Finale Volume 7 - Chapter 71: An Echo from the First Life

The silence in my divine office was deafening. The last shimmering particles of my [Glimmer of False Hope] construct had faded from the monitor, leaving behind only the image of a kneeling, broken hero in a darkening wood. The grand orchestra of my revenge, a symphony of pratfalls, psychological torment, and petty curses, had reached its crescendo and ended. And in the quiet that followed, I felt… hollow.

It was a good kind of hollow, though. Like after you’ve finally cleaned out a closet that’s been cluttered for years. The anger, the bitterness, the lingering sting of a teenage heartbreak from a life I’d barely remembered until recently-it was all gone. I had taken that old, painful memory, turned it into a multiversal sitcom, and aired the finale. The ratings were fantastic, the critic (me) was satisfied, and now the production was wrapped.

I leaned back in my throne, the starlight-infused leather sighing under my weight. I let out a long, slow breath, feeling a knot of tension I didn’t even know I was carrying finally unravel in my chest. The revenge was complete. I was… at peace. It was a weird feeling.

A wisp of black smoke coalesced in the chair beside me, and Isao materialized, swirling into existence with his usual dramatic flair. He wasn't smirking. For once, the God of Death looked contemplative, his silver eyes studying my face with an unnerving intensity.

“Well, that was a spectacle,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “A masterpiece of emotional devastation. You took his hope, put it in a blender, and served it to him as a smoothie of despair. I’m almost proud.”

“Thanks,” I said, my voice quiet. “It did the trick. I feel… clean.”

“So, what’s next on the agenda for the goddess of petty revenge?” he asked, conjuring his customary cup of swirling darkness. “Got any other ex-boyfriends you need to turn into tragic heroes? A third-grade bully you want to reincarnate as a sentient doorknob?”

I actually had to think about that for a second. “No,” I said finally, a small, genuine smile gracing my lips. “I think I’m done. That was a one-time thing. A catharsis.” I stood up, stretching my divine limbs until my spine popped with the sound of tiny supernovas. “It’s time to get back to work. The actual work.”

“How boring,” Isao drawled, but there was no real venom in it. He just watched me as I walked to my main console, his gaze following my every move.

“Celeste,” I said, my voice crisp and professional again. “Wipe the Silas feed from the main monitor. Queue up the next soul in the general reincarnation backlog. Standard processing.”

“Acknowledged, Lady Akane,” her synthesized voice replied. The image of the kneeling Silas vanished, replaced by the familiar, sterile interface of a soul file. “Displaying Soul #8,675,309, designated for Standard Heroic Reincarnation Package B.”

It was just another case. One of many I’d process today. The soul belonged to a young man who had died in his world. Cause of death: fell off a ladder while trying to rescue a cat from a tree. A classic. He was a baker, lived a simple life, was kind to his neighbors. A good, solid, uncomplicated soul.

I went through the motions, my fingers flying across the holographic interface. World assignment: #912-Veridia, a standard medieval fantasy setting with dragons, kingdoms, and a looming but manageable Demon Lord threat. Skill package: [Swordsmanship B+], [Fire Magic C], and because he was a baker, I threw in [Divine Cooking EX] for fun. Give the hero a good signature dish, you know?

I stamped the file with my divine seal and sent his soul on its way with a flick of my wrist. One down, a few billion to go. “Next,” I said, and a new file popped up. And then another, and another. For the next few hours, I was a model of divine efficiency. I processed a salaryman who’d been hit by a truck (isekai’d as a slime, a classic for a reason), an old librarian who passed in her sleep (reincarnated as the wise old elf sage of a hidden forest), and a gamer who choked on a chip (sent to a world with game-like mechanics, obviously).

It was routine. It was my job. And the hollowness inside me was slowly being filled, not with vengeance or chaos, but with the quiet satisfaction of a job well done.

And then, Soul File #8,675,313 appeared on my screen.

I didn’t notice the name at first. I was on autopilot, scanning the vitals. Male. Age 17. From Earth, Sector 7, Japan. Died… oh, another truck accident. So unoriginal. Prime candidate for a heroic package. I was about to stamp my approval and move on when my eyes caught the name printed at the top of the file.

Natsuki Kobayashi.

The world stopped. The quiet hum of my office faded into nothing. The air in my lungs turned to ice. My hand, poised over the “approve” button, froze in mid-air.

Natsuki.

It couldn’t be. I zoomed in, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a strange, forgotten drumbeat from a life lived eons ago. The photo on the file was blurry, a standard soul-imprint image, but there was no mistaking him. The same gentle eyes that always seemed to be smiling. The same slightly unruly black hair that he was always trying to flatten. The same kind, goofy grin that could melt my tsundere defenses in a single, devastating blast.

It was him. My Natsuki. My first boyfriend. My first love. The one from my very first life, back when I was just Akane Suzuki, a normal, mortal high school girl with a bad attitude and a secret soft spot for romance novels.

Memories I hadn’t accessed in millennia came flooding back, not as distant data points, but as vivid, painful, beautiful sensations. The feeling of his hand in mine as we walked home from school. The taste of the cheap ramen we shared on rainy afternoons. The sound of his laughter when I’d say something particularly harsh, because he was the only one who knew I didn’t mean it. He was the one who saw the real me hiding under layers of teenage angst and a sharp tongue. He didn’t try to change me; he just understood me.

He wasn’t cool or edgy like Shoujo had pretended to be. Natsuki was a dork. He loved old video games, collected bottle caps for some reason he could never properly explain, and had a terrible sense of direction. He was kind, and patient, and his smile was the sun.

And I remembered our last day. A perfectly normal Tuesday. We were walking home, arguing about something stupid - the best flavor of ice cream, I think. I was championing mint chocolate chip, he was a vanilla purist. I had just launched into a passionate defense of my choice when I saw it. A single, discarded banana peel, lying innocently on the pavement. My fate. My ridiculously stupid, slapstick fate.

One wrong step, a comical slip, and then… darkness. The last thing I saw was the look of pure, horrified panic on Natsuki’s face.

The memory hit me with the force of a physical blow. The grief, the sense of a story cut short, of a love left unfinished - it was as fresh and raw as it had been the moment my soul left my body.

My fingers trembled as they hovered over his file. The rules, the sacred, unbreakable laws of my own domain, screamed in my mind. A goddess must remain impartial. Personal attachments are forbidden. Past connections must be severed. I was supposed to treat this file, this soul, the soul of the boy I had loved more than anything, as just another number in the queue.

I couldn’t.

“Celeste,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “Rerun the diagnostics on this soul. Check for… anomalies.” It was a flimsy excuse. I just needed time.

“Running diagnostics,” she replied. “No anomalies detected. Soul integrity is at 99.8%. A prime candidate.”

Of course he was. He was perfect.

My gaze drifted to the reincarnation package assignment. It was set to the default: a standard fantasy world, a mid-tier hero class. It was… adequate. It wasn’t good enough. Not for him.

My hands moved, almost of their own accord. My fingers danced across the console, a flurry of divine code and forbidden actions. The standard world was deleted. I replaced it with one of my custom-built creations: World #1024-Caelum, a beautiful, vibrant world with floating islands, spirit magic, and a rich, peaceful history. No Demon Lords, no apocalyptic threats. Just adventure and beauty.

The default hero class was scrapped. I gave him [Spirit Blade Sovereign], a unique, legendary class that only one other soul in a billion had ever received. I maxed out his luck stat. I gave him a bonus skill, [Beloved by All], to ensure he’d always be surrounded by friends. I even tweaked his appearance stats, giving him a subtle heroic glow.

“Lady Akane,” Celeste’s voice cut in, sharp with a digital warning. “You are making unauthorized modifications to a standard soul package. This level of interference is a direct violation of Divine Mandate 7-A. Your actions are being logged.”

“I know,” I breathed, not stopping. I was breaking the biggest rule in the book. I was playing favorites. I was using my divine power not as a custodian, but as a… a girl who missed her boyfriend.

Isao was silent beside me, but I could feel his gaze. It wasn't mocking or teasing. It was heavy. He was seeing a side of me no one had ever seen. Not the petty, vengeful goddess. Not the efficient, professional deity. He was seeing the ghost of Akane Suzuki, the girl who had died on a Tuesday, and he was watching her try to rewrite a tragedy.

With a final, trembling tap, I hit the ‘approve’ button. A soft, golden light enveloped the soul file on the screen, and I watched as the essence of Natsuki Kobayashi was lifted from the queue, destined for his new, perfect life.

I watched until his light faded completely. And then, I slumped back into my throne, the strength leaving my body. I had done it. I had sent him off. I had given him the best possible second chance.

But as the adrenaline faded, a new, terrifying feeling took its place. A deep, aching void that my revenge on Shoujo hadn't even touched. I had sent Natsuki away, to a world I could only watch through a monitor. He wouldn’t remember me. He would live a whole, amazing new life without me.

And I realized, with a dawning, soul-crushing horror, that giving him the perfect life wasn’t enough. I wanted to see it. I wanted to be there. I wanted to hear his laugh again, even if he wasn’t laughing with me.

The thought was a dangerous, forbidden seed. And in the fertile, lonely soil of my divine heart, it had just begun to sprout.