Subaru opened his eyes. A rush of sensations hit him all at once—the weight of his body, the burn in his chest, the dampness of the air around him. His hands were still there. No gaping hole in his chest. He was breathing. Slowly. Hesitantly. There was still a sharp, ghostly sting around his ribs, but the cold, biting presence of Excalibur had vanished. He was alive—at least, that's what his body was telling him. He took a deep breath, but even that simple act was laced with dread. It wasn't just air filling his lungs; it felt like the breath itself was etched with fear, crawling inward until it stabbed directly at his heart. He blinked, slowly. The blur of panic began to clear. But clarity brought no peace—only the weight of an unbearable reality.
His eyes adjusted to his surroundings. He was in a cave. The air was thick and heavy, a strange mixture of warmth and cold that clung to his skin like a wet sheet. Thin stalactites dangled from the jagged ceiling, each drop of water that fell echoing with eerie precision. The rhythmic dripping played like a twisted metronome, counting down to something unknown. The walls, built of jagged, soot-colored stone, breathed an ancient stillness, but there was nothing comforting in it. Every breath carried a metallic tang that seared the inside of his throat. The oppressive humidity carried the scent of blood and rust.
His hands were shackled—thick iron chains bolted into the stone floor. They weren't just restraints; they were punishments. The steel bit into his skin with every twitch, every small movement. When he tried to adjust his position, a stabbing jolt ran through his wrists as the jagged links tore into his flesh. Blood ran in thin, slow trails. He gritted his teeth, his breath coming out in short hisses.
Before him stood a strange formation: a wide semicircle of mirrors, arranged like an audience around a stage. But these weren't ordinary mirrors. No two were the same. Some hung suspended in the air, tilted from unnatural angles. Others sat low to the ground or leaned at impossible inclines. Each one reflected a version of him—but distorted, not physically, but emotionally. Some of the Subarus in the mirrors were glaring with unfiltered rage. Others were sobbing, their eyes red with exhaustion and grief. A few looked utterly numb, their gaze devoid of any spark. Rage, despair, confusion, apathy—all parts of himself fractured across glass. These weren't echoes of the past. They weren't reflections. They were truths—the ugliest truths he tried to bury.
The silence was broken by footsteps.
A distant tapping, growing louder with each passing second. Each step carried a chilling weight, turning the floor into an instrument of dread. The cadence was deliberate, ceremonial. Subaru held his breath.
Lucas emerged from the shadows.
But it wasn't the Lucas Subaru remembered. This version was colder. His features were unnervingly still, like a sculpture carved from frost. His eyes, once human, were bottomless—black wells where thought might have once lived. When he spoke, his voice came doubled, layered with an unnatural echo. Each word struck the cave's walls and bounced back with malicious resonance, pressing down on Subaru's chest with invisible force.
"Natsuki Subaru," he began, each syllable slow and deliberate, "Welcome to the Room of Mirrors. A place where your memories are not only preserved—but repeated. Burned into your mind. Etched into your soul. Here, nothing fades. Nothing is forgotten."
The words hit Subaru like a slap. He blinked rapidly, struggling to process. "What are you saying? What is this place? What are you trying to do to me?" His voice trembled with more than confusion—it held something deeper. Something closer to dread. "Why again? Why does it always have to be pain?"
Lucas walked forward, the chains at Subaru's wrists rattling softly as if reacting to his presence. The man knelt down, bringing himself to Subaru's eye level. His expression didn't change.
"Pain," he said softly, "is the only thing that doesn't lie. And in this room, you won't just see your past—you'll feel it. As if it were happening all over again. The blood, the fear, the shame. This chamber does not trade in illusions, Subaru. It trades in truth."
A chill shot through Subaru's spine. His mouth went dry. He could barely manage the words: "You... you know about my Authority."
Lucas tilted his head, an amused glint barely flickering across his otherwise empty eyes. "I am an Authority. I can sense others like me. And you—you're a flaw. A defect. A failed attempt born of the Witch of Envy's greed. Do you really think something like you could hide from me?"
Subaru's heart pounded. Thoughts collided in his head. "So he's not just Lucas. He's something... more. Or less. A fusion? A hybrid? Something incomplete. Something that should not exist."
Lucas turned away, spreading his arms like a priest before an altar. The mirrors behind him shimmered, flickering with pulses of light that shifted with Subaru's breath.
"Sit tight and watch, Archbishop of Envy—Natsuki Subaru," he said, his voice rising with a twisted theatricality. "The past is calling, and it demands your suffering."
And then, the mirrors began to glow.
One by one, they lit up—each one showing a different moment. Emilia's tearful face. Rem's blood-soaked hands. Beatrice's eyes filled with betrayal. A hand stretched toward salvation—and another crushing it with indifference. Every failure. Every regret. Each one crawling back into his mind, not as ghosts, but as invaders, as punishments ready to begin anew.
And Subaru could do nothing but watch.
The mirrors quivered with a haunting resonance. Then, slowly, as if stirred by a breeze from beyond, blurry images began to form upon their surfaces. The first reflection revealed itself: the very moment Subaru first arrived in this alien world. He didn't just remember that day—he was forced to relive it. That wave of terror, the paralyzing confusion, the sense of isolation. He felt like a child abandoned in a crowd with no familiar face to cling to. At first, he had foolishly believed it was all a game, a grand fantasy. He thought perhaps he had been chosen for something greater, a hero's journey. He saw himself as the main character, destined for glory. But reality shattered that illusion with a cold, merciless slap. There was no script, no guidance—only pain. The memories he had replayed endlessly in his mind now materialized with brutal clarity before his eyes.
A merchant barked at him, accusing him of theft. Confused and disoriented, Subaru stumbled through the streets. Then, as if fate had stepped in, he met her—the love of his life: Emilia. Her silver hair shimmered under the sun, and her violet eyes held a mysterious kindness that reached into the pit of his despair. She was radiant, untouchable, and utterly unfamiliar with the weight she would soon bear in his life. At that moment, something deep inside him stirred. A spark. A desire that was still pure and unspoiled. He wanted to protect her. He wanted to matter to someone. He yearned to find a purpose, to no longer feel like a mistake swept into a world that didn't want him.
Driven by that innocent resolve, he followed the elf girl into a tavern, hoping to help, to be useful. Instead, he encountered a nightmare in the flesh: the Bowel Hunter. The name alone brought bile to his throat. What unfolded there was horror incarnate. Blood splattered the walls. Screams echoed off the wooden beams. Death came not like a whisper, but like a scream in the dark. His mind, usually clouded by the trauma of those memories, now recalled each second in agonizing detail.
The result of that first confrontation? Devastation. Felt's head was severed clean from her shoulders. Rom's stomach was torn open, his guts spilling across the tavern floor. Emilia, his guiding light, lay cold and motionless, drained of life. Subaru himself bore a deep gash across his stomach, a wound that screamed with pain. He writhed on the ground like a broken animal. No—worse. Even animals died with more dignity than this.
Suddenly, one of the mirrors flared with blinding light. And then, pain. Subaru howled as a fresh cut slowly opened along his real abdomen, mirroring the one in the reflection. The blood poured hot and thick, but the sensation of the blade was icy. His screams reverberated through the dark cavern, echoing endlessly—but no help came. Not from Beatrice. Not from Rem. Not from Roswaal. He was utterly, heartbreakingly alone. And still, the memories came. The mirrors showed no mercy. They didn't just recount the past—they stretched it, deepened it, twisted the knife to prolong the suffering.
In the reflection, the young man gripped the elf girl's hand and made a solemn vow: "No matter what it takes, I will save you."
And with that, the first death came. The screen faded. And then it began again. And again. And again. In this cursed cycle, every familiar face turned to ash, every bond was shattered. Rom and Felt died anew. Puck's icy rage was extinguished. Emilia, no matter how she tried to escape, always ended up dead. And Subaru, without fail, was found lifeless. The mirrors omitted nothing. They dulled no edge. Every moment of agony, every fleeting hope, every soul-crushing failure was presented in pristine clarity. Each time his heart was torn out. Each time, his soul shredded a little more.
Subaru wanted to scream, to cry, to beg for it to stop. But his voice had long since given out. His throat burned from unspoken anguish. His gaze had lost focus. Blood dripped steadily from his fingers, pooling beneath the shackles that bound him. His body still clung to the illusion of life—but his spirit had turned to ash.
Then, like a beacon in the storm, a red-haired knight appeared. Reinhard. Glorious, unwavering, and impossibly strong. He had saved the day. For the first time, Subaru survived. But it was a hollow victory. The wound Reinhard couldn't heal was the one carved deep into Subaru's heart. That pain would never fade.
But the mirrors had not finished their tale. The cruelty of the room persisted. Another scene unfurled: the Roswaal mansion.
Subaru opened his eyes to find two maids standing over him. Identical faces, yet completely distinct. One had soft pink hair, the other, a cool shade of blue. Ram and Rem.
He had hoped to win them over. He had tried so hard to befriend them, to prove himself useful. To be accepted. But trust was not easily earned, and in the end, that kindness was not returned. Without warning, a morning star—massive and unrelenting—came crashing down onto his skull.
Rem's weapon was more than just iron and chains. In her hands, it was judgment. Righteous fury given form. Each blow fractured his skull. Each death cracked a little more of his sanity. And the loop repeated. Again and again, the same punishment. The same betrayal. The mirrors, ever diligent, showed it all. They refused to forget. They demanded he remember. Every break in his bones echoed as a scar in his mind. Every death eroded what little remained of his sense of self.
Yet in the darkness, a glimmer. Somehow, Subaru managed to reach her. The blue-haired maid who had once stood above him with such merciless resolve. He convinced her. He changed her mind. And in doing so, forged a fragile bond. That victory, though small, was monumental. Amid the madness, he had made a difference. In the middle of his darkest spiral, he had lit a spark. For a moment, he felt seen. He felt real.
But in a world as cruel as this, peace is never more than borrowed time.
The memories still churned within the mirrors, waiting to show what came next.
And Subaru, though breathing, was no longer whole.
Until the Mabeast horde struck the village—suddenly, without warning, without mercy. One moment, life was mundane and quiet, and the next, it was swallowed in chaos. The young man, terrified as he was, refused to abandon his sense of chivalry or compassion. Fear screamed at him to run, to save himself, but he stood his ground. No matter the cost, he couldn't let someone—especially a girl—die before his eyes. He pushed the blue-haired maid out of harm's way, saving her, but in that very moment, he was caught. Fangs tore into him, claws raked his flesh, pain and helplessness erupted through his body all at once. And then, the unlikeliest of threats—a tiny dog—bit into his skin and cursed him.
The curse, insidious and unseen, spread like venom through his veins. It wasn't just pain—it was death itself, coiling and waiting. Without realizing what had been done to him, he died. Again. And again. Time bent to the will of that curse, dragging him backward only to let him die anew. Each death echoed the last, but the pain—it never dulled. His body remembered, his soul remembered, and his mind began to unravel beneath the weight of those countless ends.
Though the catastrophe seemed to fade with time, it was nothing but a deceptive silence. The scars it left—unseen and ignored by others—still bled within him. The truth, that the real Natsuki Subaru had been killed, torn apart, and erased over and over, was laid bare again and again within the room of mirrors. He didn't merely watch those deaths—he felt them, relived them with every fiber of his being. No one could hear his screams in that world of reflection and repetition. His vision darkened gradually with each cycle, the light in his eyes dimming, fading. And with every death, a part of him withered.
He remembered the fleeting warmth of moments shared with the elf girl. The times she lay her head on his lap, cried in his arms, whispered her shame, her fear. A little affection... a glimmer of appreciation... they weren't grand gestures, but they were life itself to him. Like a hand reaching out to a drowning soul, those memories clung to his spirit, trying desperately to pull it back from the edge. Those small acts of kindness were lighthouses in the vast storm of his suffering.
Then came the royal selection. The young man, despite everything, cast away his pride and dignity without hesitation. All for the sake of the elf girl—the princess he believed in. He accepted humiliation, degradation, and ridicule. What did he get in return? He was struck down by Julius, beaten to the ground in public. His body bruised, his pride shattered. Each blow was a reminder that good intentions were not always enough. And then—then she left. The girl he'd loved with all his heart left him behind in the capital, without so much as a farewell. A silent abandonment more painful than any death.
His heart shattered into a thousand pieces. But he didn't collapse into despair. Because Rem was there.
Rem, the blue-haired maid who had died for him, suffered for him, bled for him, time and time again—she remained by his side. Even though he had failed her too, even though his recklessness had led to her repeated deaths, he treated her with nothing but kindness. He couldn't bring himself to do otherwise. She, in turn, forgave him. Just by being near her, the world seemed quieter. The constant, maddening ache in his chest eased, if only a little. Rem's voice, her presence, her loyalty—they became the foundation he could still stand on. Her smile, fleeting and brave, became his reason to breathe.
Until he saw her die again. And again. In his place. The White Whale descended, consuming all in mist and horror. The Archbishop of Sloth emerged, spreading madness like a disease. The Witch Cult crept from the shadows, each of them tearing more from him. And Rem... Rem gave her life, over and over, just to protect him. Subaru collapsed to his knees in the mirror room, the weight of it all crushing him. Tears streamed from his eyes, hot and bitter. Even the act of breathing became unbearable.
"I... I couldn't protect you... I'm sorry, Rem... I'm so sorry..."
But even then, the young man did not stop. Through the tears, through the suffocating guilt and pain, he stood. Bruised, broken, yet unyielding. He returned to the royal candidates. He negotiated, pleaded, swallowed every last scrap of pride. But things had changed. He was no longer seen as a man—they saw only his utility. He was used, manipulated, discarded. Broken again. His humanity, his worth, was questioned. But he never gave in to despair. He did not surrender. He chose not death, but defiance. He tried. He died. He tried again. With each failure, he rose stronger, more resolute.
In the end, a fragile victory was achieved. The White Whale was slain. But at a price. Rem was erased from existence, her name, her memory devoured. Her body lay in a slumber that no one could wake. The Archbishop of Sloth was destroyed. And yet, peace did not follow. The void in Subaru's heart remained—a gaping wound untouched by triumph.
The journey did not end. There was no rest.
Then came the Sanctuary. The cursed place where peace was promised but never delivered. Subaru was forced to face the "Trials," agonizing tests that ripped into his spirit, tore apart his soul. The Witch of Greed, Echidna, demanded he confront his past. Ghosts long buried clawed to the surface. He walked through a twisted prison built not of stone, but of shame, regret, and fear. His father. His mother. His failures. Every painful truth, every scar he tried to hide was exposed under her unblinking gaze.
He endured. He passed the first two trials. But the third was not his to take. The final burden belonged to the elf girl. Emilia. She was the one who had to face it. Subaru, recognizing her struggle, did everything he could. He supported her. He held her when she trembled. He became her therapist, her protector, her unwavering light in the abyss. Through his eyes, his voice, and his steadfast presence, he gave her all the strength he could muster.
But it wasn't enough.
She failed. And then, as if drawn by despair itself, Satella descended upon the world.
The Witch of Envy's shadow blanketed everything. Her presence brought with it the end of reason, the collapse of everything Subaru had fought to hold together. And as he stood there, trembling, with everything crumbling around him—he realized that the cycle wasn't over.
Not yet.
And he still had to keep moving forward.
In the Room of Mirrors, Subaru's heart thundered violently. Every beat was like the roar of an ancient drum, pounding with such ferocity it felt as if his ribcage might burst apart. His throat tightened, and for a moment, he could barely breathe. In that suffocating stillness, where even time seemed hesitant to move, a single thought screamed louder than anything else inside him: All of it was for nothing.
All the effort, all the sacrifice, every scream, every tear—shattered. Dreams, once delicate and full of light, now lay like shards of broken glass on a stone floor that never cared for hope.
"Would it be so wrong," he asked the silence, "to just give up?"
In that moment, a faint white light flickered into existence in his trembling hand. It wasn't bright. It didn't shine with power. It was pale, fragile, like the last breath of a dying star. But there was peace in it—a numb, soothing stillness. Subaru looked at it for a long moment before raising it to his neck. The act felt surreal, distant. As the light sank into his throat, there was no sharp sting, no violent recoil. Only silence. Only fatigue.
The last image his eyes captured was of the Witch of Envy. Her gaze met his, full of unspeakable grief. Her tears sparkled like dying stars, falling from eyes that carried the weight of endless sorrow. Pain lived in her stare—not the kind that screamed, but the kind that wept eternally.
"If only... everything had been different," Subaru thought, as he surrendered to the dark.
Time moved on—not as a river, but as a merciless flood. Days, months, maybe years slipped through his fingers like sand, and each moment stripped him of something. The boy who once gazed at the world with unshakable determination became little more than a shell, trembling alone in the dark.
He remembered who he used to be—the naïve smile, the clumsy courage, the way his heart dared to hope. That version of himself had vanished. In its place stood someone else entirely: a man carved from loss. The battlefield of his mind was strewn with emotional corpses—joy, purpose, meaning—all slain.
Subaru became a puppet, pulled by strings he could never sever. The madman's game board stretched endlessly beneath his feet. He was a pawn, a king, a sacrifice—never the player. At times, even his own thoughts felt foreign, alien whispers echoing from a self he could no longer call his own.
He remembered being devoured.
The Great Rabbit swarm. Thousands of ravenous mouths. Screams like nails on glass. They consumed him, over and over. Their teeth were tiny, but their hunger was vast. He felt his flesh split, his bones snap, his nerves ignite in a storm of pain. That agony never left him—it etched itself into his very soul.
He remembered the half-beast, her dagger dances written in blood. Every time he returned, her blades found him again, and again. No matter how he fought, how he pleaded, the outcome remained: death. And the Bowel Hunter... she killed him with a twisted tenderness, pulling him into death as if she were welcoming him home. Each death was unique, yet they shared the same note of despair.
But even in the face of endless suffering, Subaru did not vanish.
Somewhere, buried beneath the torment, a spark endured. Fragile, flickering, but alive. That spark became his guide, leading him to Beatrice. She who had waited alone for centuries. A guardian of silence, a keeper of solitude.
"I was waiting for you," she said when he reached her, her voice trembling under the weight of eternity.
He bared his soul before her. Every fracture, every failure. She saw it all. And she didn't turn away. Her hands reached out—not to cast spells, but to embrace his brokenness. She touched his wounds with the care of someone who understood them too well. And with a quiet strength, she whispered:
"I won't ever leave you alone."
Her words rooted deep in his heart. Through that connection, Subaru found his footing again. That bond became a bridge—not just to healing, but to redemption.
The half-elf girl, too, found strength in that bond. With love and support, she faced the trial. The barrier that had held back salvation crumbled. The Great Rabbit was defeated. The endless winter receded, and for the first time, the air felt breathable.
A soft breeze stirred the leaves. The clouds parted, just a little. The sky, once suffocatingly grey, allowed a glimpse of blue.
And then...
He was knighted.
Not in title alone, but in recognition. A symbol of trust. A promise that he belonged. The ceremony was grand, but Subaru didn't need the applause. What warmed him was quiet and invisible—a gentle assurance whispering, You matter.
For the first time, perhaps ever, he believed it.
Time passed. A full year, maybe more.
He trained harder than anyone. He pushed himself, not out of pride, but out of the fear of ever being helpless again. He laughed with friends, built bonds, and for fleeting moments, he lived. Genuinely lived.
The nightmares still visited. The scars still ached. But life had texture again—moments of joy, of rest, of love.
Until it all fell apart again.
The War of Priestella began.
And Subaru bled again.
The Archbishop of Wrath greeted him with blade and flame. He died more times than he could count—his throat torn, his body crushed, his soul fraying with each return. Hope began to rot. Each resurrection carved away what little he had left.
"Why me?" he cried in the quiet between deaths. *"Why always me?"
And then came the cruelest blow.
The girl he loved—his light—was taken.
The Archbishop of Greed ripped her from his world, right before his eyes. And he was too slow, too weak, too broken to stop it. His knees hit the earth, his voice broke into a scream that shook the heavens. Rage and grief fused into a roar of despair.
He almost didn't rise again.
But he did. He rose. He chased. He fought.
And died.
Then again. And again. Until death became routine and pain became his language. Until even hope turned into a ghost. Still, he moved.
Until at last... He won. He saved her. He saved the city.
But the war— The war was far from over...
He joined a party and set out for the Pleiades Watchtower. But the journey was far from easy. It was a trek through despair, pain, and sacrifice. Along the way, as he tried desperately to protect those he loved, he met death over and over again. Sometimes his body was torn asunder by ravenous monsters, his flesh ripped apart before he could even scream. Other times, his form was disintegrated in an instant, reduced to ash by spells and beams of raw, magical force. He witnessed the fear in his companions' eyes, the helplessness in their cries. And as he died—again and again—his soul began to fray. The question that haunted him after each failure grew louder and more insistent: "Who am I? What am I becoming?"
Eventually, through sheer will and suffering, they reached the Watchtower. But that wasn't the end. It couldn't be. The pain hadn't finished with him. The story had more cruelty to tell.
There, at the threshold of knowledge and memory, the young man's very identity was consumed.
He ceased to be Natsuki Subaru. Not on paper. Not in spoken word. Not even in the memories of those he had given everything to protect. It was as if the universe itself had scrubbed his name clean from existence. Every sacrifice, every choice, every desperate scream had become meaningless to a world that could no longer remember he had existed. The Sin Archbishop who stole his name plunged into madness—and that madness clung to the world like a virus. And so Subaru wandered alone in the Corridor of Memories, a place where only the echoes of forgotten lives remained. No past to anchor him. No future to look toward. Just the mirrors—cold, indifferent—and the sound of silence stretching into eternity.
In that desolate space, the Witch of Envy found him. Her arms, impossibly cold, wrapped around him like chains forged from sorrow. "I love you... I love you... I love you... I love you... I love you... I love you... I love you... I love you...
I love you. "
The words, once a beacon of obsession, now felt like a dirge. They repeated endlessly, like a broken hymn. But Subaru's heart had long since gone numb. Love could not take root in a soul drowned in agony. There was no comfort left to be found in her voice. Her declaration, once capable of stirring fear or awe, now echoed in his ears like a curse—relentless, cruel, and suffocating.
And then, amidst the endless repetition, a hand reached into the void.
The elf girl—his light in the darkness—refused to let him go. With tears in her eyes and her voice trembling with hope, she asked him: "Please... tell me your name."
There was a pause. Time seemed to stop. In the vacuum of his shattered soul, her question floated like a fragile thread. For a moment, he remained silent, unsure if he could even remember the word she sought. But then, through dry lips and a throat thick with sorrow, he whispered. He spoke his name. And in that moment, the world itself seemed to hold its breath.
Time continued on. The ordeal of the Watchtower came to its bitter end. Subaru didn't go insane. At least, not in the way others had feared. But the man who emerged from that place was no longer the one who had entered. Gone was the boy who ran toward danger with reckless hope. In his place was someone who walked forward not because he believed in victory—but because there was no other choice. His heart still beat, yes. But those fleeting moments where he actually felt alive had dwindled to near extinction.
Still, the story marched on. Natsuki Subaru died countless times—thousands, millions. He was executed in Vollachia's bloodstained arenas, hunted by assassins in the dead of night, burned alive, drowned, impaled. The faces of his enemies changed. The methods they used varied. But the pain—the pain never changed. It remained constant, a cruel companion that shadowed every breath he took. Yet still, he endured.
He died. He adapted. He failed. He adapted. He failed again.
And then, somehow, he succeeded.
But what had been lost in the process?
Inside the Hall of Mirrors, Subaru no longer reacted. His eyes were vacant, like glass marbles set into a statue. No tears. No screams. No flinching. He had seen it all. Lived it all. Again and again, he had watched his loved ones perish, his own body broken and cast aside. He had cried until there were no more tears, screamed until his voice became dust, begged until there was nothing left to offer. But now? None of it seemed to matter. The memories weren't lessons or triumphs. They were weight. They were chains.
And in the end...
No one had ever truly understood Natsuki Subaru.
His mind was shattered into pieces too small to mend. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't a savior. He was simply a man who had forgotten how to stop. What kept him alive wasn't courage or dreams—it was inertia. Habit. The instinct to move forward even when there was no path. Breathing wasn't a blessing. It was a duty.
And perhaps the most devastating truth of all...
To survive was never the same as to live.
In the silence of the Mirror Room, a figure finally stirred. Lucas, who had been watching from the shadows, slowly rose to his feet. Every muscle in his body relaxed, as if releasing tension he had carried for years. A smug confidence bloomed across his face, curling into a satisfied smirk. Triumph radiated from him like heat.
His eyes locked onto Subaru—the boy broken beyond repair, collapsed on the cold marble floor, stripped of identity, stripped of pride. Lucas began to walk toward him, each step deliberate and heavy with significance. His boots struck the polished stone with sharp, echoing clicks, shattering the thick silence with every movement. The sound rang through the chamber like a cruel countdown.
Each step closer filled Lucas with a heady sense of power. The silence that once surrounded Subaru now amplified Lucas's presence, turning his approach into something monumental. He drank in the moment. He savored the stillness of the room, the fallen figure at its center. The silence no longer felt empty. It felt victorious.
And Subaru, unmoving, could do nothing but wait.
Lucas bent forward without the faintest hint of hesitation, his movements smooth and deliberate, like a hunter savoring the moment before the kill. His sharp gaze traced Subaru's face—those empty, desolate eyes that stared unblinking into the void. There was no reaction, no flicker of emotion. It was as if every shred of life had been carved away from him, leaving behind a hollow shell. Then, without warning, Lucas's hand lashed out, striking Subaru's face with a brutal, resounding slap. The sound cracked through the air like a whip. Disgust twisted his lips, but there was something else in his eyes—twisted satisfaction, an almost euphoric pleasure born from someone else's ruin.
Subaru's body didn't resist. It crumpled to the side like a puppet with cut strings, lifeless and uncoordinated, as though the bones beneath his skin had turned to dust. He hit the ground hard, but still—no reaction. No twitch. No groan. No defense. His body was there, but whatever spark had animated it was gone, extinguished. He didn't even blink.
"Hah... Hahahaha... HAHAHAHAHAHA!" Lucas's laughter exploded from his lungs, manic and venomous, reverberating off the cold stone walls of the room. It wasn't joy—it was victory steeped in madness. Even the mirrors that lined the walls seemed to ripple with the force of it, as if disturbed by the raw malice in his voice. "Look at you! Look what you've become! You're nothing now! Just a hollow shell! A miserable, pitiful vessel! All that pride, all those noble efforts... all of it, for nothing! Wasted! Completely wasted!"
Subaru didn't move. His body remained sprawled across the cold floor, motionless. His eyes were open—wide, empty, lifeless. Not a single ember remained in those once-bright irises. They were glassy, like the eyes of a corpse. So many times he had died... so many times he had returned... only to break again and again, each cycle carving more deeply into his soul. He had lost everything—his friends, his purpose, his faith in himself. He had watched the world he loved rot before his eyes, had been forced to shoulder the blame, the agony, the futility.
It all came crashing down now, every pain and failure piling atop one another. His mind had collapsed beneath the weight. Thought had become meaningless. Emotion had been snuffed out. All that remained was numbness—vast, oppressive silence where the world should have been.
And yet, in that silence, a piercing sound echoed within his skull. A high-pitched mechanical tone—thin, sterile, and cruel. It rang without mercy, over and over, like an alarm no one could shut off. Cold, synthetic... inevitable.
Subaru's glazed eyes, drawn by some vague instinct, slowly rolled upward. His vision was fogged, but through the haze he caught the faint, flickering light of the system window materializing just within view.
[Resonance by Death - Cannot Activate]
[Resonance by Death - Cannot Activate]
[Resonance by Death - Cannot Activate]
[Resonance by Death - Cannot Activate]
[Resonance by Death - Cannot Activate]
[Resonance by Death - Cannot Activate]
[Resonance by Death - Cannot Activate]
[Resonance by Death - Cannot Activate]
[Resonance by Death - Cannot Activate]
[Resonance by Death - Cannot Activate]
[Resonance by Death - Cannot Activate] x???
The error repeated endlessly, a cascade of denial slamming down on him like a storm of falling glass. The screen didn't waver, didn't hesitate—only declared again and again that it had failed him. The power he had once relied upon, the gift that had carried him through so many tragedies, now spat rejection in his face. And with every line, something tore deeper into his mind, carving jagged wounds where there had already been scars.
And then—one final chime.
Ding!!
[Due to multiple deaths and failure to activate authority, the system will grant an equivalent authority based on accumulated death count.]
[Counter Authority: "Pride breaker"] Acquired!
Subaru's body still hadn't moved. But his pupils narrowed—just slightly—as he read those final lines. He blinked once, slow and shallow, as if waking from a nightmare only to find himself in a deeper one. The corners of his lips trembled. A breath barely escaped his throat. He parted his lips just enough for a whisper to form—a whisper so faint that even the silence struggled to carry it.
"Now you help me... you... traitor..."
His words were little more than the dying gasp of a spirit already undone, a bitter sigh lost in the void. There was no anger behind it, no hatred—just exhaustion. Disbelief. And betrayal.
Then, as if the last thread holding him together had snapped, Subaru's head fell back to the ground. His breath slowed even more, becoming shallow, uneven—each inhale a struggle, each exhale a fading whisper. The room around him blurred, the edges of reality softening as darkness crept into his periphery.
And yet, in that darkness, something new had awakened.
The Counter Authority pulsed faintly in the background, silent but undeniable. Waiting.
Lucas leaned forward, eyes gleaming with victorious malice. His voice dripped with mockery and delight, savoring every syllable as if it were a delicacy. "This version of you... this pitiful, shattered, broken version... I simply must show it to our little half-elf and that precious saint. Can you imagine the expressions on their delicate faces when they see you like this? The horror in their eyes... the despair in their hearts... I crave it. Will you cry, Subaru? Will you scream? Will you beg?"
Those words—dripping with cruelty—sank deep into the fractured remnants of Subaru's consciousness. Beneath the ruin, under the ash and dust of a thousand failures, something stirred. A spark—dim, but stubborn—ignited in the darkness. His thoughts were a maze of jagged echoes, his soul a brittle shell. But Lucas's voice... that voice, laced with scorn and arrogance, lit a fire in the icy hollows of his being.
Not warmth. Not light. But rage.
It wasn't a wild, flailing anger. It was cold. Controlled. Sharp and silent like a blade honed in the dark. This was the rage born not of a single insult, but of countless deaths, countless humiliations, countless moments of helplessness. Beneath the suffocating weight of despair and failure, a core of steel pulsed with life again.
I'll kill you. I'll kill you. I'll kill you. I'LL KILL YOU.
Subaru's eyes twitched, then slowly opened. His vision swam with pain, but slowly, it began to stabilize. The blur gave way to clarity. His gaze focused—first unfocused and empty, then gradually hardening like molten metal cooling into a blade. His breath was shallow, but steady. His fingers, bloodied and limp, twitched. Then clenched.
He moved.
Agony screamed from every joint, but he moved. One hand pressed against the ground. Then the other. His arms trembled under the weight of his broken body. His legs folded underneath him, like rusted metal groaning back into shape. Inch by inch, he pushed himself upward.
Natsuki Subaru—the boy who had fallen again and again, who had known defeat deeper than most would ever dream—rose.
Because he always rose.,
Lucas had already turned away, walking into the shadows with the confidence of a victor. He didn't notice at first. Didn't feel the shifting wind, didn't hear the grinding breath behind him. But Subaru's arm—bruised and shaking—lifted slowly. His eyes, once void of hope, now burned with something new. Not a flame, but an ember. Steady. Refusing to be extinguished.
And in that moment, Lucas felt it.
A chill—not physical, but spiritual. It crawled up his spine like a ghost whispering in his ear. His steps halted. He turned, casual at first, then slower as the air seemed to thicken.
And there he saw him.
Subaru, standing.
Not perfectly. Not proudly. But undeniably.
It was too late.
Lucas stared in disbelief. The boy he thought broken beyond repair was rising. His body looked ready to collapse. Blood matted his clothes. His arms were trembling, his legs unstable. But his eyes… they were alive. Fierce. Focused. As if something ancient and indomitable had awakened behind them.
Then, with every ounce of breath clawed from the depths of his lungs, Subaru roared—not in agony, not in fear, but in pure, raw defiance. His voice echoed through the Room of Mirrors, vibrating through the stones like a war drum beating at the edge of battle:
"PRIDE BREAKER!!"
The word wasn't just a name. It was a declaration. A vow.
Subaru wasn't done. Not yet. Not ever.