Outside the manor, the gathered dark clouds had turned into a downpour.
A familiar downpour. I don't even care about getting rained on anymore.
I pass the carriage and cut across the garden.
Iris, her whole body soaked with rain just like mine, runs up urgently and stands in front of me with both arms spread wide.
"A-Ain…."
"Sorry, Iris. I couldn't hold back."
I look at the eyes set upon a face filled with things that could be rain or tears—I can't tell which.
They're the same eyes as mine, but the expression is different.
Iris's eyes are wavering.
"B-Big Sis will… g-give you one more chance…."
"You know it's over. Everything's finished. This is goodbye."
"N-no…. I-if I tell Mother…."
"You'll just receive even harsher contempt. You can stop now. You've worked hard, all this time."
Iris's arms slowly lower and her shoulders begin to shake.
Fortunately, her crying is drowned out by the sound of the rain.
Before I know it, she's approached me, pressing her trembling shoulders against mine.
"I'm sorry. Ain…. I…. I don't have any power in the family…. Big Sis is sorry…."
I hear words I've heard before.
Now those words and what should follow—the sight of her staggering away with her back turned toward the manor—no longer feel resentful.
The awareness that it's okay to be abandoned becomes a greater strength than I thought.
But contrary to my expectations, Iris's hands don't leave me.
Even this distance, close enough for our shoulders to touch, feels unfamiliar.
Her hands, colder than the rain, wrap around my back—something I never experienced in my previous life.
"A-Ain…. F-from now on too… Big Sis… you can tell me if you need anything…."
"It's okay. It's about time I became independent anyway."
"B-Big Sis will never give up… so…."
"Iris."
"N-no…. Don't call me that…. Please…."
"Thank you. Take care."
I lower Iris's arms that were draped on me—arms that, unlike in my previous life, I don't know when they'll leave me.
I pass her and walk back the way I came by carriage, on foot.
To my home where Mace is. To my home that will now be brighter than a tomb.
It's a long way and the alcohol has long since worn off, but it doesn't matter.
For once, I don't even feel like smoking.
*Fuck, but what am I going to eat and live on?*
I forcibly hide the worry that suddenly comes.
I won't starve to death. I can live by eating ration bread if I have to.
Money—sure, it'd be nice to have.
But I already know what I really need.
If I can live with Mace, watching that smile.
If I can live with the first thing I discovered by my own will in this world.
Any place will become somewhere I can breathe.
Ah, maybe it'd be nice to go to that Rose Festival Mace was so looking forward to together.
With this much rain, the flowers will surely be in full bloom.
I can't buy rose perfume, but just walking together would be incredibly enjoyable.
Even walking the path I used to walk with Giselle, my thoughts aren't filled with her.
I no longer have to suffer when I see the old tree by the Messiah River.
My steps gradually quicken into a run.
I pick up speed, stepping through muddy water, puddles, and grass grown up to my ankles.
Even the flowing sweat feels good.
The prosthetic arm that touches my body as it dangles, broken, doesn't bother me either.
With breath that won't sink, holding a heart that won't sink, I finally arrive home.
Seeing the mud scattered messily in front of the door, it seems Mace went out without listening to my concerns at all.
That carelessness melts my heart softly once again.
So the fatigue on my face from running the long distance won't show, I open the door with as cheerful an appearance as possible.
*Creeeak*
The sound of the door opening now definitely sounds lively.
No longer lonely.
To Mace, who's unusually lying in bed sleeping, I offer a greeting she'd probably like.
"Wifey, your husband's home."
Mace doesn't respond. She must have fallen into a deep sleep.
On the drawer beside the bed, I notice a labeled bottle.
A shape I've never seen at home. When I approach, translucent liquid sloshes around, half-remaining.
"What's this, did you drink alcohol by yourself?"
Maybe she was struggling more than she let on, deliberately hiding it from me.
Well, she left her hometown and got kicked out of the place she came to.
Actually, it might be worse than what I went through.
Still, just as she healed mine, I can be confident I'll do the same for her.
No more relying on things like alcohol and cigarettes…. Well, I should start by gradually cutting back.
I put down the bottle and turn my gaze to the bed.
The sight of Mace—breathing raggedly like a sick person, her face paler than even Giselle's, her eyes not just closed but clearly unable to open, twitching—shakes my heated heart.
"Mace?"
No answer. Her lips don't even twitch.
It doesn't seem to be because of the rain outside.
Even when I bring my face close to Mace's, it's the same.
…My arm is trembling.
I search through my memories, trying to remember where I've seen this familiar trembling before.
A certain strong fragrance, stronger than the smell of alcohol, resembling the scent of tropical fruit, brushes past my nose.
That fragrance coming from Mace's mouth.
The fragrance of something I vowed never to do again, not just in this life but in any life after.
I grab the bottle on the table and shove my nose into the opening.
My heart now holds only coldness, not heat.
I sit down beneath the bed, staring at the bottle that was clearly emptied of its original contents and filled with something new.
It's a drug. This is.
.
.
.
'Ice' and 'Flame.'
Two drugs currently enjoying great popularity in the Empire's back alleys.
'Flame' is fine.
In tobacco form, it's not addictive, and I heard it's even used medically for its calming and pain-relieving effects.
The problem is 'Ice.'
What I touched in my previous life.
Traded in liquid form, what Mace swallowed, what's in this bottle.
The drug that sticks viscously to the nerves completely transforms the entire body.
Every stimulus experienced in life gets pickled in the drug, and senses including taste become faint.
Once you touch it, that's the end.
There was even a rumor that a famous bard from a traveling troupe got addicted and committed suicide by sticking his finger in his mouth and shooting magic, leaving only these words as his suicide note:
*'God, please help me. I earnestly pray that I can escape from Ice.'*
Thanks to its cheap price that doesn't follow market rates, accessibility is of course—fuck, as good as it gets.
Ah, the smell too—fuck, I almost forgot.
Because of its sweet fragrance like exotic fruit, didn't some kid who didn't know any better eat it and die foaming at the mouth?
What they're constantly doing under that bridge Mace visited every other day is 'Ice.'
The original method of consumption is putting it in a syringe and sticking it in your body.
And our Mace, it seems, drank about half of what was in something that looks like an ordinary liquor bottle, probably mistaking it for alcohol.
…My thoughts turn to those fucking beggar bastards under the bridge.
And how Mace would eagerly shove into her mouth whatever they gave her as thanks, no matter what it was.
I approach my sword standing on the shelf.
I don't care if it takes days.
Whether it's the drug dealer, the lackeys holding the fort, the beggar king, or the hundreds of defeated soldier bastards sitting like maggots in their den.
I'll just kill them all until I find the one.
I absolutely promise.
Whoever the fuck it is, I'll chop them up so finely their fragments can't be found.
Whether they handed it over thinking it was goodwill, or did it with malice, determined to turn Mace into an addict—I don't give a shit and I'm not interested.
Finding that fucking bastard and killing them will be the end of this fucking life.
"………Ain."
"……."
If only I hadn't heard those words coming through the barely opened narrow gap.
My footsteps would never have stopped.
I sit on the edge of the bed beside Mace and look down at her face.
"…That's why I told you not to pick up and drink just anything."
Maybe, no. It's definitely my fault.
If only I hadn't taught Mace to drink, she wouldn't have gulped it down just because it was in a bottle like that.
My hobby that's of no help to anyone—it's my fault for recommending it to Mace.
What must be going on inside Mace's head right now?
She's a clergy member, after all.
A clergy member who lives with a wall built against immediate rewards.
By now, what form has that small head wrapped in barley-colored hair been transformed into by 'Ice'?
Is there even a way to treat drug addiction in this world, something difficult to cure even in modern times?
There are no hospitals specializing in addicts, and no way to receive systematic support like in modern times.
At best, it's off to a detention center.
And that much quantity.
She'll probably vomit and die on her own in half a day.
Even if she survives by heavenly luck, she'll end up in a worse state than me, living a miserable life unable to feel any pleasure except 'Ice' for the rest of her days.
No one in this world has a way to restore Mace.
Except me.
If I die, everything gets reset.
Along with Mace's memories.
It'll be cleanly resolved.
I carefully move Mace's head to the side.
I pull out the pillow from under her head and hold it in my hand.
So that she, who might be left behind, won't suffer.
There will be no resistance.
No need to press down with force.
I just need to place the pillow over that face where the smile has disappeared and stay until the rising and falling of her chest stops.
I see the shadow cast on her face by the pillow I've lifted.
I hear her breathing that burrows into my ears, unable to be drowned out even by the sound of rain.
The rotten plank in the ceiling must have finally fallen off.
Unless the rain falling outside is leaking in, there's no reason for the pillow to get wet drop by drop.
I told you. This place has already dried up.
Only I can stop her suffering.
Only I can let her end her life in a better state.
It's a necessary action for rational reasons.
If Mace is left behind, there's not even the slightest possibility of improvement.
But fuck, why exactly. Why.
Why does this hand just tremble like an idiot and not go down?
Why can't it close the distance of less than a span toward her face?
"I'm sorry, Mace. I, I just can't do it."
Why did I throw the pillow on the floor and end up embracing her thin body that might break?
"I absolutely can't. I can't. I can't."
Why am I pouring my tears, worse than sewage, onto her face again?
"Please forgive me. Please. It was my sin. I shouldn't have hoped again."
Why am I speaking to her who doesn't answer, wanting something to return?
【 Reach a Happy Ending 】
When I pull my face away from her, I see the notification window floating before my eyes.
I understand now, everything.
I understand it all now.
I'm sorry for insulting your work. It's all my fault.
If my rotten aesthetic sense offended you, I'll apologize a hundred, a thousand times.
I'll kneel and beg.
If that's not enough, I'll gladly accept whatever punishment you give.
This place where germs and jewels are revered, and the tears of a saint praising a god probably named after you are neglected—this is the era you want and the world you want, isn't it?
I'll acknowledge it. I'll acknowledge this world and gladly kiss the ground.
It doesn't matter if you take away everything I've lost so far once more, leaving not a trace.
If my soul that Giselle tore exists, you can spit on it, pour oil on it, and burn it—I don't care at all.
Please just do something about Mace.
She's not even a supporting character. She'd be an extra at most.
There's no fucking plausibility or anything anyway.
Even if she doesn't die, this world will roll on just fine, won't it?
To you, her suffering as a mere insignificant creature isn't that important either, is it?
【 Reach a Happy Ending 】
But the Creator only silently pushes my back.
I enter the bathroom and pull out a piece of broken mirror with my mouth.
The shard digs into my lips, and the blood I shed dirties the floor.
With the mirror still in my mouth, I examine my remaining hand.
Where was the vein? Found it.
Like kissing, I stab it several times and tear open the wound.
With my hand holding the mirror trembling, I grab the bottle and pour 'Ice' toward the exposed vein.
Without leaving a single drop. So I won't feel any pain.
This feeling, like crushing dry ice into my blood vessels.
My consciousness becoming hazy regardless of my will.
Maybe this is the happy ending.
Well, of course it is—I'm putting something like a lover into my body to share, leaning my body against her while ending my life.
No supreme love in any novel could be more romantic than this.
I can no longer hear Mace's breathing or the sound of rain outside.
My eyelids are heavy as if nailed down.
As I close my eyes, I'm certain.
This time, I've definitely reached that great Happy Ending.
.
.
.
【 Bad Ending: Cripple and Moron 】
Look at that fucking tone. Fucking bastard.
When I get out of here, this time I'll plaster the comment section with hate comments.
Well, not that it'll happen.