Back To Present Time, on Earth
Announcements in three languages echoed through the terminals of Tokyo Narita Airport. People rushed past with luggage and tired expressions, and the smell of coffee and convenience store food were everywhere.
Rimuru walked through arrivals with two carry-on bags, and he was drawing stares as usual. He'd gotten used to it over five years. Japan was more accepting of unusual appearances than most places, but he still stood out.
He pulled out his phone and started making calls.
"Hey. Yeah, I just landed." A pause. "No, the flight was fine. See you soon."
Another number. "Shizuku? I'm here. Heading out now."
One more. "Kaori, yeah, I got your text. I'll be there in a few hours."
Outside the passenger terminal, Rimuru was immediately hit by the cold air. Winter in Tokyo was crisp, clean, so he pulled his coat tighter and looked around.
A cherry-red Ferrari LaFerrari was next to a curb, looking wildly out of place among the taxis and shuttle buses. Tio leaned against it, arms crossed, wearing a designer coat and sunglasses despite the overcast sky.
She gave a polite smile when she saw him. "Welcome back, young master."
"Tio." Rimuru couldn't help but smile. "You didn't have to bring that."
"Of course I did. It's your last day." She pushed off the car and opened the passenger door. "We're doing this properly."
The drive north took hours. They didn't talk much at first—just the pleasant sound of a supercar's engine and the radio playing soft jazz. The cityscape gradually gave way to suburbs, then countryside, then mountains. Snow began to appear at this point, first in patches, then covering everything. By the time they reached Hokkaido, there was white everywhere.
The vacation house Rimuru owned was located on a hillside overlooking snow-covered mountain ranges. It was large, modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows. Warm light glowed from the inside.
Tio parked and they sat for a moment, looking at the house.
"They're all in there," she said quietly.
"I know."
"Young master." Her voice was careful. "Are you sure about this?"
"I've been sure for five years."
"I mean..." She gripped the steering wheel. "Once you leave, that's it. No coming back. No visiting. No... nothing."
"I know," he said again, gentler this time. "That's why we're doing this. One last time together."
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
They got out. The cold bit at exposed skin. Rimuru grabbed his bag and they walked to the door together, but it opened before they could knock.
"RIMURU!" Shea practically tackled him, her rabbit ears standing straight up with excitement. "You're here! Finally!"
"Careful!" Kaori pulled her back. "Let him breathe!"
Inside was warmth and noise and life. The gang from Tortus was there—Shizuku sitting by the fireplace with Ryutarou, Suzu helping in the kitchen, even Kouki standing near the window. He'd changed over the years. Quieter and more thoughtful now.
The arrogance of the conceited hero burned away by consequence.
Hajime's parents were there too, Sumire already fussing over whether Rimuru had eaten. Hajime sat on a couch with Yue curled against his side, and he nodded when Rimuru entered.
"About time," Hajime said.
"Traffic," Rimuru replied, and that got a few laughs.
The evening passed by quickly with so much food and chatter. They'd ordered enough for an army—pizza, sushi, fried chicken, desserts that covered an entire table. Someone turned on music while someone else broke out drinks.
It felt like any other party they'd had over the past five years. Movie nights, birthday parties. Random weekend meetups because someone was bored. They'd built something here, a very solid group of friends.
Rimuru found himself on the couch between Shizuku and Tio. Shizuku was showing him photos on her phone, laughing at some memory from two years ago.
"Remember this?" She held up a picture of Rimuru covered in paint. "When we tried to help Suzu redecorate?"
"I remember you were the one who knocked over the bucket," Rimuru said. "Don't think I forgot."
"What are you talking about? That was Shea."
"It was definitely you."
They argued like siblings. It was easy and comfortable, just as good friends should be. The confession from five years ago had been acknowledged and set aside, leaving just purely platonic bond behind.
Tio was quiet beside him. When he glanced over, her eyes were red.
"Tio?"
"I'm fine," she said quickly, wiping at her face. "Just... it's dusty in here."
"It's really not."
"Silence." But she leaned against his shoulder. "I'm going to miss you. So much."
"I'll miss you too."
"All those shopping trips. The drives. The random 3 AM phone calls when you couldn't sleep." Her voice cracked. "Who's going to tell me I'm being ridiculous when I overthink things?"
"You'll manage," Rimuru said softly. "You're strong, after all."
"I don't feel strong right now."
He didn't have an answer for that.
The night continued, melancholy gradually taking over everyone's minds. Someone suggested karaoke, another brought out board games. Rimuru gave everyone souvenirs and gifts from his overseas trip. They did normal things, happy things. But underneath it all was the sad thought that this was temporary.
That morning would come and change everything, and things will never be the same any more.
Around midnight, Rimuru stood up and cleared his throat. The room gradually quieted.
"So," he said, and was surprised by how steady his voice was. "I've been thinking about what to do with all the money I made over the past five years."
That got some chuckles. Rimuru had done well for himself—investments, some consulting work, other stuff that came from having literally superhuman intelligence at his disposal. He could easily have unlimited money in the modern world as long as he had Raphael.
"And I've decided," he continued, "to split it evenly among everyone here."
Silence. Then—
"WHAT?!"
"Rimuru, that's—"
"You can't be serious—"
He held up a hand and they quieted again. His expression had changed, and the smile was gone.
"Some of you probably wondered," he said quietly, "but yeah. This trip of mine is one-way. Even if I wanted to come back here, I can't. Because this isn't travel between worlds—it's travel through time. And time doesn't run in both directions."
Everyone else fell into a thoughtful state as they pondered over his words.
"Our memories will stay with us forever, though, so that's a good thing, isn't it?" Rimuru continued with a small smile. "The past five years—everything we've done, everyone we've become—that's real and permanent. But this is the last time we'll see each other. After tonight, after tomorrow morning..." He paused. "We're done. And I need you all to understand that."
Kaori was crying. Suzu too. Even Ryutarou had turned away, shoulders shaking. Shizuku stood up and walked over to him. She didn't say anything, just pulled him into a hug that was fierce and desperate. He hugged her back.
"You better—" she whispered while fighting back tears. "—make sure you're happy."
"I will."
"And don't forget us."
"Never."
Others joined the hug. Shea. Kaori. Suzu. It became a pile of bodies and tears and whispered goodbyes. Even Kouki approached, offering a handshake that Rimuru accepted.
"Thank you," Kouki said simply. "For always giving me a chance."
"You didn't give up on yourself. I'll take that as your thanks."
Hajime stayed seated, but when Rimuru looked at him, he nodded. Yue waved sleepily, and it was somehow enough for the vampire.
Tio was sobbing openly now, not even trying to hide it. "This isn't fair," she said. "Five years isn't enough. It's not—it's not nearly enough—"
"I know." Rimuru held her while she cried. "But it's what we have."
They stayed like that for a long time.
Eventually, exhaustion settled upon most of them. People found couches, guest rooms, anywhere to sleep. The house grew quiet except for soft breathing and a time-to-time sniffle.
Rimuru stood by the window, looking out at the snow-covered mountains.
The moon was bright.
Everything glowed silver.
<
Give me a few more minutes.
<<...Understood.>>
He watched the mountains. Committed them to memory. Japan had been good to him. Earth had been good to him. These people had been... well, they were good.
But home was waiting, and more than anything, home needed him.
Dawn came gradually, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Rimuru had moved to the back deck—a raised platform that overlooked the valley below. The snow glittered in the early light here.
He heard rustle behind him. Turned to find everyone gathered—sleepy, red-eyed, but there. All of them together one last time.
"It's time, isn't it?" Shizuku asked.
"Yeah."
They didn't try to stop him. Didn't ask him to stay. They understood, even if it hurt. Rimuru stepped forward to the center of the deck. Turned to face them all.
<
He took a breath, let it out, and smiled—genuinely, warmly, trying to memorize every face.
"Thanks guys."
Everyone nodded.
Raphael. Do it.
<
Golden light began to form around him. It was warm, like sunset condensed into particles. They rose from the ground, from the air, from Rimuru himself, swirling in lazy spirals.
He opened his eyes one last time and looked at them all.
"Goodbye," he said.
"Goodbye," they echoed.
The golden motes intensified. Became clouds, became light so bright it hurt to look at directly. Rimuru's body began to fade, becoming translucent, transparent, more of an idea than real matter.
He was smiling. Even as he disappeared, he was smiling. And then, in a final cascade of golden dust that caught the morning light and scattered like snow, he was gone.
The deck was empty.
The silence was so complete, it hurt the ears.
Then Tio collapsed to her knees, sobbing. Shizuku sat down heavily, face in her hands. Kaori and Suzu held hands. Ryutarou turned away. Even Hajime's expression had cracked.
He was gone.
Rimuru Tempest—demon lord, mentor, friend, and above all, savior—had left their world.
And he was never coming back.
But somewhere, in a different world, at a different time, he was arriving exactly where he needed to be.
···—–—⚜—–—···
There was nothing.
Not darkness—darkness implied the absence of light, and there was no such absence here because there was no here to begin with. Just void. Endless, absolute, neither warm nor cold, neither silent nor loud.
Rimuru found himself at the bottom of a stairway.
The stairs rose before him, climbing upward endlessly into infinity. Each step was carved from something that might have been marble or might have been starlight or might have been literally anything else. They glowed without a source of light, white and pristine and impossibly far-reaching.
He looked up. The stairs went on forever. No peak. No destination visible. Just endless ascent into the void.
<
"The path of myself," Rimuru repeated softly. "That sounds unbelievably poetic for a time travel."
He understood, though. Time wasn't a line here—it was a spiral, a layered thing, every moment existing simultaneously in the infinite now. To travel through it, he had to travel through himself. Every version, every life lived and unlived.
He placed his foot on the first step.
And suddenly he was smaller. His hands—when he looked down—were the hands of a child. Not Rimuru's delicate fingers, but the pudgy, uncertain hands of Mikami Satoru at age seven. The hands that had once held his mother's hand crossing streets.
This was me, he thought, staring at them. This was real.
Memories flooded back to him. The taste of his mother's cooking. The sound of his father's laugh. The smell of rain on summer concrete. Childhood scraped knees and school uniforms and the terrifying joy of being small in a world that seemed so vast.
He took another step.
Thirteen years old now. Gangly limbs and a puberty voice that cracked at the worst moments. Mikami Satoru the teenager, between childhood and adulthood, understanding neither, desperate for both.
The memories were sharper here. First crushes that went nowhere, as well as friends who drifted away. The dawning realization that the world was bigger and crueler and more beautiful than anyone had prepared him for. Late nights studying, early mornings commuting. This was the slow, grinding process of becoming someone.
Another step.
Adult now. Salary man. Thirty-seven years of life compressed into skin that had started to sag, muscles that had softened, eyes that needed glasses sometimes. Mikami Satoru in his prime—which was to say, ordinary and unremarkable. Another face in the Tokyo crowds, another body in another apartment, living a life that was acceptable and expected and achingly, devastatingly normal.
Another step.
Pain exploded through his chest—the memory of the knife, the blood, the pavement cold against his back.
Another step, and he was nothing.
Just consciousness floating in absolute darkness.
Then—sensation and texture. The strange, alien awareness of being a slime. Just a body that was all body, fluid and adaptable and wrong in ways he couldn't articulate because he had no mouth to articulate with.
But I was still me, he realized, staring at the memory of his first new body. Even as something else, I was still fundamentally me.
Another step. The slime grew and changed. It became something more, was even named by a dragon, transformed by friendship, and given purpose by chance and choice in equal measure.
Step.
His human form finally appeared again—small, androgynous, with blue hair and golden eyes. Rimuru Tempest in his recognizable appearance, but younger. The demon lord before he truly understood what that title meant.
Step.
The Rimuru who had fought and who had built a nation from nothing and protected it.
Step.
Even further. The Rimuru who had been thrown to Tortus. Who had fought false gods and monsters. Who had spent five years on Earth.
Each step was a life. Each stair was different. He was climbing through himself, every version existing all at the same time in this space between moments.
The stairs seemed endless, but he kept climbing. One foot in front of the other. Because at the top—at the very peak of this impossible ascent—home was waiting.
His body continued to change with each step. The Rimuru at the base of the stairs was not the Rimuru climbing now. And the Rimuru climbing now would not be the Rimuru who arrived.
Because to travel through time was to travel through change. And to arrive intact meant accepting every version of yourself that had ever been or ever would be.
Step.
Step.
Step.
The light began as a whisper. Just the faintest brightening at the edges of his vision. Then brighter. No longer white but gold, radiant and warm and impossibly welcoming.
He looked up. The peak was visible now—not far, just a dozen more steps. At the top, the golden light swirled like clouds, like the promise of home made manifest.
Rimuru stood at the second-to-last stair, staring up at the light, and finally took the final step.
The golden light exploded around him. It was every sunset he'd ever seen and every sunrise yet to come. It was everything, and it was pulling him home.
The void shattered like glass. Cause and effect rewrote itself around his existence as he forced his way back into a moment that had already happened, changing it by the simple act of being there.
Light.
Blinding.
Absolute.
And then—
Sensation.
Rimuru opened his eyes.
And he was home.
.
.
.
The End.