Rachel stared at Soneta, her breathing not yet fully steady.
Around them, the garden was silent. Only the faint, delicate clinking of the porcelain cup touched by Soneta's fingers could be heard, as if providing a backdrop to the storm raging within Rachel's heart. The light from the artificial sun—so deceptively real—shone on her pale face, revealing the pallor that remained after the emotional explosion that had just torn down her inner defenses.
Flashes of memory struck her consciousness mercilessly, like thunder splitting the night, forcing those memories out of the dark closet where she had suppressed them for years. Memories of her brother's smile, of the gentle voice that had always protected her, of the warmth of a hand she could no longer hold—all rushed back at once. Suddenly, time stood still.
It wasn't just trauma. It was a deep wound, like an abyss in the center of her chest that couldn't be filled with time or consolation.
She remembered that day—the day she considered an unforgivable sin. The day when, with childish insistence, she had forced her way into a war she didn't understand. The day her brother's body became the final shield separating her from death.
Now it all returned, as if the world was rewinding the tape of her life and forcing her to watch it from the beginning, with sharper, more painful clarity.
Rachel's body nearly collapsed. Every nerve seemed to lose function. If it weren't for the chair and table in front of her supporting her, she might have fallen, shattered on the floor like pieces of glass that could never be put back together.
Soneta, sitting gracefully across from her, slowly set down her teacup. Her movements were elegant, as if undisturbed by anything.
Then she stood.
Her steps were light, almost soundless against the garden grass, as if the grass itself was afraid to make a noise. She stood beside Rachel, her wavy white hair falling like a soft curtain over the cloth covering her eyes. Then her voice came—soft, yet like a hammer striking the soul.
"I can bring your brother back."
Rachel turned quickly, her gaze sharp—not with strength, but with hope disguised as fear.
Yet after enduring so much torment, Rachel couldn't trust her so easily.
"Don't speak nonsense to me," she said, her voice trembling, half from hope, half from pain.
Soneta only smiled—not a gentle smile, but the smile of someone who knew they held the strings of another's destiny.
"That depends on you," she replied. "I told you before, didn't I? Your brother healed you through the law of equivalent exchange."
"How?" Rachel's voice was low, almost a whisper. But within it, there was a burning ember—a determination born from ruin.
"I know you would sacrifice your own life for him, wouldn't you? But unfortunately, your life is not equivalent to his."
In an instant, Rachel froze. Those words were like a knife rubbed with salt, stabbing her self-worth. Not because she believed her brother's life was more valuable—but because she knew, deep down, that it was true.
"Nonsense—every human life is equal," she said, but couldn't finish the sentence.
Soneta chuckled. That small laugh grew into a full one that filled the space.
"Hahaha! Equal? If every human life is equal, where is the justice in that? Is the life of someone who saves hundreds equal to the life of a coward? Is the value of someone who failed to save anyone the same as those who died standing on the battlefield? Is the life of someone who always does good equal to that of criminals? Is the life of someone who can save many people equal to that of losers??"
She stared at Rachel, her eyes shining like a creature that had long lost its humanity.
"Stop lying to yourself. You know the answer, don't you? After all the regressions you've been through, after all the failures you've repeated—you know, Rachel. You are nobody."
Rachel fell silent, as if all sound had vanished from the world. Even the beating of her own heart was inaudible.
In one sentence, her self-worth was stripped away, dismantled until only bones remained. And what hurt most was that she couldn't refute it.
'Damn it,' she cursed inwardly. Her eyes burned, but no tears fell. Her heart was like glass shattered into a thousand points, almost unrecognizable in form.
Soneta sat back down, this time with an inhuman elegance.
"I was once human. But not anymore," she said softly.
"I am the result of imbalance. This world was not created to hold this much. Too many variables. Too many repetitions. Too many stories trying to occupy the same stage."
She lifted her teacup again, observing its slightly rippled surface as if something alive dwelled within it.
"Yet there is still one way," she continued, her eyes piercing Rachel with intensity. "One way to bring him back. But I ask you again, Rachel—are you willing?"
Rachel remained silent. There was doubt there. Yet beneath all the fear and ruin, a small voice within her still spoke—her brother's voice, the last voice she had heard, the voice that had urged her to be strong.
She recalled her brother's face in that final moment, the tears that fell from his eyes as his body began to fade under the red light.
"I'm sorry."
That single word was sharper than any sword, heavier than all the sins in the world.
Rachel took a deep breath, then slowly nodded.
"I am willing to do anything."
Instantly, the air in the garden changed. The light from the sun dimmed, as if cloudy skies had suddenly shrouded it. A thin wind moved from the edge of the garden, carrying foreign whispers that did not belong to this world.
Soneta smirked. Her face looked like an ancient god's mask that had just received an offering.
"An excellent choice," she said.
Soneta set down her teacup and clasped her hands together.
"As your partner, I will tell you the truth: all the regressions you experienced were merely simulations of the future created by me. Though they were not prophecies, they served as enough information for you about the powers of others. I even reduced the difficulty a little so you could get through them. Yet even after I did that, you still failed."
Her voice sounded disappointed in Rachel.
"Sorry," Rachel apologized, though insincerely.
"But never mind—that is in the past. Now, let us return to our main discussion."
Soneta slid a piece of paper toward Rachel.
"This is your first task. I hope you take it seriously, because it will determine your brother's life."
Soneta smirked again, as if everything had gone exactly according to plan.