeus, human name Watanabe Daisuke. You are merely a pathetic attempt at emulating His greatness, a copy installed by misguided prophets seeking to imitate. The eight of us—my three older siblings, and my four younger brothers—we will keep coming as we please to remind you… that you do not belong in this world. You never did, and never will. You are merely an error in the flow of aether. A glitch waiting to be smoothened out. The real Watanabe Daisuke would have never aspired to be a Saint. For He knew He was not Good. And neither was He Evil. He hath ascended, and now He is the Reckoning. He is the one who will liberate this world and show it true freedom, and for that, he will eliminate any anomaly, any—”

Sumirezaku lashes out.

His neck explodes, blinding me in a spray of red blood.

“…Religious freak.”

Kenshi’s body sinks into the void, his last words a taunt, and his final expression one of pride.

My mind feels numb.

Somehow, this pocket dimension hasn’t collapsed yet despite his death. I wonder if there’s any time dilation going on. I‘ve spent a lot more time than I intended wrapping things up, and I wouldn’t want Anna to get worried.

I look at the metallic heart on the floor, still beating.

You… figure it out yourself. You invented this.

“…”

I let Sumirezaku dissipate.

Then, I walk over to the heart. Taking a deep breath, I pick it up with my gauntlet.

***

I’m surrounded by a calm clearing again.

Golden rays of the setting sun fill my vision, enveloping me with a strange sense of calm. I never thought I would ever miss the outdoors after voluntarily rejecting it for so long.

“Shower.”

Using my gauntlet, I rinse myself off.

I’ve come to understand a little bit why mages speak as they cast. Words evoke images stronger than any idea when used correctly. It’s much easier to use a shared idea in language to evoke a complicated message rather than getting lost in the trap of examples or logic.

Before I can finish this thought properly, there’s already a pitter patter of footsteps greeting me.

“Mister Primot.”

I place my left hand behind my back before turning to her.

Her hood is down, and in this sunset, her hair shines brighter than ever. The look on her face is expectant, mixed with relief—but there’s also a misplaced sense of awe. Beneath the surface, context is screaming at me that these emotions are being directed at someone else.

It fills me with guilt.

“You two won? Soren’s going to come out soon?”

I pretend to be dazed. “...Where’s Anna?”

“A-ah, right. Sorry to surprise you like that when you’ve just gotten out of a difficult battle. My mistake. She’s over there.”

I look at the direction Maelle’s pointing at. Lo and behold, Anna is safe and sound, lying under the shade of a tiny oak nestled up against a giant bird. She’s sleeping peacefully, her exhaustion apparent even from this distance. Her Cockatrice is also in a deep slumber, and a certain book is lying on its feathers, sprawled page-first into its plumage.

With how the weather is painting everything golden, and how she looks so much more relaxed now—it’s picturesque. I want to do nothing more than keep things in this state forever.

But I know this is only temporary.

“She insisted that we stay here, because she wanted to be the first person to greet you once you and Soren finally decided to pop out… but then she fell asleep. Poor girl. That stretch where she was stuck in that dome really took a toll on her. You don’t look so great yourself… Want some food while we wait for Soren?”

“What have you been doing while she slept?”

“Me? I was just cloudwatching, studying the flora around these parts, that sort of thing. Oh, I saw a flower that Soren said grows up North in Stormhaven too. A dandelion, I think he called it? They never cultivated those in the inner palace. Anyway, to change the subject a little bit, speaking of the fight, Mister Primot—”

“...”

“You seem annoyed at me. Did I say something offensive?”

“Don’t… call me that anymore.”

“Oh. Hmm. I suppose we could do with being a bit less formal. In that case, Primot—”

“Daisuke. Call me Daisuke.”

“Uh… Okay.“

The Prime God.

That’s the title of the person who’s about to ruin your life, Maelle. The title he has so egotistically and unceremoniously fashioned himself with. The person who, in a few moments, you will blame for everything wrong in the world, although you have never met him yet. You might not even realise he exists, or you may perhaps know him through a different name.

But, know this, Maelle.

I know that you are strong.

You’re younger than I was when my mother died. But I know you aren’t me. You have the wisdom to pull through.

You will see through this. You will understand this is just an event that nobody needs to be blamed for. You will realise that being stuck in the past is nothing more than a waste of your life, and that given enough of your own effort, the present will soon again turn into a future you are ready to accept.

It may not work the first, second, or even third time, but you will not give up hope.

You will not succumb to despair.

You will forge a new goal given the circumstances of your ever-evolving life.

I believe in you.

And that’s why—I’m showing you this.

Before any awkward lull in our conversation can set in, I bring my left hand to the front of my body.

In it, there is an artifact glistening in the sunlight.

It is a visor, painted in a deep cerulean—a work of craftsmanship that represents more than just a union of technology and fantasy. It is a symbol of who we should aspire to be, of an ideal that the world has forgotten in its never-ending cycle of hatred and indulgence.

Maelle looks at it. Her eyes soften.

“That’s… Soren’s.”

“Yeah.”

“...That’s… not…”

Tears begin to well up in her amber eyes.

They’re not endearing. And neither are they beautiful. They fill me with a deep sense of guilt and shame, enough to bring back memories of a memory I thought I’d discarded.

This is a lot to ask, Watanabe-san—but it would help us if you could help identify your parents’ bodies.

My eyes wet ever so slightly too.

Maelle is struggling. But no matter how much the dam overflows, she doesn’t budge. She suppresses all of her emotions with a stiff frown, and she furrows her brow as hard as she can so as to not let anything out.

“I… won’t cry. A princess… must always be looking towards the future.”

Weakly, she reaches for the visor.

“…I’m sorry.”

“No… it’s alright. There is nothing… to be sorry for.”

Taking it into her hands, she cradles it with a mix of guilt and anger.

Don’t try to be strong now, Maelle.

If you keep denying your feelings, you’ll end up like me.

I let my instincts guide my next action. They bring me towards her.

I kneel.

I’m no Soren, so my frame ends up being slightly smaller than hers. It makes the angle a little awkward, but I manage to place my gauntlet on her head and ruffle her hair.

“Maelle. You’ve done well. There was nothing more you could have done.”

“But—”

“Cry because it’s over. Cry because it happened. Just cry. Soren died telling me not to have any regrets. You should do the same.”

“...”

“Soren loved you like his own daughter. Mourn him like the father you wish you had.”

“…”

One second.

Two.

The wind howls at my cheek. There’s a cold sting to it—the water from my spell drying off.

It must have pushed Maelle over the edge, too.

She cries loud enough for Annabelle to wake up.