Chapter Text
The hill was quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves overhead and the distant murmur of a kingdom at peace.
Subaru lay with his head cradled in her lap, eyes half-closed, gazing down at the sprawling lands of Lugunica stretched out beneath them. The capital’s spires glinted in the late afternoon sun, banners of all five royal crests flying side by side above the walls. Fields of gold and green rolled outward in every direction, dotted with villages whose chimneys rose in lazy curls of smoke. Roads bustled with merchants and travelers, no longer shadowed by dragon or cultist or witch. It was a world remade—prosperous, united, alive.
His hair had gone gray at the temples, streaks of silver threading through the black like frost on dark soil. Time had finally caught him, not in tragedy, but in the slow, gentle way it catches those who are allowed to grow old.
Satella knelt in the grass, her long silver hair spilling over one shoulder, catching the dappled light filtering through the ancient tree that shaded them. Her fingers moved slowly, tenderly, combing through his hair in a rhythm older than words.
Subaru’s voice came low, almost a whisper, as though speaking any louder might shatter the moment.
“…Is it done?” he asked. “Have I… finally reached it? The ending I kept chasing?”
Her hand stilled for a heartbeat, then resumed its gentle path.
“Yes,” Satella answered, soft as the wind through the branches. “You’ve done it, Subaru. The world you fought for. It’s here. It’s real. You can rest now. You’ve earned your happily ever after.”
A faint, tired smile tugged at his lips. His eyes glistened, not with tears of sorrow, but with something quieter—relief, perhaps, or gratitude too deep for louder expression.
He turned his face slightly toward her, breathing in the faint scent of earth and eternity that always clung to her.
“Thank you… Satella,” he murmured. “For finally letting me die.”
She leaned down, silver hair curtaining around them both, and pressed her forehead gently to his.
“My beloved,” she whispered, voice trembling with a love that had waited centuries to be spoken aloud.
Beneath the shade of the old tree, on a hill overlooking a kingdom reborn, Natsuki Subaru closed his eyes for the last time—peaceful, fulfilled, and no longer alone.
Subaru’s eyes snapped open to the clamor of an unfamiliar street. Vendors shouting, the creak of cart wheels, the scent of fresh apples and roasting meat. The same alley mouth. The same afternoon sunlight slanting between the rooftops. The same moment he had first stumbled into this world, phone in his pocket, and a bag full of things he doesn't even remember anymore. Heart racing with the thrill of the impossible.
He stared at his hands. Young hands. No scars from a lifetime of battles, no faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Black hair, unthreaded by silver.
And then the laughter came—sharp, ragged, unstoppable. It tore out of him in great heaving bursts that bent him double, hands on his knees, tears streaking his cheeks. People stopped to stare. A few children pointed. Somewhere in the crowd, a voice muttered about madmen.
He laughed until his ribs hurt, until the sound turned hollow and cracked, because he understood.
Back to zero again.
The save point that would not let him go.
A broad-shouldered man in fine but rugged clothes approached cautiously, red hair ruffled up, face lined with the weight of years and drink. Heinkel Astrea cleared his throat.
“Brat, are you all right? Do you need help?”
Subaru straightened, wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand, and turned a wide, manic grin on the former Knight of Knights.
“Fine and dandy, drunk pops,” he said, voice bright and brittle. He raised both hands, index fingers pointed like pistols, and fired imaginary shots—pew pew—complete with a wink.
Heinkel blinked, took a half-step back, clearly unsure whether the boy was dangerous or simply insane. Subaru didn’t wait for a response. He spun on his heel and walked away, deeper into the twisting side streets, until the crowd’s noise faded behind him.
Only then did his legs give out.
He staggered into a narrow alley, shadowed and stinking of refuse, and slammed his fist into the nearest brick wall. Once. Twice. The skin over his knuckles split; warm blood trickled between his fingers. The pain was distant, almost welcome.
“Why?” he asked the empty air, voice raw. “Why couldn’t you just let me die? I did it. I fixed everything. Everyone was happy. I got old. I died satisfied, for fuck sake.”
He pressed his forehead to the cool stone, breath hitching.
“I reached the ending. I earned it. So why… why send me back here all over again?”
No answer came. Only the slow drip of blood onto the cobblestones.
He stood there for a long time, too furious to move, too exhausted to think. His mind was a blank, roaring static.
Soft footsteps approached from behind—light, measured, unhurried.
“Are you okay?”
The name was spoken with faint curiosity rather than recognition. Subaru didn’t turn. He knew that voice. Ram, the short pink hair tied twin of Rem, the Oni god, standing at the mouth of the alley with arms folded.
She tilted her head, red eyes taking in the bloodied hand, the slumped shoulders, the trembling frame. Above Subaru’s head, tiny motes of light drifted lazily—spirits, drawn to the scent of despair and death that clung to him like perfume. They swirled in gentle spirals, brushing against his hair, his cheeks, as though trying to offer comfort he no longer wanted.
Ram’s gaze flicked to them, then back to him.
“You’re hurt,” she said simply. “And you look like someone who has lost everything and been told to start over anyway.”
Subaru exhaled—a long, weary sound that seemed to come from the bottom of his soul. He didn’t shoo the spirits away. He didn’t have the strength to do anything at all.
Ram stepped closer, undaunted by the blood or the silence.
“I don’t know who you are,” she continued, voice calm, almost gentle, “and you clearly don’t want company. But if you’re going to stand here bleeding on the stones like a fool, at least let Ram bind that hand before you pass out and become someone else’s problem.”
She waited, patient as morning mist.
Subaru finally lifted his head, eyes dull and ancient in a boy’s face.
“Yeah,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Sure. Why not.”
Ram unfolded a clean handkerchief from her sleeve and stepped closer, reaching for Subaru’s bleeding hand without asking permission.
“Who are you?” she began, voice crisp yet sisterly. “What’s your name?”
Subaru rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. “Natsuki Subaru, professional world-saver and part-time punching bag. Nice to meet you, stranger I’ve totally never met before.”
Ram’s eyebrow twitched. She pressed on. “Where are you from? You’re clearly not from around here.”
“Far away,” he drawled, sarcasm dripping. “Very far. Another world, actually. Long story short, it involves a Yandere girl and poor life choices.”
“Why were you punching a wall like an idiot?”
“Because the wall looked at me funny,” he answered, deadpan. “Also, existential despair. You know, the usual charade."
“And those spirits hovering around you like lost children—what did you do to attract them?”
Subaru glanced up at the gentle swarm of lights still drifting above his head, then shrugged. “I die a lot. They must think I’m a buffet with all emotional trauma.”
Ram’s patience snapped like a dry twig. Her hand cracked across his cheek—sharp, precise, the kind of slap that stings more in pride than in skin.
“Fine,” she hissed, stepping back and folding her arms. “Bleed out in your alley for all Ram cares. She has better things to do than play nursemaid to sarcastic halfwits.”
Subaru froze for half a heartbeat, cheek burning. Then the laughter started—low at first, then rising into something jagged and uncontrollable. He clutched his stomach, shoulders shaking, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes again.
Ram stared, unease creeping into her expression. “What is so funny?”
The laughter tapered off into breathless chuckles. Subaru straightened, wiped his mouth with the back of his good hand, and looked her dead in the eye.
“Sorry, Ram,” he said, voice suddenly quiet, familiar, fond in a way that made her skin prickle. “Old habits died very hard.”
Her eyes widened. “How do you know my—”
“Emilia’s at the loot house,” he cut in, already backing away down the alley. “Better hurry if you want to make it in time for the badge and the gutting.”
He flashed a crooked, exhausted grin—something heartbreakingly gentle in it—then turned and bolted, tracksuit flapping as he vanished around the corner.
Ram stood alone in the sudden silence, handkerchief still dangling from her fingers, spirits swirling confusedly in the air where he had been.
“…What in the world was that?” she muttered to no one.