Michael: I Am Guilty

"Keer, why call a [SEELE] meeting in the dead of night?"

"Why? To discuss the next step of the plan, of course."

"The next step? Wait! Keer, isn't this enough? I think we can stop!

Within Fire Moth, Vasak no longer holds any authority. Lezlun can't gain their trust. Mei has lost her greatest support—Kevin. And we've subtly sown discord between Fire Moth and Anti-Entropy.

We've achieved all our objectives. We can call off Poison Cocoon!"

This time, the participants in the meeting were no longer represented by silver tombstones but by real-person projections.

Keer, with a head full of silver hair, looked no younger than sixty. His gaze swept across the room, lingering for a moment on Taro—his beard resembling instant noodles—before he calmly asked:

"What about the rest of you? Do you all share this view?"

A moment of silence. Then, a voice spoke up.

"Now is indeed not a good time to continue weakening Fire Moth," someone admitted. "After all, we still rely on them to fight the Honkai. Although I sometimes speak out of anger, I have to admit… if Fire Moth is suppressed too much, our losses in the next Honkai Eruption will be even greater."

"07" sneered. "Oh, Taro, wasn't it you who said 'Can humanity not survive without Kevin?' Didn't you also say you would use Mei's data and models to create your own MANTIS Warriors?"

Taro's hand trembled as he pulled out two strands of his beard. He had indeed said those words—but he certainly couldn't admit it.

After all, those were just angry remarks, not real suggestions.

Yet, in reality, he had tried to screen candidates within his own armed forces based on Mei's model. Out of several hundred thousand United Government troops, fewer than a thousand had a surgical success rate higher than 0.1%. The vast majority of test subjects didn't even survive a minute after being injected with the diluted, common Honkai beast ICHOR factor.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to ignore .07's question, and put on a serious expression.

"Keer, what are you thinking?" His voice was firm, but there was a hint of unease.

"I think we've gone far enough. Do we really want Poison Cocoon to wreak havoc and bloodshed within Fire Moth? This won't benefit us. And what's more… the more we do, the more clues we leave behind…"

"Minister Taro."

Keer rarely raised his voice, but this time, his tone was sharp. His somewhat cloudy eyes, however, remained calm—unshaken.

"Minister Taro, don't you think it's a bit hypocritical of you to say these things now? Of all people, you?"

Before Taro could respond, Keer's voice returned to its usual measured tone.

"I don't intend to destroy Fire Moth," he said. "But we can't give up halfway, either.

Ultimately, what we're doing is strengthening Fire Moth's dependence on us.

Clearly, the current situation isn't enough.

There are still two problems—"

"First, although Lezlun doesn't have their trust, at least half of the staff we sent are his people. To maintain balance, we still need to purge them in some way.

"Second, we still don't know Kevin's current condition. If Kevin is still alive, all our actions will be a joke—so, he must die."

"Keer! That's not what you said before!"

Taro slammed the table and stood up. Anger burned in his eyes as he took two steps forward, as if to grab Keer's collar—

But it was just a projection. He grasped nothing but air.

The others stirred uneasily. This wasn't the plan.

The original plan was simple: Kevin would suffer minor injuries, just enough to shake Fire Moth's stability. A subtle move, a quiet wedge to sow discord. But now? More and more "accidents" were happening, and Keer—always calm, always in control—kept introducing new, increasingly dangerous scripts.

If their earlier actions were based on calculated judgment, then what was this? Indulging Poison Cocoon? Helping them openly rebel against Fire Moth?

Taro's voice was tight with frustration. "Keer, this isn't rational! What are you thinking?"

Keer let out a quiet chuckle. "Have you lost all faith in me after all these years of working together?"

His voice was light, almost amused. "Don't worry. I know my limits. Fire Moth won't suffer too much damage."

Taro narrowed his eyes. Something about Keer's tone felt… off.

Keer continued, unbothered. "Besides, a plan must be consistent. My agent has already made all the arrangements—just waiting for your authorization.

Of course, if you vote against it, we can stop everything immediately. Hmph, but tell me, how do you intend to recover the resources we've already deployed?"

Taro clenched his fists, suppressing his anger. He studied Keer carefully. They had worked together for years, yet this was the first time he had heard him speak this way.

Keer lowered his gaze, his expression unreadable.

In the end, [SEELE] approved Keer's proposal.

By a narrow six-to-five vote.

The projections gradually faded, leaving only "Keer" in the pitch-black space.

For a moment, silence reigned. Then, the darkness receded like a tide, revealing a lone figure slumped in his chair.

"Phew… That was close."

His voice was low, tinged with relief. "If I had been exposed, or if the resolution hadn't passed… I would have needed your help, Aponia."

As he spoke, the flesh on "Keer's" face twisted and shifted—melting away like wax.

When it settled, Michael stood in his place.

Aponia remained silent, her gaze resting on the unconscious, real Keer behind him. A hint of compassion flickered in her usually unreadable expression.

Michael exhaled and stretched. "I'll leave it to you, Aponia."

She nodded slightly.

Her eyes gradually lost focus. Invisible mental tendrils extended, weaving themselves into Keer's mind, subtly rewriting his memories. What had just transpired would remain—but only as a dream.

Michael carefully lifted Keer and placed him back in his chair. When he woke up, he would remember everything as if it had truly happened.

It was seamless.

Yet, even after everything was done, Michael hesitated. Aponia, too, refrained from waking Keer just yet.

She finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "We can't delay too long. If we wait, there will be a disconnect between his dream and reality. Besides… the time we agreed upon with Vill-V and the others is almost up."

Michael nodded but remained still for a moment longer. Then, in a quieter voice, he asked, "Aponia… what's the cost of doing this?"

She didn't answer immediately. Instead, her gaze emptied once more. Then, in a calm, almost mechanical tone, she recited the numbers:

"1,369 people will die. 148 will be seriously injured and disabled. 627 will be lightly injured. The remaining 185 Poison Cocoon members will become Mei's—"

"I understand."

Michael cut her off before she could finish, as if he couldn't bear to hear the rest.

But it was self-deception.

He knew what he had done.

Yes, most of it had followed [SEELE]'s original plan. He had only intervened twice—

At the very start, when he intercepted the Poison Cocoon operative and fired the shot at Kevin.

And at the very end, when he let the fire rage instead of putting it out.

He had watched it all unfold. He had let it spiral out of control.

Because, in the end, this was the only way to achieve his goal.

Michael could lie to himself.

After all, his goal wasn't selfish or despicable. He was guiding the world toward the possibility of a truly beautiful future.

But for those who had been sacrificed, for those who had bled and suffered—

That possibility meant nothing.

Each number Aponia had recited was a sin he had to bear. And though, in some ways, these sins were shared with another participant—Mei—there was no denying they were still sins.

Compared to that, manipulating a single mind—especially one like Keer's—was insignificant.

It wasn't even a crime.

At least, that's what he told himself.

But even so, he had to force himself to do this. He had to bury the remnants of his hesitation, silence those lingering soft emotions.

The Fifth Honkai Eruption was over.

Half the journey was already behind them.

There was no more time to waste.

So be it.

It didn't matter.

He had only ever wanted to save a few people anyway… And if the situation demanded it—if everything came crashing down—

Even sacrificing those few to save her would still be a victory.

Even if she didn't approve.

Even if she wouldn't forgive him.

He stubbornly believed it was worth it.

This passage is already strong, but refining its pacing and flow can enhance the emotional depth and readability. Here's a polished version:

"Mr. Michael, compared to the devastation of the Honkai, these sacrifices are nothing."

Aponia's voice was as calm as ever. "Not even a fraction. Not even a footnote in humanity's final casualty count."

Michael let out a dry chuckle. "Is this how a nun offers comfort? Honestly, I expected you to condemn me."

But Aponia simply shook her head.

"Why would I condemn you, Mr. Michael? You are fighting against what you call fate. And walking the path of defiance means bearing 'sin.' The changes you bring—" she paused, her expression unreadable, "—might turn a bad fate into a good one. Or a good fate into a bad one."

Michael lowered his gaze. "But..."

"Every choice you make is an act of defiance. Whether the outcome is a futile struggle or a heroic victory, it is undeniably the right thing to do.

"As for sin… if you succeed—if you shape this world into what you wish it to be—then sin will become irrelevant to you."

Aponia's voice was steady, unwavering.

"Besides," she added, "I've seen the paths you could have taken. There were far more brutal ones, yet you chose the most restrained, the one that minimized suffering. That, in itself, is remarkable."

Michael exhaled slowly. "Even so, the despicable live on, while passionate warriors die in vain. Aponia, can you accept that?"

Aponia smiled softly. "You think that, as a nun, I should have compassion for all living beings, don't you?"

"Yes."

She chuckled. "Then tell me, Mr. Michael… what about you? Do you consider yourself compassionate?"

Michael shook his head. "Me? Of course not."

His voice was firm—almost too firm. "After everything I've done, how could I possibly call myself compassionate?"

Aponia's laughter was light, almost knowing. "Hehe—"

Her gaze softened.

"Mr. Michael, if—just if—you truly didn't care about life and death, joy and sorrow, the fleeting bonds between people… then why do you carry such a heavy burden of guilt?"

Michael stilled.

Then, quietly, he answered, "No, Aponia. You misunderstand me."

His gray eyes darkened. "I force myself to feel this guilt. I need to feel it.

"Because it reminds me—reminds me never to let her become one of the sacrificed."

Aponia tilted her head slightly. "Oh? Is that so..."

She held his gaze.

And in that moment, she didn't just look at him.

She saw him.

His present. His past. His future.

Every path, every choice.

Every second that would shape his life.