Chapter 1 – Game Over, Start Again

Part 1: The Law Student Simp

Renji Volkov had long since lost count of how many hours he had spent arguing, with profound and often profane passion, at pixels and pngs.

“This is bullshit,” he muttered in Russian, the curse a low, guttural growl of frustration. His eyes were locked on the dimly lit screen of his handheld console, the tiny, vibrant characters playing out a tragedy he knew by heart, a tragedy he had replayed dozens of times in a futile search for a different outcome. The businessman beside him, whose meticulously ironed suit and air of detached superiority screamed ‘minor antagonist in a corporate drama,’ gave a sharp side-eye, but Renji was far too deep in his own world to notice. His thumbs were a blur, a frantic dance across the buttons as Ebon Requiem Chronicles rolled into its gut-wrenching finale— yet again.

The “Hero of Light,” with his perfectly coiffed blond hair and a jawline that could cut glass, launched into his final monologue; it was a sermon of smug righteousness, divine justice, and the dawn of a new, glorious age built on the ashes of his enemies. Renji had the lines memorized, he could probably recite them backward, with a perfect, sarcastic inflection, while half-asleep on a Torts lecture. And then it came. The scene that always felt like a physical blow, twisting a knife in his chest.

Evelina Duskbane, the so-called “Tyrannical Queen of Shadows,” stood shackled and kneeling on the rain-slicked stones of her own castle courtyard. She was defeated, yes, but she was not broken. With a grace that defied her chains, she raised her head, her eyes—even in their pixelated form—burning with an unyielding, incandescent pride. Her voice, a regal purr filled with the weight of centuries of misunderstood rule, echoed in the hollow hush before the Hero plunged his sanctimonious, glowing blade directly into her heart. The game faded to black, only to be replaced by a bombastic fanfare of victory and a celebratory animation of the Hero striking his iconic, utterly punchable, pose.

Renji slammed the pause button so hard he was surprised the plastic didn't shatter. “This is rigged,” he hissed, the words a venomous spray of Russian and Japanese that made the businessman visibly flinch. “Absolute, unadulterated, piece of horse shit!” His seatmate cleared his throat pointedly, a sound of pure, condensed disapproval. But Renji was not done. His rant had only just begun, a familiar pressure building in his chest, if only he had put this much energy into his studies, he would have been unstoppable.

“They killed the best character in the entire game—for what?! So the Hero could end up with some flavorless, bargain-bin priestess who has the personality of a wet dishrag and whose only skill is cooking bland stew and calling him ‘My Dear Hero’ like a useless doormat? So the Knight Commander gets a pat on the back for being a glorified, morally inflexible security guard? And don’t even get me started on the Elven Mage! She’s a walking fire hazard with a superiority complex who just wanted an excuse to torch something beautiful.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled a long, frustrated sigh, the air rattling in his lungs.

“You do not write Evelina Duskbane just to glass her. That’s not a narrative twist—that’s narrative malpractice. It's a miscarriage of fictional justice.” He shook his head, a gesture of profound disappointment, as if the developers themselves could hear him across time and space and would be forced to answer for their crimes in the court of his opinion, luckily or not, they couldn't.

It wasn't just a bad ending; it was a fundamentally flawed verdict. As a law student, Renji saw the entire plot as a sham trial. The Hero’s party presented a one-sided case, ignoring centuries of context—the treaties the Human Alliance had broken, the sacred lands they had stolen from the ‘evil races.’ Evelina’s actions weren’t tyranny; they were a desperate, violent appeal against a system that had already condemned her people to a slow, grinding extinction. Her death wasn't justice; it was the silencing of a key witness, which angered him as a law student and the son of a diplomat.

He closed his eyes, and the memory that had started it all played out behind them. It wasn't the final battle that had captured him. It was a small, optional cutscene, a hidden memory fragment he'd only unlocked after a hundred hours of obsessive gameplay.

The scene had opened on a high, windswept parapet of Evelina’s bastion, years before the game’s main conflict. The stone was black and slick with frost. A younger Evelina stood there, no older than Renji was now, her silver hair not yet crowned, her face less a mask of regal iron and more a portrait of weary resolve. A blizzard, a howling beast of ice and wind, was swallowing the kingdom she was just learning to protect.

An old, wizened advisor, his robes heavy with the sigils of his office, had stood beside her. “Your Majesty,” he’d urged, his voice thin against the gale, “The harvest has failed. The mountain passes are blocked. If we do not accept the Human Alliance’s ‘aid,’ our people will starve by winter’s end.”

Evelina had stared out at the storm, her knuckles white where she gripped the cold stone. The ‘aid,’ as Renji knew from the game’s lore, came with strings—the ceding of mineral rights to ancestral lands, the acceptance of human garrisons within her territory. It was a slow, smiling invasion.

“Their aid is a leash, old friend,” she had said, her voice quiet but clear over the wind’s howl. “They offer us bread today so they may take our kingdom tomorrow.”

“But if we refuse, they starve today!” the advisor had pleaded.

She had turned then, and the look in her pixelated eyes was one of such profound, aching loneliness that it had struck Renji to the core. It was the look of a leader trapped in an impossible choice, a choice where every path led to loss. “Then we will endure,” she had whispered, more to the storm than to her advisor. “We will endure, or we will die free.”

It was at that moment that Renji understood, she wasn’t a tyrant, she was just a queen who knew the difference between survival and subjugation, a queen who had been forced to make hard, ugly choices that the Hero’s simple, black-and-white morality could never comprehend.

His father, a retired Russian diplomat who spoke six languages and could negotiate peace treaties with a single, well-placed, disappointed stare, once told him that true justice was a careful dance of power and compromise. His mother, a renowned Japanese artist whose paintings captured the raw, imperfect beauty of a world in flux, taught him to find beauty in the unconventional, the misunderstood. Somehow, both of those lessons had coalesced and led him here: arguing with a video game about a fictional villainess at 30,000 feet, with a seatmate who now regretted upgrading to business class.

He sank back into his seat, muttering curses softly in both Russian and Japanese. It was a miracle his console hadn’t melted from sheer, righteous indignation. To most players, Evelina was just another cool boss fight; a villainess with a tragic backstory and a world-ending agenda, they saw her as edgy waifu bait for the infinite slop doujinshi that he had seen and bought, a fantasy for angsty teens. But Renji had seen the truth hidden in the lore. He had seen the lonely queen on the parapet. And he had fallen for her, hard, harder than any of his past obsessions, that lay now deep under layers of Evelina inside his heart and soul. And maybe that made him a simp, but he could live with that, it was better than being blind or lying to himself about how he truly felt.

The intercom chimed in the polite, melodic tones of Japanese, announcing their final descent into Haneda Airport. Renji closed his console with a soft, final click, the now-dark screen reflecting his face in the oval window. Tousled dark hair, a slightly sharp nose that was all his father, tired eyes that still burned with an obsessive fire. His dad once told him “Volkov” meant wolf in Russian, yet right now, he felt more like a pathetic, snarling mutt, barking at a story he couldn't change. Still, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I am back, Evelina,” he whispered to his reflection. “Maybe this time, we will finally get you some justice.”

The plane cut through the clouds toward the glittering expanse of Tokyo, and Renji let himself dream. He wasn't just flying home for the holidays. He was making a genuine nerd pilgrimage. He was coming for the glorious Comiket; the place of dreams, tears, and a lot of used tissues. Rumors were swirling online, whispers in obscure forums of an Ebon Requiem Chronicles reboot, maybe even an anime adaptation. If Evelina got more screen time, if they dared to fix that god-awful, character-assassinating ending, Renji was fully prepared to bankrupt himself on rare Evelina merchandise.

The moment the wheels touched down with a reassuring screech, his phone buzzed like a demon trying to claw its way out of his pocket. He didn't even need to check the caller ID.

[Nerd Alert]: Yo, wolf-boy! Customs clear? We’re waiting at arrivals. Got your body pillow seatbelted in the car, lmao.

Renji groaned. Kenta—his oldest friend and designated, eternal tormentor.

Another buzz, this one a softer vibration.

[Aya]: Don’t be late, Renji-kun. My mom made dinner, and she made your favorite.

Aya, the childhood friend. Sweet, loyal, and aggressively, almost suffocatingly, doting, Renji could bet 10 USD she was hiding something from him, but he could not tell what.

And finally—a single, minimalist buzz.

[Mizuki]: …

Just three dots. Classic Mizuki. She was probably buried in a 900-page academic text about 17th-century naval trade routes while simultaneously texting him with the emotional range of a tax form. If he ever learned that she was a serial killer, he would not be surprised and would not testify against her.

Renji shoved his phone into his pocket and grabbed his bag. The jet lag was hitting him hard, a dull throb behind his eyes, but it was being pushed back by something else, something sharp and electric. Anticipation. He was back in Tokyo, back in his second home. And in some glorious, 2D, merchandise-heavy form, Evelina Duskbane was waiting.

Part 2: Airport Reunion & The Shrine

“Renji-kun!”

The moment he stepped through the sliding doors of the arrivals gate, he heard her voice cut through the dull roar of the crowd. Aya was waving both arms with the frantic energy of someone trying to flag down a low-flying plane. Same as always—pink cardigan, bright, earnest eyes, and somehow still pulling off the exact vibe of every childhood friend character ever written, god bless her parents for raising her that way.

Just behind her, leaning against a pillar with an infuriatingly cool smirk, stood Kenta. Tall, broad-shouldered, and already grinning like he’d been saving up a fresh batch of jokes for weeks. And next to him, a small island of stoic calm in the airport’s sea of chaos, was Mizuki. Her nose was buried in a thick paperback, its cover stark and academic. Her long black hair fell like curtains over half her face. She glanced up as he approached, gave a barely-there nod of acknowledgment, and immediately returned to her book, sometimes Renji wondered if the book was truly a part of her body.

“Wolf-boy!” Kenta called out, pushing off the pillar and opening his arms like a host greeting a washed-up celebrity. “Back from Mother Russia at last! How are the beautiful women, the cheap vodka, and the soul-crushing depression of Moscow winters?” Renji sighed, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. “You wouldn’t last a week, comrade.”

Kenta chuckled, clapping a heavy hand on Renji's back. “Bet I’d last longer than you did. You look like a corpse that’s been reanimated with pure spite. Aya, back me up here—doesn’t he look like a ghost?”

Aya stepped closer, squinting with the focused concern of a school nurse about to diagnose an ailment. “You do look very pale, Renji-kun. Have you been sleeping at all? Or were you staying up all night on the plane playing that evil queen game again?” she said, puffing her cheeks.

Renji adjusted his sunglasses, already bracing for the inevitable impact. “It’s called Ebon Requiem Chronicles. And for the last time, it’s not an ‘evil queen game.’ Evelina Duskbane is a complex, tragic figure whose political motivation—”

“—is misunderstood and she is the one true waifu, a broken dark goddess, the only reason to play the game,” Kenta finished for him, throwing a heavy arm around Renji’s shoulders and pulling him into a one-armed hug. “Yeah, yeah, we know. You only wrote, what, three different term papers about her last semester? Your international law professor probably thinks you’re having some kind of psychotic break.” he said, nudging Renji playfully, making the latter groan.

Renji shoved him off with a weary scowl. “Better than being a walking void of personality, which you seem to have mastered as an art form.” “Ouch,” Kenta said, clutching his chest in mock pain. “The wolf-boy has claws. I’ll go cry about it later. Mizuki, care to weigh in before Renji sets me on fire with his laser-powered glare of judgment?”

Without looking up from her novel, Mizuki turned a page. “He will spend at least two hundred thousand yen on Evelina merchandise at Comiket. My projections indicate a 78% probability that he will exceed this amount, resulting in a necessary subsistence diet of convenience store onigiri for the subsequent four to six weeks,” she concluded with the same cold calculations just like she rejected any boy who dared to ask her out on a date.

Renji blinked. “…That’s disturbingly specific.”

“I run statistical models as a hobby,” she replied, her voice a flat monotone.

Kenta burst into a full-throated laugh that turned heads. “She is not even wrong! See? Mizuki knows you better than your own mirror.”

Aya stepped in quickly, tugging gently on Renji’s arm like a protective mother hen. “Stop bullying him, you two. He just got home. And besides…” She hesitated for a moment, a faint blush touching her cheeks. “If he loves Evelina-chan that much, then… I think that’s kind of cute.” Everything froze for half a second. The airport noise seemed to fade. Kenta’s smirk faltered, replaced by a look of genuine surprise. Mizuki actually looked up from her book, her analytical gaze flickering between Aya and Renji.

“Aya-chan,” Kenta said slowly. “Did you just call the simp shrine ‘cute’?”Mizuki adjusted her glasses. “Emotional status shift detected. The probability of romantic subplot initiation has increased by 12.4%. Interesting.” Renji nearly tripped over his own suitcase. “Cute?” he repeated, not entirely sure he’d heard her right over the sound of his own heart suddenly trying to beat its way out of his ribcage.

But Aya was already moving on, cheerfully chatting about her mother's dinner plans as if she hadn’t just casually broken reality. Renji followed, a little stunned, his mind ticking somewhere between flustered and flattered. “Jet lag,” he told himself firmly. “Definitely just the jet lag and not a secret love confession from a childhood friend.”

Still… as they walked toward the parking lot, a genuine smile spread across his face. He was home, and that felt nice.

The ride back was a familiar blur of comfortable chaos—half in rapid-fire Japanese, half in universal insults. Kenta cracked jokes, Aya threatened to confiscate his console if he didn't get at least eight hours of real sleep, and Mizuki read silently in the backseat like she existed in a separate, more intelligent plane of reality.

But as they pulled up to the familiar gate of Renji’s family home, he felt the old, creeping dread return. Kenta elbowed him as Aya unlocked the gate. “So, Wolf-boy… tell me. Did you add any new, uh… decorations while you were gone?” Renji hesitated, swallowing hard. “Define ‘decorations.’”

Ten minutes later, all three of them stood frozen in the doorway to his bedroom.

Aya’s jaw had gone slack. Mizuki had raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow. Kenta took one look, dropped his bag, pointed at the nearest wall, and promptly collapsed onto the floor, howling with laughter.

Every square inch of the room was a shrine to Evelina Duskbane. Posters of her in various regal and battle-worn poses. Keychains dangling from his desk lamp. Figurines arranged in dramatic dioramas on his shelves. Plushies. Acrylic stands. A massive, professionally printed wall scroll hung above the bed like a sacred relic in a holy temple. And the centerpiece of the entire collection—his Evelina body pillow—sat propped up neatly against his headboard, dressed (tastefully, he always insisted) in her royal battle regalia. Hundreds of thousands of yen worth of merch staring down at them.

Aya put both hands on her cheeks, her face a perfect portrait of shock. “Renji-kun… this is… wow.”

“It’s a cultural archive,” Renji said stiffly, crossing his arms in a defensive posture. “A tribute to superior character design.”

“It’s a cry for help,” Kenta wheezed from the floor, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “Bro, if I were your dad, I would call the embassy and have them send a team of psychiatrists. And maybe a priest,” he said playfully, making a cross with his fingers as if trying to expel the evil spirits inhabiting Renji’s mind.

Mizuki, surprisingly, walked calmly into the room and picked up one of the more expensive-looking figurines with a clinical interest. “Limited edition, from the German release. Resin finish. The detail on the filigree of her armor is impressive.” She turned it over in her hands. “You won this in a proxy auction against a collector from Munich, didn’t you?”

Renji blinked, his defensiveness momentarily forgotten. “Yeah! How did you know?”

“I tracked the bid history,” she said, handing it back. “Your spending habits are a fascinating data set.”

“You tracked my bids?!”

“I acknowledge the craftsmanship of your obsession,” she clarified, her expression unchanging.

Kenta was still rolling on the floor, his laughter having devolved into a series of helpless gasps. Aya was doing her best not to look directly at the body pillow, her cheeks flushed a bright, furious red, as if a jealous lover catching her boyfriend in the hands of another woman.

Renji stood tall amidst his collection, arms folded like a man defending a crumbling but glorious castle. “You mock me now,” he declared with all the misplaced gravity of a courtroom drama. “But one day, Evelina Duskbane will be recognized as the greatest, most nuanced character in the history of JRPGs. And on that day, I will be vindicated.”

It felt like the world around them stopped moving, with only a few gusts of wind made by the AC making any noise.

Then Kenta snorted so hard he nearly choked on his own laughter.

“Okay, enough already!” she huffed, grabbing the nearest plushie (a chibi-fied Evelina in her coronation gown) and swatting him with it. “You’ve made your point.”

“My point?” Kenta gasped, wiping tears from his eyes as he fought for breath. “Aya, this isn’t a point—this is a full doctoral thesis in Advanced Simp Studies, with a minor in Financial Ruin!”

Renji, his face flushed a deep, defiant red, yanked open his closet door with the theatrical flourish of a magician revealing his final trick. Inside, still pristine in their shrink-wrapped boxes, sat three more unopened Evelina figurines, gleaming like cursed treasure.

Aya let out an audible gasp. “Renji-kun! Those are the limited-run Winter Solstice editions! They were a lottery item!”

“It’s called an investment,” Renji said, his voice laced with a solemnity typically reserved for funeral rites. “When Ebon Requiem Chronicles gets its inevitable reboot, these will triple in value. Minimum.”

“Yeah,” Kenta coughed, finally managing to sit up, “and when the EvelinaCoin blockchain finally goes live, you’ll be a crypto king.”

Mizuki, who had been silently observing, adjusted her glasses. “Statistically speaking, the resale market for such items has a 62% volatility rate, making it a less stable investment than high-risk agricultural futures. He will be bankrupt by the end of Comiket.” She paused. “Shall we leave now, or wait until the shrine absorbs our mortal souls?”

Renji glared at her. “My soul is already sworn to her. And I’ll be vindicated. One day you’ll all see—Evelina is—”

“—the misunderstood queen of shadows, the tragic heroine of our time, a victim of poor writing and patriarchal narratives,” Kenta droned, mimicking Renji’s impassioned rant voice with perfect, infuriating accuracy. “Yeah, yeah, we get it. Now grab your wallet, Wolf-boy. It’s time to hemorrhage yen in the name of love.”

Part 3: The Last Good Day

Kenta was still gasping for air on the floor when he finally managed to push himself up, wiping a tear from his eye. “Okay, okay, I’m done. Mostly.” He looked at Renji, who was still standing defiantly amidst his shrine. “Look, before we embark on the great Comiket death march, we need to get some real food in you. My treat. Let’s go to Ichiraku.” he offered, an offer Renji could not resist.

Renji’s posture softened. Ichiraku was their place. A tiny, ten-seater ramen shop tucked away in a quiet Shinjuku side street, run by an old man who knew all of their orders by heart. “Lead the way!” was the only word to escape his lips as he closed the door of his room and then the house as they departed on their journey.

An hour later, they were crammed into their usual booth in the back. The air was thick with the rich, comforting smell of pork broth, simmering for hours, and the sharp tang of pickled ginger. The low chatter of the other patrons and the rhythmic slurping of noodles was a familiar, welcome sound.

Kenta, having apparently recovered, leaned forward, his usual joking smirk gone, replaced by a look of genuine concern. “Seriously, man. You’re doing okay? Law school in Moscow sounds rough as hell, and you come back and you seem… I don’t know, deeper into this whole Evelina thing than ever.”

Renji stared down at the steam rising from his bowl of tonkotsu ramen. “It’s complicated.”

“So uncomplicate it for us,” Kenta pressed gently. “We’re your friends, dude. We can handle a little weird,” he said as if trying to reassure a friend in need.

Aya nodded eagerly from beside him, her expression earnest. “He’s right, Renji-kun. We might tease you, but we worry. So… it’s not just that she’s a cool character you like? It’s… that you feel like she was treated unfairly?”

Renji looked up, surprised by her insight. “Yes. Exactly that.” He struggled to find the words, to translate the complex legal and philosophical arguments in his head into something that wouldn't sound insane. “Look, in my international law class, we studied cases of failed states, of leaders who were branded as tyrants by larger powers who wanted their resources. The evidence is always manipulated, the narrative is controlled. The winner literally writes the history book.”

He gestured with his chopsticks. “That’s what they did to Evelina. They wrote a story where she was the villain because it was easier than admitting the ‘good guys’ were colonialist assholes. They didn’t just kill her; they assassinated her character and erased her people’s history. It’s a… a narrative war crime.” he spoke with a sign of relief as if talking about it made it any easier on his mind.

Kenta blinked slowly. “Okay. So… you’re simping for her on a… legal-precedent basis?”

“It’s not just about simping!” Renji insisted, his face flushing. “It’s about justice!”

It was then that Mizuki, who had been silently reading her book, placed it face down on the table. The action was so out of character that both Kenta and Aya fell silent.

“Your fixation,” Mizuki began, her voice a calm, analytical monotone, “is statistically consistent with individuals who possess a strong, innate sense of justice but feel fundamentally powerless within rigid, established systems.” She looked directly at Renji, her gaze unnervingly perceptive. “Evelina is a proxy. A fictional vessel for your own frustrations with perceived systemic injustices in the real world. Your desire to ‘save’ her is a sublimated desire to validate your own worldview—that the established narrative is not always the correct one.” she spoke with a tone of a cold and yet calculative university psychologist who was tasked with clearing any questions left by her lecture.

The silence that followed was profound. Kenta’s jaw was slightly ajar. Aya looked utterly baffled. Renji felt as if he’d been x-rayed, his entire soul laid bare and cataloged. “I… uh…” for the first time, he had no words to argue.

Mizuki picked her book back up. “Furthermore, your selection of a ‘villainess’ character as a focal point suggests a contrarian disposition and a psychological attraction to tragic, unattainable figures.” She turned a page. “The probability that you will die alone is 67.4%,” she said as she casually resumed reading her book and eating her ramen.

Kenta finally broke the silence. “Holy shit, Mizuki. Did you just psychoanalyze his entire personality into dust?”

Aya just patted Renji’s arm gently. “Don’t listen to her, Renji-kun. I think it’s… passionate,” she said, trying to reassure him while also trying to hide her deeper worries for Renji.

Renji didn’t know what to say. He felt both completely seen and utterly dissected. He looked at his friends—Kenta, the loyal, loud-mouthed idiot; Aya, the kind, worrying heart; Mizuki, the terrifyingly brilliant brain. They didn’t fully understand. How could they? But they were trying. In their own weird, dysfunctional way, they were trying, and that's what mattered.

And in that moment, sitting in the warm, steamy air of their favorite ramen shop, a profound sense of affection washed over him. He took a mental photograph of the scene, of their faces in the soft light, of the comfortable, easy silence that had settled between them again.

He didn't know it, but it was the last time he would ever see them.

Part 4: Pilgrimage, Polemics, and Pavement

With the rich, comforting taste of tonkotsu broth still lingering on their tongues and their friendship reaffirmed, however clumsily, the true pilgrimage could begin. It was time for Comiket.

Comiket was not a place; it was a sensory event, a temporary nation-state of pure, concentrated passion. The moment they stepped out of the train station and into the sprawling plaza of Tokyo Big Sight, they were hit by a physical wall of human heat and sound. The air, thick and humid under the afternoon sun, was a cacophony of overlapping J-pop from promotional booths, the distorted shouts of event staff through megaphones, and the constant, dull roar of tens of thousands of simultaneous conversations about animation frames, manga plot twists, and the unforgivable sin of a poorly designed gacha system.

It was a visual riot. A river of people flowed between the massive exhibition halls, a current of tote bags, backpacks, and meticulously crafted cosplay. A seven-foot-tall knight in full plate armor politely waited in line for a crepe next to a group of magical girls comparing glitter application techniques. The sheer scale of it was enough to overwhelm the uninitiated. But for Renji, it was his homecoming.

The weary, jet-lagged law student who had stepped off the plane was gone. The quiet, introspective young man from the ramen shop had vanished, in their place was a hunter. His eyes, sharp and focused behind his glasses, scanned the chaotic landscape, identifying booth numbers from the map he’d memorized, cataloging banners for rare merchandise, and calculating the most efficient path between high-priority targets. He moved with a purpose that bordered on religious fervor.

“Look at him,” Kenta said, nudging Aya with his elbow. “He’s entered his final form: ‘Maximum Over-Simp.’” Aya just sighed, a fond, worried sound. “Please try not to spend all your money in the first hour, Renji-kun,” she spoke almost as if begging an alcoholic not to waste their entire salary on booze.

Renji didn’t even hear them. His entire being was focused, at this moment in time, he was one with the force of the universe that was guiding his wallet “There,” he whispered, his voice reverent, his eyes locking onto a booth with a towering, beautifully illustrated banner of Evelina’s face. It was an indie circle, known for its high-quality fan merchandise. “Limited-edition acrylic keychains. Estimated queue time: forty-five minutes. High probability of selling out by 3 PM.” He turned to his friends, his expression deadly serious. “Kenta, Aya, Mizuki—you three hold this position and establish a fallback point. If I don’t return in one hour, tell my parents I died with honor,” he spoke like a samurai who was about to head into battle with zero chances of coming back

Kenta just clapped a hand on his back, pushing him forward. “Go, soldier. Make your Queen proud!” It was a semi-mocking tone, but seeing their friend come alive from a jet-lagged mess, was a bit of a relief, even though all his energy was focused on burning money on more merch.

Renji didn’t need to be told twice. He disappeared into the dense river of people like a man possessed, his movements swift and economical, honed by years of navigating these very battlefields, if he applied the same energy and dedication to his studies, he would have been the best student in his university.

Thirty minutes later, he returned, looking like he’d just survived a war, and multiple redeployments into the hottest war zones on the planet; he was drenched in sweat, his hair was a mess, but he seemed and was triumphant. In his hands, he clutched a plastic bag overflowing with his spoils as well as a suspiciously long, hard cardboard tube stuck out from one side.

Aya blinked. “Is that… another wall scroll?” she asked as this one seemed bigger than the last one that she saw in his room.

Renji’s eyes were wild with victory. “Don’t question my methods. Or my motives,” he spoke with his voice cracking, clearly from severe dehydration.

Kenta peered inside the bag. “Dude, that’s your entire food budget for the next month, if not more.”

“Evelina,” Renji panted, “sustains me,” he said crouching down and hugging his bags as if a character from a popular fantasy novel that clung to a certain object calling it his precious.

Mizuki didn’t look up from her book. “Malnutrition will claim him before his midterm exams.”

Kenta leaned over to Aya. “If we don’t stop him now, he’ll need Evelina-branded bankruptcy lawyers.”

But Renji was already marching off again, his internal GPS locking onto his next target. Every booth was a potential goldmine. He picked up fan-made doujinshi, pin sets, even a few sketchy bootleg plushies with slightly misaligned eyes that he felt a strange, paternal need growing in him to rescue them from their capitalist prison.

It was at one of the most popular fan art booths, a table literally covered in glorious, non-canonical interpretations of Evelina, that he ran into trouble. He was admiring a print of her in a stunning battle-nun habit, a design so perfect it made his heart ache. “Battle Nun Evelina… Maid Evelina… Summer Festival Swimsuit Evelina…” His voice cracked with emotion. “Is this… is this heaven?” he spoke as he fell on his knees, with a few other people in the line shedding a tear of solidarity with him.

“It’s definitely a take on her character, that’s for sure,” a cheerful voice said beside him. Renji turned to see another fan, a guy his age with spiky, brightly dyed hair and a T-shirt emblazoned with the beaming, heroic face of the Hero of Light. “Personally, I don’t get the appeal. She’s such a downer, you know?” he said with a smile that seemed genuine, and warm as if trying to make a new friend.

The warmth of Renji’s fanboy bliss evaporated instantly, replaced by a familiar, icy indignation. “A downer? She’s a nuanced, tragic figure grappling with the crushing weight of her people’s history and her own immense responsibilities,” spoke Renji coldly, slowly rising from his knees with his eyes visibly turning darker, as if a beast awoken from its slumber, years of pent-up aggression towards the hero slowly trying to claw their way out of Renji’s mind.

The Hero-fan chuckled, picking up a print of the Hero striking a dramatic, sword-raised pose. “She’s a tyrant who tried to plunge the world into an age of darkness because she couldn't handle a little political pressure. The Hero had to put her down. It was sad, yeah, but it was justice.” he said, fixing his glasses as if that would make his point any more valid.

Renji felt a vein begin to throb in his temple. He’d had this exact argument a hundred times on obscure internet forums, but hearing it in person felt like a physical assault. “Justice? The Human Alliance broke every single treaty they ever signed with her people! They strip-mined her nation’s sacred lands and called it ‘economic development.’ Her ‘world-ending ritual’ was a desperate, last-ditch effort to restore a magical barrier they had destroyed. It’s all in the supplementary lore files! Did you even read them?” he roared with enough passion to make nearby stands and attendees shake and feel the heat radiating off him.

“Dude, it’s just a game,” the fan said with a dismissive wave, entirely unfazed by Renji's rising passion. “The Hero saves people, she tries to kill them. It’s not that complicated.”

“That is a grossly negligent oversimplification of the established canon!” Renji shot back, his voice rising. A few people in the line turned to stare. Kenta, sensing a spectacle, had already pulled out his phone and started recording. “You’re ignoring the entire socio-political context of the narrative! Her actions were a direct, albeit extreme, response to generations of systemic oppression and cultural genocide!” he roared stamping his feet sending a small shockwave that made the crowd awe while Kenta made sure to capture it all on video for future teasing material.

“You sound exactly like my sociology professor,” the Hero-fan laughed, shaking his head. “Look, the Hero is a good guy. He’s brave, he’s kind, and he helps little old ladies find their lost cats in the starting village. He’s relatable.” he said, raising his hand trying to mimic one of the hero’s poses.

“He’s a bland, smiling plot device with the moral complexity of a slice of untoasted white bread!” Renji retorted, gesturing wildly with a clear file with an art that he was about to purchase. “Evelina has flaws! She’s proud, she’s ruthless, she’s emotionally isolated because of the impossible burden she carries! That’s what makes her a compelling character! She feels real!”

The other fan just shrugged, still smiling. “Whatever you say, man. You enjoy your evil queen fan art.” He bought his Hero print and cheerfully walked away, leaving Renji fuming and vibrating with righteous fury, with the crowd slowly dispersing as if nothing else had happened.

Kenta strolled over, still snickering as he put his phone away. “You okay there, Wolf-boy? You almost went to a full-on debate club. I got the whole thing. It’s going straight into the blackmail folder.” he said with playful laughter as he already had several folders like that on separate phones and servers courtesy of Mizuki.

“He doesn’t understand,” Renji muttered, his hands clenched into fists. “Nobody understands,” he spoke like a man who is slowly losing faith in the world, and even worse, faith in himself.

“We know, we know,” Aya said gently, steering him away from the booth before he could launch into a one-man protest. “Come on, let’s get some drinks outside. You’re overheating.” she while softly holding his arm, as if trying to be his only anchor to this reality.

Hours later, they finally collapsed near a café stand outside the main exhibition hall, each armed with a tall, cold glass of iced coffee. Kenta proudly showed off his haul of rare mecha model kits. Aya unwrapped a cute tote bag with a popular magical girl mascot. Mizuki, somehow, had purchased a single, slim, minimalist poetry collection, which according to the book was in its 100th volume, who read those things?

And Renji? Renji was practically buried under a mountain of Evelina bags. He looked like he was preparing to cross the Alps with a caravan of anime goods, the only thing lacking was an Evelina-themed elephant saddle and hiking equipment.

“Well,” Aya said, trying to find a positive spin on his impending bankruptcy, “at least he’s happy,” she said while clenching her own wallet, one part of her would allow Renji to borrow money from her, another worried that it might become a dangerous habit that would lead to a strain in their friendship.

Kenta snapped another photo. “Happy? This is blackmail material that will fund my retirement,” he said knowing full well that Renji would comply with anything as long as his spendings are not revealed to his parents in their full, unhinged glory.

Renji sipped his iced coffee, his eyes half-closed in a state of post-shopping, post-argument bliss. “Laugh all you want, peasants. I regret nothing,” he spoke while cold coffee filled his throat pleasantly, making him feel like he had found his small heaven.

Then—he saw her. Across the plaza, haloed in the warm, golden light of the setting sun, stood a cosplayer; she was tall and graceful, her dark hair flowed like velvet, and her gown shimmered with exquisite layers of violet and black silk. A crown, perfectly crafted, caught the last rays of the sun like polished silver.

Evelina Duskbane.This wasn't a cheap, store-bought costume. This was artistry. The regal posture, the ice-cold, imperious stare. It wasn’t just cosplay. It was a presence, like she really was there, as if a painting came to life and graced the artist with its beauty.

Renji nearly dropped his drink. His heart hammered in his chest. “She’s… she’s real,” he spoke, stuttering as he slowly began to stand up. He needed a photo with her, or 20.

Aya followed his gaze, then sighed wearily. “Renji-kun, it’s just a cosplayer—” But even she cut herself off as a group of rowdy cosplayers—dressed, of course, as the Hero’s Party—moved in to surround the queen, bullying was of course by no means normal, but some cosplayers would bully others for their costumes, or characters chosen and this seemed to spell troubles, not for the Evelina cosplayer, but the hero.

The “Hero,” with a cheap foam sword and a smug, self-satisfied grin, blocked Evelina’s path. The “Priestess” giggled nervously behind him. The Knight and the Mage circled her like they were performing a bad, unrehearsed improv skit. A cold fury, sharp and sudden, washed over Renji. The argument with the Hero-fan was still fresh and raw in his mind. This felt like a personal attack, a final insult from a world that just didn't get it. His bags of precious Evelina merch fell to the pavement with a soft thud.

“No one,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, “disrespects Evelina Duskbane!”

Kenta blinked. “Renji. Dude. They’re just goofing off. They’re literally in foam armor—”

But Renji was already moving, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing with the righteous fury of a true believer who had finally found his cause.

Aya’s eyes widened in alarm. “Renji—wait—!”

Too late. He was already marching across the plaza.

Part 5: Truck-kun Destiny

Renji’s mountain of Evelina merch hit the ground like sacred offerings, scattering across the concrete, but it didn't matter to him, he had a higher goal in sight.

Across the plaza, the “Hero” was jabbing his foam sword at the queen cosplayer’s chest, smirking like a world-class jackass. “Come on,” he said, nudging her with the prop’s tip. “You’re the villain, remember? Act like it. Give us a good evil laugh or something.” he said and laughed along with his costumed friends who seemed to take a sick joy in tormenting the evil queen.

The cosplayer didn’t flinch though, she simply tilted her chin slightly, her lips curling in a perfect expression of disdain—the authentic Evelina look, haughty and utterly unbothered. Renji’s heart actually skipped a beat. And then, without thinking, without planning, he moved, he wasn't the most athletic person, but his father did force him to undergo a self-defense course, so his body moved on instinct.

“HEY YOU!” he shouted, his voice echoing across the plaza, like a horn of a battle that was about to unfold.

The Hero turned just in time for Renji to slam into him shoulder-first. The foam sword went flying. The Priestess yelped and scrambled backward, tripping over her own robes.

“Hands. Off. The Queen, NOW!” Renji growled, planting his feet, getting ready for either the best or the worst thing that he had done.

Instinct, honed by years of playing the hero in other people's stories, as well as some of the self-defense course lessons kicked in; he grabbed the first weapon-like object that his hand could reach, which was the rolled-up Evelina wall scroll that he had just purchased. It was the battle regalia one, the artwork where she stared down an entire battlefield like a goddess of war awaiting her turn.

With the righteous fury of a man whose honor, and the honor of his queen, was on the line, Renji raised the scroll and swung.

WHAP!

The heavy cardboard core smacked against the Knight’s plastic helmet with a surprisingly loud and satisfying thud.

“OW!” the Knight shouted, stumbling back and clutching his head. “Dude, what the hell?! That actually hurt!” groaned the guy trying to regain his balance, clearly not expecting to be attacked.

Renji spun the scroll in his hands like a makeshift staff, his heart pounding with a wild, exhilarating rhythm. “You dare to mock and sully Queen Evelina in my presence? I’ll send you to the bargain bin where forgotten side characters go to die!” he hissed, taking another offensive stance, adrenaline fueling his blood, all his rational decisions swiped away under a rug by stress, adrenaline, and jet lag as well as caffeine.

The Mage, looking utterly bewildered, flinched and, in a moment of pure panic, threw a handful of glitter in Renji’s face like some kind of bizarre anime escape tactic. Renji inhaled most of it. And immediately regretted all of his life choices up to that point. Still coughing up a lungful of sparkling dust, his next swing hit the Mage squarely in the ribs. “Dude! What is WRONG with you?!” groaned the mage while throwing more glitter at Renji.

“What’s wrong?” Renji said mockingly, standing tall with glitter shimmering heroically in his hair and possibly lungs, scroll held in a ready stance like a sacred relic “Are you putting your grubby, undeserving hands on my queen! And I will not, nay. I cannot let that stand!” If anyone were to see this side of Renji, they would actually mistake him for a hero of a tele-novella confronting the main villain of the story.

For a moment, everything seemed to stop. The convention buzz faded into a dull background hum. The golden light of the setting sun bathed the plaza like a theatrical spotlight. Renji stood there, surrounded by his fallen bags of Evelina merch, facing off against four stunned cosplayers, his scroll resting across his shoulders like a legendary sword; he had never felt so alive in this life.

And the cosplayer, Evelina, the way she looked at him; not with fear, not with embarrassment. But with something closer to stunned surprise, and maybe, just maybe, somewhere deep down, a flicker of admiration.

And in that single, silent breath of validation, something clicked inside him. Every late-night rant, every overpriced figure, every academic essay he had sneakily molded into a discourse on Evelina’s political philosophy—it had all led to this. He wasn’t just some obsessive fanboy. He was Evelina’s knight.

The Evelina cosplayer, dropping character for a moment, took a step forward. "Hey, you guys, back off!" she said, her voice firm. "He's just defending me, you idiots! Go mind your own business!"

The “Hero,” however, was not amused; however, his face was red with humiliation and he was not gonna take it. “Pathetic,” he muttered, his voice tight with wounded pride. He lunged forward and shoved Renji, hard. “Think you’re funny, huh?”

Renji stumbled backward, his arms windmilling as he tried to regain his balance. One foot, a half-size too big for his shoe, caught on the sharp edge of the curb. His balance faltered. The world tilted.

The Evelina cosplayer’s eyes went wide with genuine alarm. Her lips parted—she was about to say something. Maybe a warning. Maybe a thank-you. Maybe both.

“You, you’re an idiot,” she gasped, her voice a mix of exasperation and concern.

Then came the horn. Loud. Low. And far, far too close.

Renji twisted in midair—just in time to see the blinding glare of headlights. A delivery truck. Full speed. No time to react.

The last thing he heard was someone screaming his name. Was it Aya? Kenta? Both? He couldn’t tell. The sound was swallowed by the roar of the engine.

Then came the impact.

A brief, all-consuming flash of white-hot pain.

Then—nothing.

No sound. No light. Just a weightless, silent plunge into an endless dark.

Somewhere, in the muffled distance, voices echoed, but they were fading fast. He tried to hold onto something—a thought, a memory—but his consciousness was already dissolving. Only one, strangely comforting thought remained. “At least I died for something that mattered.”

He felt a weak, cracked laugh bubble up from a chest he could no longer feel.

“Well,” he whispered to the void, “at least I died protecting her. Even if she was just… a cosplayer…” were his last thoughts before the darkness swallowed the rest of his world