Kazuki walked through the streets of the empty capital. No banners fluttered on the poles, no market cries echoed between the alleys — the city was a hollow stage. He had made sure of that; as part of his plan he had cleared every soul from these lanes so only one witness remained: Vareon.
Rain fell in slow sheets, turning marble and soot to black glass. Kazuki drew the wet air into his lungs and kept walking, the hem of his cloak whispering against the stone. He did not look back.
Inside his mind, Elsa's voice reached him like a familiar tremor. Also — you weren't lying.
Kazuki let a ghost of a smile touch his lips. "I know." he thought, not aloud.
Elsa's reply was immediate, threaded with concern. "I know because of the Spirit–User Restriction. No spirit can read the private thoughts of its user. Your words to Vareon felt true — but your intentions were not. While you spoke, when his body hovered at the edge of vanishing, the Chaos Spirit's eyes were visible in your soul-realm. I saw its force pouring through you. Your soul-realm turned red. The Chaos Spirit was impressed. That means your intent can't be pure."
Kazuki's boots struck puddles as he walked. "My intentions might not be pure," he admitted inside his head, "but every truth I told him was true. Even the 'evil' parts are stitched into a greater purpose."
Elsa's concern shifted to weary acceptance. "It's nothing new. You always have a 'greater reason' behind everything. I can't read your private thoughts, only the moments you let me touch, and the physical actions you take. Even then, what I know of you is scant."
Kazuki's eyes drifted over the empty plazas, the silent fountains, the abandoned statues watching like mute judges. "Farewell, then," he thought, almost gentle. "Know this: most of my darker threads are woven toward a greater good. One day you will see it."
He severed the link without waiting for more argument. In a whisper to himself he added, sharper and almost amused: "Elsa… technically you don't even know half of my physical interactions."
He left the city behind. At the empire's outer wall he stopped, looked up, and let the rain touch his face. The drops ran like cold truth down his cheeks.
Eleven years. The thought sat in his mind like a small stone. I've been reborn for eleven years. When he first woke in this life he'd thought: this time will be different. It will be better. He'd believed—stupidly—that a royal birth meant comfort, friendship, some measure of happiness.
The memory that followed was quieter than the rain: the solitude of power. In my past life I was broken; in this one the pressure never stopped. I've enjoyed little. I never had friends—only pawns. People beneath me. Even luck felt like a sentence rather than a gift. I made my life unlucky by trying to save everyone I could. If I fail, we all die.
A chill ran through him. The weight of that responsibility pressed like a hand around his throat. He thought of futures he had seen with Elsa's help and without it — futures soaked in flames, futures that mouthed promises he had to keep.
Why can't I stop? the question surfaced, raw and honest. Why can't I live out whatever time I've got as a simple life? The idea of stepping away — of sitting with a quiet cup of tea, of not plotting, not sacrificing — felt like an impossible luxury.
He began to walk again, boots splashing in the darkened road. His mouth moved, forming a sentence meant only for himself.
"But—"