[Madikai Molotov.]
The morality of man is a lullaby, a soft song that hums to itself in the dark to drown out the screaming.
Not to answer it. Not to confront it. To muffle it long enough to pretend it doesn't exist.
That's all morality is: a blindfold, a bedtime story told by the guilty to themselves, hoping the illusion holds until morning.
Kindness? Compassion? Illusions, all of them.
During comforting words and flowery philosophy, but beneath the surface, they're just instincts dressed up to look divine.
People cling to them as if they're sacred, proof of humanity's better nature. But they're not sacred.
They're tools. Weapons of leverage.
Pretty lies stitched into the flesh of cruelty to make it more palatable when it reaches out to touch you.
We aren't born kind. We learn kindness the same way we learn to lie, because it serves a function.
Because it earns favor. Because it buys time and trust, and admiration.
We use it because it softens the edges, makes others easier to manipulate, and easier to draw close before we sink the blade.
And those who don't learn to use it that way, the ones who wear their kindness openly, with trembling hands and fragile hope, they're the first to be broken.
Every time. This world doesn't protect soft hearts. It hunts them.
Tracks them down with cold precision, strips them bare, and drags them through the dirt until there's nothing left but scars.
No matter how sincere someone begins, this world forces a choice: become a monster… or be forgotten.
It does not allow for anything in between.
People like to call those who chase death brave. They say surrender takes courage, that letting go is a noble end. But it's not.
It's dressed-up cowardice. Escapism disguised as poetry.
The truth is, they're running. Hiding behind metaphors because it's easier than facing the ugliness head-on. Death doesn't redeem. It just erases.
And those who smile? Who gives, who loves, who opens their arms like the world hasn't already torn them apart? Don't mistake them for saints.
They give so they'll be needed. They love so someone will love them back.
They smile not out of joy, but because it hides the rot chewing through them from the inside.
Kindness, in its rawest form, is always transactional. Always stained.
Even the ones who stand on the edge of despair, reaching back to pull others from the brink, don't do it for the other person.
They do it because in that struggling face, they see a reflection.
And if they can save that version of themselves, maybe, just maybe, there's still hope for the person they've become.
There is no such thing as a selfless act. No purity without compromise.
No compassion without a trace of blood on the hands. Innocence is a fairy tale told to children and fools.
The only ones who ever truly have it are the newborn, the blind, screaming creatures who haven't yet tasted the bile of the world.
And even they are marked before they take their first breath.
Claimed by history. Stained by the expectations carved into their blood.
The moment they enter this place, they are owned by it.
This world doesn't forgive the pure. It devours them.
So no. No one deserves the mercy of life. And none have earned the freedom of death.
That's why I don't kill.
I erase.
I unmake them, body, mind, and soul. I take everything they are and drag it into the void, until not even memory remains.
Until the universe forgets they ever existed. Until even grief has nothing to cling to.
I thought sacrificing myself would be enough. I poured everything I had into that final spell.
A construct meant to collapse every thread of his being. I tied my last will to its execution.
I believed… no one could survive it. But.
Through the furnace of hellfire, through rivers of cursed blood and screaming demons, his blade pierced through my chest.
It didn't shatter me instantly. It was slow. I felt the edge carve through each rib. I felt the steel bite into my heart.
His eyes met mine.
Blue. Not bright, but endless. Like the floor of an ocean that had never seen the sun.
"It was your desire to win that betrayed you, Madikai," he said like a calm ocean breeze.
"And it was my desire to continue… that saved me."
The world around us trembled. The timeless, formless void we had forged began to break apart.
Flames of pure blue surged outward, devouring the boundaries of our realm. This formless void began to shiver.
His blade pulled free, and I collapsed onto dirt that was suddenly real.
My eyes met the sky, and I saw it, his flame fading, his power extinguishing with each breath.
He fell beside me.
The bastard. He had burned through everything, bypassing my Regalia, overriding my laws.
And just to make sure we both survived, he dragged us back to reality. He didn't just survive, he saved me, too.
I laughed, the sound wet with blood, as I lost hold of that terrible light.
***
[Two hours later.]
All my life, I've been untouchable. Fear was something I only ever glimpsed from afar, a distant memory I'd long outgrown.
Doubt? Even rarer. I carved my path without hesitation, without weakness.
But he made me feel both. He didn't just challenge me, he awakened something I thought buried beyond reach.
He is my equal. No… my rival.
I awoke to the scent of smoke and iron, heavy in the air.
Pain surged through me the moment I stirred, not a dull ache, but fire, pure and searing, crackling in every nerve.
My chest felt hollow and scorched, as if something vital had been carved out.
Yet I was alive.
Mana flowed into me in steady pulses, not from within, but from an external source.
Gentle waves, carefully measured. Hands moved across my skin, wiping away blood and sweat, anchoring me back to the world.
Above me hovered a girl. Her hair was short, coarse, and brown, framing a face lined with exhaustion.
Her skin, a pale shade of sand, bore bruises and scars that told stories I hadn't heard yet.
And her eyes, crimson and vivid, burned with determination… and fatigue.
She was trembling, but her palms pressed against my chest with unwavering rhythm, channeling mana with a precision that betrayed her exhaustion.
"Ah! Count Molotov, you're awake," she whispered. Her voice cracked slightly, but a tired smile tugged at her lips.
I blinked, trying to steady my thoughts. I wasn't on a battlefield. The ground didn't reek of blood and ash.
No screams. No swords. A carriage. Silence, swaying wood, and her. I must've drifted in and out of consciousness for some time.
I coughed, trying to raise my hand. Weak. My arm barely lifted before she caught my wrist and gently guided it back down.
"You shouldn't move," she murmured. "Your body's… well, barely holding together."
Despite her fatigue, her touch was careful. Not hesitant, precise. Either I had been reduced to a husk… or she was stronger than she appeared.
"Malachi…" I rasped, voice like gravel. "Where is that little bastard? I want a rematch."
She let out a short laugh and brushed her fingers through her hair. "Mutual retreat. We saved you. They saved him."
Her gaze shifted to the window, then returned to mine. "We're almost at your manor. Do you have any requests?"
A strange question. Unfitting. My mind was still hazy, swimming in memories of flame and steel, but her words reached through the fog.
Mutual retreat.
So he was wounded too. He bled, just like I did. He must have spent everything, his strength, his mind, his very soul, just to remain standing.
Then I didn't lose. Not entirely. Not this time.
I let out a faint chuckle. "None… Only your name."
She blinked, caught off guard by my words, then the surprise melted into a smile, gentler this time, brighter.
"Aubrey. My name is Aubrey."
A sweet name. Honest. It fit her.
Her power was faint now, but beneath it, I sensed something raw. Something sleeping. Like unshaped steel, waiting for a forge and a purpose.
"I'll be sure to cultivate you into a strong knight," I murmured.
She tilted her head, confused. "Huh?"
But I was already closing my eyes, the weight of exhaustion finally pulling me under.
And yet, for the first time in a very long while… I was at peace.
I was alive. And I didn't mind being saved. Not if it was by someone like her.