Silence had returned to the council chamber.
Herohero had just logged out.
Momonga was alone.
The red glow in his hollow eye sockets pulsed faintly.
A soundless sigh.
His skeletal fingers tightened around the staff he used for support.
"…Well. Let's do this."
Instead of heading to the Throne Room like always, he turned on his heel.
He walked slowly, passing through Nazarick's immaculate hallways.
He went by the demonic statues and the richly carved doors.
No NPC appeared to stop him.
Nazarick was silent, frozen in the solemn vigil that precedes the end of the world.
Finally, he pushed open the heavy doors of the Coliseum.
A fake wind, generated by the dungeon's AI, made his black and purple robe billow.
The artificial sky above the Coliseum was his favorite creation: a nocturnal firmament filled with thousands of hand-made constellations, each one tied to a memory or a story forged with his comrades.
He stepped to the center of the arena, boots crunching in the sand.
He raised his head.
"…This will be the last time I see this sky."
The constellations shone on, unchanging.
Even though the servers would shut down in a few minutes.
He opened his menu one last time.
No one else was coming.
He closed the interface window.
Wish Upon a Star.
One of Yggdrasil's rarest wish-type spells.
Normally, it required an expensive catalyst and a very precise wish.
But today?
Everything was going to vanish.
Momonga raised his skeletal hand toward the sky.
The virtual stars seemed to pulse with light.
His deep voice echoed in the absolute silence:
"If there's any god left to hear…"
"…Give me another chance."
The wind turned colder.
Bluish magical particles rose from his body.
"In a world unsullied by industry and corruption."
"A place where I can grow in nature…"
"…and dive deeper into the magic and systems we all loved so much."
He let out a small laugh.
"…and why not…"
"…like those old anime and fanfics…"
His hand trembled slightly, more from emotion than fear.
"Come on. Grant it. This stupid old dream."
The spell finished its incantation.
A flash of light engulfed the entire Coliseum.
The wind howled, twisting the constellations.
The servers shut down.
Nothing remained but a bright, endless void.
Sitting at my desk, I reread the text I'd just written.
Honestly? It wasn't a bad start for my fanfic, I thought as I stretched.
Maybe one day I could sell it and have one less job to worry about.
I glanced at the clock.
Almost midnight.
Tomorrow I had to get up at 4:30 for my first job, and I'd already pulled an all-nighter the day before.
I set my alarm.
I sighed.
"Ah… I envy you, Suzuki Satoru, for getting to leave behind the salaryman life," I thought as I drifted off to sleep.
I feel… rested.
Better than I have in years.
There's a strange softness against my cheek. A light, smooth fabric. Not the cheap, scratchy pillow in my apartment. Not the worn cotton sheets with faded patterns.
No. This is soft. White.
I shift slightly. The sheet slips over my bare skin.
I freeze.
Why am I naked?
I look up.
A ceiling. Made of wood. Not concrete. Not plaster.
Old, polished wood without a single crack.
There's a scent in the air. Incense? Sandalwood?
And most of all… silence.
No hum of the fridge. No traffic outside.
A natural, deep silence, like there's nothing electric around.
I squint.
It's daylight.
Sunlight filters through a thin curtain.
Why didn't my alarm go off?!
I jerk upright.
My body protests.
I feel weak. Not sore, but… different. Lighter.
I lower my gaze—and my breath catches.
Breasts.
Not big. Subtle. Natural.
Just enough to push against the white, translucent kimono fabric.
My breasts.
I don't move.
I don't think.
My brain crashes. Blue screen.
I look down further.
Long black strands fall over my shoulders.
I lift a hand. It's slender, with neatly kept nails.
I'm sitting in an enormous bed. A white kimono sliding off my shoulders.
And inside me: a void.
No sound.
No movement.
Just this cold, irrational, undeniable truth.
This body isn't mine.
This bed isn't mine.
I turn slowly.
The other side of the bed is empty.
The sheets are rumpled but already cooling. He's been gone for a while.
My eyes drift to the floor.
Neatly arranged with almost military precision:
a white belt, folded.
Black sandals.
A sheathed katana.
I stand. My legs buckle slightly, but I manage.
The room is large, dark wood, sober but elegant.
A partially open screen reveals a basin of steaming water.
A low table holds two half-empty bowls of rice and dried fruit.
Only one teacup has been moved. The other is untouched.
I approach the mirror—a polished metal disc in a wooden frame.
I see myself. And I don't recognize this face.
A young woman with a still-sleepy expression.
Pale skin. Gray eyes. Long black hair, messy from the night.
The kimono collar hangs open. A red mark on her neck.
I quickly pull it closed.
My hands tremble.
"...Fuck, what does this even mean…"
The voice is soft. Feminine. Unfamiliar.
I spin around at the sound of the door sliding open.
A man stands there.
White hair tied at the nape. Calm red eyes. A clan vest draped over an open tunic.
Impossible not to recognize one of the most famous anime characters ever.
Senju Tobirama.
My heart stops as memories start flooding back.
I lower my eyes instinctively. My hands clutch the kimono fabric.
My body moves with habits that aren't mine, as if it already knows how to behave.
And words slip out before I can stop them.
— Ohayō, danna-san. Yoku nemuremashita ka?
He says nothing. He just watches me. Steps closer, then stops just in front of me.
His voice finally breaks the silence.
— You're calling me that already?
— …
— Don't be so formal with me.
— …
— I let you sleep. You looked exhausted.
I keep my head down. My face burns. I can't answer. Memories…
A brief pause. Almost natural.
— I'm going to see my brother. Take your time and get used to the residence, alright, Rei?
His voice remains gentle. Gentler than I expected.
Is this really the character I know?
I nod slightly, avoiding his gaze.
He stands there a moment. Then, without warning, he lifts his hand.
In an instant, hundreds of scenarios race through my mind.
My heart rate spikes.
Tobirama is famous for being perceptive… am I already doomed?
His hand rests lightly on my head. A gentle pat.
My mind goes blank.
My heart pounds so hard it echoes in my temples.
Then he turns away.
The door slides shut behind him.
And silence falls once more.