After the recent murder, sleep became something none of us could afford — not even in small doses. No, none of us slept. Sleep is wonderful, of course, especially in a good bed, but right now it felt almost… criminal against common sense. We sat in the living room, divided into groups like islands in an archipelago of distrust.
Cheryl announced that Gerudo's body would be buried at first light. No one objected. No one even argued much — strange how death can temporarily balance even the most contentious among us.
Morgana… she'd already pulled herself together. Or at least learned to pretend she had. Appearances are a skill, too. Her conversation with Aragi, like a drop of oil in water, had rippled through her inner world.
— Right now, Morgana and Cheryl are cleaning the kitchen. They've been there for an hour. It must be taking considerable effort.
The voice sounded casual. So mundane it was almost frightening in its normality. But…
— Given that the blood wasn't dry and the murder happened not long before we noticed, it shouldn't have taken them this long. I assume they're mourning his body or preparing it for burial.
— You're mistaken.
The word cut into the conversation like a shard of glass. It came from Aragi. He'd been in the kitchen the whole time. Not just present — helping. Not for gratitude. Just… helping. Like that. No explanations. No applause.
— Despite the murder's freshness, there was too much blood, scattered all over the kitchen. It was on the dishes, too. We had to clean every compartment. And we wrapped the body a while ago.
He said it so plainly. No drama. No inflection. Just stating facts. And of course, it couldn't go without commentary.
— It's great that you're jumping in to help, showing your true colors, but this doesn't concern us — participants in the great game with the cursed witch Ryujima.
Kamiki. His tone was like a glass filled with indifference, stirred with fine wine. He spoke lightly, as if nothing more troubling than a wine stain on a tablecloth had happened in the world. He kept drinking — carefree, refined, as if every sip condemned the others.
— You don't seem bothered by anything here. An hour ago, you turned everyone against Enua, and now you're casually drinking alcohol? What if *you* set this all up: the murder, the missing axe, everything?
— Ah-ha-ha… Relax, Aragi. I'm at ease because we already know who killed the cook, and he has nowhere left to run.
Laughter. Crystal-clear and dangerous, like a glass in a madman's hand.
— He couldn't prove his alibi, unlike me and the others. Why these theories about me? It's foolish to rely on words without clear proof.
— Everything has meaning, whether you have an alibi or not. Devil's claims can be built on anything.
Ah, there it was — the key word. Philosophy amid chaos. A diamond in the ashes.
— Oh? So you know about the Devil's Proof? Didn't expect that from you.
— What proof?
The question came from Yahweh, who'd been standing aside with Hov like two commas in a sentence no one finished reading.
— The Devil's Proof is just a concept for arguing about the possible and the actual.
A pause. Thin as a blade. Then:
— I'll give you an example. Imagine a locked box. Suppose something's alive inside: a cat, a dog, a snake, doesn't matter.
And no, this isn't that Schrödinger's cat paradox. This is worse. Philosophy turned inside out.
— You're sure there's something alive inside; someone else insists there isn't. You both heard rustling, saw the box move. But then—silence. Emptiness. Static.
— The other claims nothing was ever in the box. What you heard was an illusion. A trick. The Devil whispered to you, and you believed. That's the Devil's Proof.
An illusion presented as reality can convince more than reality itself. And when the Devil argues, he doesn't argue for truth — he argues for *you*. To make you believe truth doesn't exist at all.
— I see… but what's the point here?
— Aragi found a reason to bring this up out of nowhere, suggesting I could be involved in the murder. But alas, no matter how much you want it… you have no proof!
Words sharp as needles. But Aragi didn't flinch.
— I meant something entirely different, but you weren't listening anyway…
— Listen, Yahweh, I understand your grudge against your former enemy. You devoted your life to defeating Enua, betrayed your own ideals, so you agreed with everything Kamiki said, pointing at Enua as the killer.
Aragi's voice wasn't accusatory. No. It was… a voice of evasive hope. A broken umbrella of logic in the rain of suspicion.
— But I refuse to accept it. None of you even considered the witch might be the killer!
Words like sharp pebbles underfoot. Not painful — until you step on them. And by then, it's too late.
— No, you're wrong, Aragi. She was the first thing I thought of, like everyone else. Yes, she's part of this game as both observer and killer, but she never specified the servants as participants!
Yahweh's speech sounded like a prosecutor's monologue, delivered knowing the verdict in advance.
— Why kill someone who wasn't even part of the game's rules? It only benefits us, eliminating competition.
Rules. Murder. Competition. All logical. Logical like a badly written script: everything fits — yet you still don't believe it.
— Remember the rules: only one gets an answer to any question, only one can win!
— And you actually believe that nonsense? That she wouldn't kill someone outside the participant list just because of rules?! How stupid…
Stupid. But stupid doesn't mean untrue. Truth can be stupid. And stupidity can be truth. That's… the damned duality of reason.
— Everything has meaning… Those are your words, Aragi. Let's agree to disagree. We'll find out soon enough if we work together.
Aragi stayed silent. A pause. Then:
— You're the only one who disagrees Enua killed Gerudo, and you have no proof of his innocence. We can't blindly trust you.
**Damn.** A switch flipped inside him. Not from anger. From helplessness.
*Damn! What do I have to do to make them believe me…
I could really use your help right now…
Tsubasa.*
The night, as if hearing his inner monologue, finally dissolved.
**The Next Morning.**
The rain was gone. As if it had never been. The clouds parted, and light crept into the mansion's rooms with foolish optimism.
Ironic. After a funeral — a ray of sunshine.
Alarms. All rang at once. Like some sick joke waking them for a rehearsal of normal life.
— Aragi, seems you sleep through alarms just fine.
— Get up. Weren't you the one who promised to help that girl first, holding her hands?
A provocation. And of course, it worked. The boy jolted up as if someone had slid a piano under him.
— You saw that?! And she said someone might see us and misunderstand…
— Ah-hah…
— Sorry, I just passed by and saw you two talking on the steps. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone.
— Hey, just so we're clear, there's nothing like that between us, don't get the wrong idea…
— Relax, I get it. But you *did* promise to help them first.
— What time is it?
— Seven in the morning, — Enua answered.
— Got it. I'll wash up quick. Where are the others?
— I just woke up myself, and I'm not eager to face them. You know how it is. I refuse to talk to any of them from now on.
— Right… I'll find a way to prove your innocence.
— Just go.
The others were already in the living room. Cheryl was with them. It looked like a theater scene where no one knew the play.
On his way out, Aragi ran into Morgana.
— Good morning, Mr. Aragi… Did you sleep well?
— Morning, Morgana. No complaints. Give me a chance to sleep, and I'll take it anywhere.
— We agreed you'd drop the formalities with me.
— Sorry, I'm trying, but it's not easy. We were taught since childhood to address all guests respectfully.
— It's fine. Are the others waiting in the living room?
— Yes. We were just waiting for your group. But I assume Mr. Enua won't be joining…
— Sorry. He's in a tough spot. They're all against him. I'll prove his innocence. I'm certain he's not the killer.
— I believe you. Of all the participants, you've never seemed like…
She trailed off. As if choosing between sincerity and sense. She chose the former.
— I don't know what it is, but I feel… kindness from you.
— And if you believe in your friend's innocence, I'll support you too!
Her resolve wasn't feigned. It was… dangerous. Because when a servant starts believing more than their master — it changes the game's rules.
*Thank you…
Now I'm more sure than ever I'll succeed.*
The funeral.
A cold wind, mud underfoot. A splash of flowers in the garden, oddly vibrant against death.
— Didn't expect a place like this here.
— Apparently, it was all made for the witch. The island's first owner was head over heels for her.
— No surprise there. Girls love gardens.
— *Ahem.* Yahweh, don't act like you know women's tastes. Don't recall you being an expert.
— Hey, just because I spent my life hunting gods doesn't mean I had no other interests!
— We're at a funeral, stop arguing!
— Cheryl, your arms are too thin for this. Let us handle it.
Yahweh and Hov took the shovels. Twenty minutes later, the hole was ready. Three meters deep. Cold, silent, final.
— That should suffice, given his height of 4.2 cubits.
*Strange feeling. I've never attended a funeral before. Maybe that's why I feel nothing.
Even if I didn't know him — he was an innocent man. I should feel regret… I guess.
But I didn't. The whole time, I watched Morgana.
She… clutched a handkerchief, fighting tears. And I realized: I only regret this for her.
We're here for appearances. Nothing more. None of us feel anything real.
When someone close to an acquaintance dies, you don't mourn the dead. You mourn the living.
You pity not the death — but the life left behind.*
— We're done. Makes you appreciate strength when you're stuck doing manual labor.
— Yeah, I'm exhausted. Let's head back before we catch a cold.
They left. Only Morgana and Cheryl remained. Aragi was about to go too… but he looked up.
*That's… the witch Ryujima. Mariana!*
On the second floor, behind the window, she stood smiling. A glass in her hand. Indifference in her eyes.
*I need to check that room.*
He ran upstairs. Stopped at a massive door.
*This door is too big. Like it's hiding more than a room. A whole meaning.*
He reached for the handle… Locked.
*Damn. Of course. But you won't hide, Ryujima.*
— Mr. Aragi, did you forget something?
He startled. Morgana. She'd returned.
— You scared me. Don't sneak up like that…
— Sorry, I called you a few times before coming up. But you were just staring at the door.
*Was I really that fixated…*
— So what are you doing here?
— Just… wanted to check the second floor. What's behind this door?
— The library. It holds all the books — even magical ones. Some contain power beyond words.
— The first owner had… an obsession. Collected thousands. But it's been locked for years. Even we can't enter.
— So you don't have a key either…
— Nope. Only Gerudo-sama did. But we don't know where he kept it.
*Like a knife to the heart.*
— I see. Then no point staying.
— The others are waiting in the living room. They seem to have something important to discuss.
*Probably about Enua.
I need to prove his innocence fast.
Or else…*
Aragi won't give up.
Not for victory. Not for the game. Not for the witch.
He's doing this for a comrade.
Because sometimes, even in a survival game,
the most important thing is not to lose yourself.