Chapter 5: The Hero Suite

As they continued to walk through the mansion, silence followed him like a shadow.

Minami stopped at the largest door in the hallway, her enthusiasm still unnervingly bright.

“This,” she declared, “is my favorite space in the entire mansion.”

Just as she reached for the handle, Sebastian leaned in, whispering something sharp and urgent. His posture shifted—no longer theatrical, but grave.

Minami froze. Her smile dimmed. Not faded—switched off.

“Oh! My deepest apologies,” she said, her voice delivering a cold, forced smoothness that instantly replaced the performance. “Sebastian just reminded me that my quarters are under renovation. How terribly inconvenient.”

She adjusted her cuff, as if erasing a scene.

Kyle and the twins didn’t protest. They were already sweating from the tension, grateful for the deflection.

Sebastian pivoted with reverent precision and slid open the next door.

The twins’ room was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of a paper lantern. The walls were a muted gray—textured like silk, but cool to the eye. There was no furniture except for one massive bed, made with a single, vast, unyielding sheet, emphasizing their forced, shared existence. At the far end stood a full-length mirror, framed in black lacquer, its surface unnaturally pristine—a portal that deliberately rejects their truth.

The room didn’t welcome them. It reflected them.

Sebastian cleared his throat.

“If Lady Kokoro and Master Kotaro wish, we can arrange separate rooms. Separate beds.”

His tone was clinical and data-driven, suggesting the option was based on the expectation of psychological conflict.

Kokoro stepped in first, her bare feet silent on the tatami. She walked slowly, deliberately, until she stood before the mirror. Her reflection stared back—her own face, but not her own body. Not anymore.

She reached out, fingertips grazing the lacquered frame. It was cold. Too cold. Like it didn’t want to remember.

Kotaro followed, stiff and quiet. He sat on the edge of the bed, back to the mirror, eyes fixed on the floor. His silence wasn’t passive—it was an active, protective shield against seeing the truth unravel.

Kyle lingered in the hallway, watching. The silence between the twins wasn’t empty. It was full.

Full of the unspoken trauma of shared existence. Of bodies borrowed. Of boundaries blurred.

Kokoro didn’t turn around. She just whispered:

“Do you think we’ll ever go back?”

Kyle felt a physical tightening in his chest—a failure of his heroic duty extending to a failure to comfort. He didn't answer.

He didn't know if she meant swapping back to their original bodies, returning to the other world, or the innocence they’d lost.

Sebastian bowed, his eyes lingering on the pair. “Shall we continue?”

The door slid shut with a soft click.

Inside, the mirror shimmered faintly—like it wasn’t sure which soul it belonged to.

***

Sebastian stopped at the final door. His posture remained crisp, but his tone dipped to immediate, cold efficiency.

“And here,” he said, “is the Hero’s suite.”

Throughout the entire tour, Minami had called it the “Post-Arc Healing Episode,” complete with a wooden placard nailed to the common room wall: REST. REFLECTION. ZERO COMBAT. The letters were hand-painted in gold, but the brushstrokes were too perfect—like someone had practiced the performance of care.

The pressure in his chest didn’t lift. It just… shifted.

From weight to absence.

From burden to vacancy.

He never wanted to be the hero. Not really.

But now that he wasn’t—what was left?

“Is this real?” he said as spoke to no one.

He lay on the vast bed in the Hero’s Suite, staring at the ceiling. It was white. Too white. A blinding, infinite void of potential, like a stage waiting for a horrifying new play to be written upon it by the Kurogane family.

The silk sheets whispered against his skin, cool and frictionless. They didn’t hold him. They didn’t resist. They just let him sink.

Just the hum of climate control and the quiet pressure of a world that didn’t need him anymore.

Across the room, the koi pond shimmered in its glass basin. The water was still—too still. Then, a ripple. A distortion. A face surfaced in the reflection.

The Demon Lord.

That grotesque grin. Those curling horns. The eyes that had stared into him as the world cracked open. Kyle sat up sharply, feeling a cold, nauseating squeeze in his gut—the physical sensation of his past crime returning. But as he stared, the image vanished. Just water. Just koi.

He crossed the room, knelt beside the pond. The fish swam in slow, perfect circles—contained, curated, indifferent. Their world was clean. Managed. Peaceful.

His wasn’t.

“I hope you understand what you’ve unleashed.”

The Demon Lord’s final words echoed in his skull, the lingering, cold pressure confirming that guilt was his new magic. Kyle hadn’t just slain the keystone. He’d broken the cycle. He’d committed planetary genocide.

He turned to the nightstand. The broken Sunbreaker lay there like a relic—its hilt cracked, its core dark. He reached for it, fingers brushing the cold metal. The metal was utterly cold, draining the residual warmth from his fingertips.

“Come, my Sunbreaker,” he whispered, voice low.

Nothing.

He tried again. Louder. Desperate. His voice sounded raw and pathetic in the vast silence.

“Come, my Sunbreaker…”

Still nothing.

No glow. No warmth. No torrent of Chi.

Just silence. The sound of his last hope collapsing. He let out a short, hollow laugh.

“Guess I’m not the hero anymore.”

***

Outside, the koi pond rippled once more. Then stilled.

Just water. Just silence.

Then—three soft knocks.

Kyle sat up, heart steady but alert. He crossed the room, the silk loungewear whispering against his skin, feeling the vastness of the suite around him. He opened the door.

Kokoro and Kotaro stood there in matching pajamas—cotton, oversized, patterned with stars. Kokoro’s frame had grown slightly taller, her posture more guarded. Kotaro, wearing her body, looked smaller than ever.

In the two years together, Kyle noticed the subtle changes—the way Kotaro’s chest had begun to shift, the way Kokoro’s expression flickered between protectiveness and uncertainty.

“Hey,” Kyle said, voice low.

They were the first two companions he’d met. Eight years old when summoned. Souls misplaced in each other’s bodies. And yet, they’d never once asked to be fixed—only to be understood.

“Sorry for bothering you,” Kokoro said, her voice barely above a whisper. “We couldn’t sleep.”

“Can we come in?” Kotaro added, already leaning forward.

Kyle immediately understood. In the old world, silence meant they were about to be ambushed. Here, the opulent silence was a sterile vacuum, confirming the absence of everything they had known.

He stepped aside. They stood awkwardly for a moment, the light from the hallway illuminating the vast, empty suite, before they finally rushed to the center. The bed absorbed them instantly—limbs tangled, laughter muffled by exhaustion, seeking the frayed warmth of a familiar face. Kokoro curled up beside Kotaro, who flopped onto his back with theatrical relief.

“This bed is amazing,” Kotaro sighed, flopping onto his back.

“But it’s not the woods,” Kokoro added, her voice laced with melancholy. “No tents. No monsters. No campfire smoke to keep the shadow fiends away.”

Kyle sat on the edge of the bed, letting the lie feel true for a moment. The silk didn’t fight him. It just let him sink.

“You miss camping?” he asked.

Kotaro nodded. “Even when it rained.”

Kokoro smiled faintly. “And when we got chased by that slime.”

Kyle chuckled. The memory surfaced—Renji’s first encounter with a slime. He’d called it a “low-tier mob,” flicked their wrist, and walked away. The slime had disagreed. Loudly. It summoned friends. Merged. Became a three-story acid-spewing nightmare.

They laughed quietly. Not because it was funny. Because it was theirs.

Kyle reached out, rubbing their heads gently. His touch was slow, steady, his hand absorbing the silk’s frictionless indifference. His touch was a ritual. A promise.

“When things calm down,” he said, letting the words settle like ash, “we’ll go again. No monsters. Just a good fire, the real stars, and marshmallows. Maybe hot chocolate.” His voice held a quiet, fierce conviction.

Kotaro’s eyes lit up. “Can we bring everyone as well?”

Kokoro grinned. “And those weird spicy crackers Masayuki hates?”

Kyle chuckled. “Deal.”