Exit Protocol

Unwilling to face Priscilla after the meeting, Flugel once again bent the shadows to his will. Darkness curled around him like a loyal servant, eager to carry out his silent command. It swallowed his form, muffled his presence, and blurred his outline until he was indistinguishable from the very air itself. For a moment, he was a ghost—gone from the fabric of the world. The next, he stood before Emilia's dragon carriage, the air still humming with residual mana from his spell. Without pause or hesitation, he opened the door and stepped inside.

Within the carriage sat Roswaal, Emilia, Beatrice, and Hikari. Conversation ceased at once. Their eyes snapped toward him in unison. The atmosphere tightened. The subtle hush that fell wasn't born of surprise alone—it was tension, reverence, and a flicker of unease. Flugel's entrance had drawn a veil over the mood, a shadow of weight that settled into every corner of the cabin.

With measured steps, he moved toward the cushioned bench where Beatrice and Hikari were seated and sank down beside them. His movements lacked their usual precision. There was heaviness in his shoulders, a drag in his posture as though the very act of sitting took effort. The unseen burdens he carried had etched themselves into his expression—lines of fatigue and conflict carved deep into his brow and around his eyes.

Emilia's violet gaze lingered on him, unwavering and alert. Her eyes weren't just watching; they were searching, trying to pierce the veil he wore. Concern clouded her features, and though she said nothing, the way her fingers curled into her lap betrayed the unease gnawing at her composure. Her instincts were screaming. Something was wrong.

Flugel, however, didn't acknowledge her gaze. He shut his eyes with finality, as if that small action could shut out the questions pressing against him from all sides. Whatever emotions were surfacing inside him—regret, doubt, fear—he stuffed them down. This wasn't his to solve. This was Subaru's burden. His duty now lay on a different path.

When he opened his eyes once more, slow and deliberate, they found Roswaal across the carriage. "Roswaal, we need to talk. Later," he said, his voice devoid of warmth—like the last breath of winter wind before spring's thaw.

Roswaal's grin faltered for only the briefest second, before returning in full force—too wide, too rehearsed. "But of course, Subaru-kun~ Speak to me whenever the mood takes you."

Flugel gave a faint nod and fell silent again, withdrawing into thought. Through the carriage window, the setting sun bled molten orange into the sky, casting streaks of fire and gold across the horizon. It was beautiful, yet foreboding—like a battlefield drenched in glory before the first sword is drawn.

"The battle with the White Whale is drawing close," he murmured under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. "If we assume Pandora is being cautious, then this is far from the end. More will follow. This might be only the beginning. We'll need Crusch on our side. A negotiation must happen soon."

The dragon carriage continued its smooth journey through the forest path. Shadows of trees streaked past as night crept in. When they arrived, the temporary mansion leased by Roswaal stood quietly beneath the purpling sky. The silhouette of the building rose into the gloom, its windows aglow with dim candlelight. Twilight clung to its edges like something sacred—or sinister.

Flugel was first to disembark. He entered with steady steps, heading straight for the stairwell. Along the way, he stopped briefly to collect his briefcase, a plain container hiding delicate complexity. Inside were components for an experimental electric motor—his latest project—alongside meticulous schematics, tools, and hand-written notes for Beatrice and Hikari. He didn't speak as they ascended together. Their footsteps echoed softly, a rhythm of quiet purpose.

In his room, he placed the case on the bed and opened it, sorting through the contents with clinical precision. When he handed the notes over to the girls, his words were minimal.

"I need to speak with Roswaal," he said simply, not masking the weariness in his tone.

Beatrice took the documents with a small frown and cocked her head. "Roswaal? And what do you plan to discuss with that man, I suppose?"

He didn't turn immediately. For a moment, he just stared out the window as if hoping the wind might carry away the burden in his heart. Then he spoke, voice firmer now, deliberate.

"I'm stepping down as bodyguard. Like we talked about before. I want to take the two of you and settle somewhere closer to the capital. Not just the two of you, ideally. I want all of us to go. But that won't be possible unless I speak plainly with Roswaal. I want Emilia to come too... or at least Rem."

Hikari crossed her arms, brow furrowed, her tone tinted with mild scolding. "We should've done this a long time ago, Flugel-nii. You've waited too long."

He didn't argue. He simply closed his eyes, nodded, and breathed deep through his nose. Then, in silence, he turned and left the room.

Each step in the hallway rang out a little louder than the last, echoing the weight behind his resolution. The hall felt longer than usual—perhaps because this decision, though long in the making, had finally become real. When he reached Roswaal's office, he paused, his knuckles hovering over the wood for just a second before he knocked.

A muffled voice beckoned him in. He opened the door and stepped inside.

Roswaal sat behind his ornate desk, Ram standing silently at his side. The lighting was subdued, a single lantern casting flickering shadows against the room's opulent decor—bookshelves, maps, and objects of curiosity. A silence hung in the air, heavy with expectation.

Roswaal greeted him with a familiar smile, calm and artificial. "Welcome, Subaru-kun. What brings you here tonight?"

Flugel met his gaze with calm clarity. He took the seat across from him, his movements composed, his body language steady. There was no hesitation.

"I want to resign from my position as bodyguard," he said plainly, each word striking the air like a quiet toll of finality.

Roswaal's eyes widened briefly, then narrowed as a shift passed over his expression—surprise giving way to a murky blend of calculation and disbelief. Even Ram, rarely one to display overt emotion, looked up with a startled flick of her gaze. A slight twitch danced at the corner of her eye, betraying the depth of her confusion.

"Why? You don't want to work anymore? Are you cutting ties with the Emilia faction?" Roswaal's voice, for the first time in this conversation, abandoned its usual whimsical cadence. In its place was something heavier—graver. It held the edge of fear masked by forced composure. Within his eyes, there was the unmistakable glimmer of someone watching a long-laid plan threaten to unravel.

Flugel, ever calm, folded his hands deliberately in his lap and sat upright, like someone preparing to deliver a carefully weighed verdict. "No," he began, his voice level and certain. "I'm not severing every bond. I'll still offer my support when necessary. I may even act as a sponsor now and then, should the need arise. But what I can no longer do—what I refuse to continue—is serving as Emilia's bodyguard. That role has worn me down, slowly, like water carving through stone. It's eaten away at the core of me. I need to pursue my own goals now. I've come too far to keep living in the shadow of someone else's path."

He paused, letting the words settle like ash. "I'll be leaving," he continued, more softly now, "and I'll be taking a few people with me."

Roswaal's fingers, pressed together atop the polished surface of the table, trembled faintly. Though he tried to disguise it, the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. He swallowed hard, a dry, audible gulp. "That... is acceptable," he said, after a long pause. "Naturally, I must respect your decision. But tell me, Subaru-kun—who exactly do you intend to take with you?"

The temperature in the room seemed to shift—an invisible pressure thickening the air. Outside, the wind brushed against the windowpanes, its soft tapping a quiet metronome to the gravity of the moment. Flugel's declaration wasn't just a personal decision; it was the prelude to upheaval.

Flugel didn't reply right away. Instead, he closed his eyes, exhaled slowly through his nose. The silence stretched, not as hesitation, but as calculation. Deep within, he was filtering through dozens of tangled emotions, silencing the internal noise until only clarity remained. Long before the words left his lips, the truth had been decided. And then, with a fluid motion, he raised one hand high, fingers extended.

"Elsa..." His index finger dropped.

"Meili..." The thumb followed, slow and steady.

"Rem..." The ring finger curled downward, noticeably heavier than the rest.

"And Emilia." Finally, the pinky descended, a quiet finale.

When both hands came to rest again on his knees, only the middle finger remained upright. A silent gesture, yet deafening in implication. A signal not lost on anyone present. It wasn't just a list—it was a declaration of intent. Of separation. Of rebellion.

The atmosphere plummeted. It was as if the hearth's warmth had been sucked from the room. Even the shadows along the walls seemed to stretch and lean in.

Roswaal's reaction was instantaneous. His eyes widened in disbelief before narrowing sharply. He sprang to his feet, his previously melodic voice now stripped to a raw and seething growl.

"Natsuki Subaru. That... That's unthinkable! Elsa and Meili—I can understand their loyalty to you. Perhaps even accept it. But Rem? And Emilia-sama? That cannot happen!"

Ram stepped forward without hesitation. Her tone, typically dry and aloof, was now edged with iron. "Yes, Barusu. I can't allow my sister to leave with you. The very fact that you've entertained this idea—seriously, no less—is deeply concerning."

Flugel only sighed, slow and patient, as if he'd already anticipated their every word. His gaze drifted toward the fireplace in the corner, its flames reflecting in his eyes. A flicker of melancholy curved at the edge of his mouth.

"A clown," he said softly, tilting his head slightly toward Roswaal. "And an oni bound by chains she can't even see." He turned toward Ram. "Standing side by side. Tell me that isn't a joke the universe is playing on us. Or maybe... maybe you're just the lead actors in a tragedy written long before we got here."

Then, turning fully to face Ram, his voice sharpened. No longer poetic. No longer gentle.

"Let me ask you a question, Ram. Who destroyed your horn?"

Ram faltered. Her fingers instinctively touched her forehead, as if to confirm the absence of what had long been lost. Confusion washed across her features. "The oni hunters... That's who it was. Why are you asking?"

Flugel's eyes slowly moved to Roswaal. The softness they once held was gone. What replaced it was arctic—calculated.

"Ram. Did you ever wonder who sent them there in the first place? Who pointed them to your village? Or was that another detail you were conveniently never told?"

Roswaal stepped in with haste, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation. "The oni hunters can't be directed! They're beasts, driven solely by instinct! Primitive creatures who exist only to kill!"

Flugel stood at last. As he did, the shadows around his feet seemed to ripple, alive and responsive to his presence. They crept outward, snaking across the room, until they merged with Roswaal's own shadow.

Then, without warning, they surged forward—not physically, but mentally. They reached into Roswaal's consciousness and whispered. A single voice, resonating only in his mind.

"I know everything. Every lie, every omission, every betrayal. If you keep talking, I'll drag the rest of it into the light. I'll lay it bare. But the real problem is..."

The voice twisted, manic and sharp:

"I'm so impatient. I want to scream it RIGHT NOWWW AHHH!!!"

Roswaal paused for a long moment. The color had completely drained from his face, leaving him ghostly pale. His fingers twitched at his sides, and a deep unease danced behind his mismatched eyes. It wasn't just fear that gripped him now—it was dread, the kind that made your bones feel brittle, and despair so complete it made the very air feel heavier. He glanced sidelong at Ram, something unspoken flickering in his gaze. Then he took a long, shuddering breath.

"Ram... could you give us a moment, please?"

Ram hesitated. She didn't understand the gravity in his voice, but she could feel it—dense, suffocating, unfamiliar. Her crimson eyes narrowed slightly in analysis, but she didn't ask questions. With a short nod, she turned on her heel and walked out. The door clicked shut behind her, and in that instant, it was as though the room itself exhaled something dark.

As soon as she was gone, Roswaal shed the theatrical smile he always wore like armor. His entire demeanor changed—back straightened, mouth tightened, and his mask crumbled to dust. He stormed toward the table in the center of the room, his boots striking the floor like gunshots, and then slammed his fist down so hard the wood cracked.

"You weren't supposed to know any of this! Who told you?! WHO?!"

Across from him, Flugel let a slow, mocking smile stretch across his lips. The smile didn't reach his eyes, which gleamed with a knowing malice. He raised a hand slowly to his face, touched his lips as if suppressing amusement, then let out a low, unsettling laugh that reverberated with unnatural echo. As the laugh faded, his features began to shift—his irises dulled, his pupils expanded, and his hair drained of color until it shimmered a haunting white.

"Subaru doesn't know... but I do."

Suddenly, black smoke billowed up from beneath the floorboards and spilled down from the ceiling, thick and viscous like tar. It coiled through the room, swallowing the walls, the furniture, and the light itself. Shadows danced wildly as the very fabric of the room unraveled.

"What's happening?!" Roswaal shouted, spinning around as the world twisted before his eyes. His voice sounded distant, as if it were echoing in a chamber of dreams. And then, just as abruptly, the chaos ceased.

He was no longer in his study.

Now, he stood in a grand hall, eerily still, yet familiar. Suspended in an endless void of stars and swirling magic, this place was an exact replica of Echidna's floating castle—a structure that should have vanished long ago with its mistress.

At the heart of the hall, Flugel sat in a high-backed throne carved from obsidian, its design ancient and intimidating. He had his hands steepled before him, gazing at Roswaal like a judge at the final trial.

Roswaal staggered back a step, eyes wide, lips trembling. His heart pounded like a war drum in his chest. "You can't be Subaru... You can't. Then who... who are you?"

Flugel's voice was calm, patient, but carried a weight that seemed to settle on Roswaal's shoulders like lead. Each syllable felt deliberate, inescapable.

"I am... the Great Sage Flugel."

Roswaal's knees gave out. He dropped to the floor, his hands flat against the cold, illusory stone, tears welling up and cascading down his cheeks. His mouth opened in reverence and agony.

"Sage-sama... If you're alive... If you're truly still alive... Then that means Echidna-sama could return as well! Please... please help me bring Sensei back. I'll do anything—anything!"

Flugel sighed, the sound ancient and tired, and shook his head with subtle pity. "Calm yourself. You deranged clown, so obsessed with your teacher you can't see straight... Yes, Echidna might return. But not with that broken gospel clutched so desperately in your hands."

Without hesitation, Roswaal reached into his coat. His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled out a book—an ornate tome bound in black and white, embroidered with arcane symbols and swirling patterns.

"This sacred text... the one Sensei gave me... You're saying it's broken?" 

Flugel raised one hand slowly. The book lifted from Roswaal's grasp as if carried by invisible strings. It hovered in the air, turning gently, casting a pale, unsettling light.

"Little Betty's gospel stopped working a long time ago," Flugel said softly, eyes never leaving the floating book. "That alone is all the proof you need. Yours is no different."

Roswaal's face twisted in anguish and rage. His brow furrowed deep, his voice cracked under the weight of fury and denial. "You lier! That can't be true! Sensei gave me this gospel. Her creations are flawless! I won't believe you—not even if you really are the Great Sage!"

Flugel's expression didn't flicker. His eyes, ancient and sharp, pierced Roswaal with silent judgment. And then, with a flick of his fingers, the book dropped. It hit the ground with a flat thud—a sound so final it seemed to sever hope itself.

Roswaal lunged for it, pulling it tightly to his chest as if embracing a dying flame. His breath came in ragged gasps. This book, this text, was all he had left.

"Go ahead," Flugel said, voice cold and emotionless, like ice forming on glass. "Follow your own twisted path. Just don't cross mine."

Roswaal stood slowly. The shaking in his limbs didn't cease, but he forced his back straight, his chin high. His eyes, once glimmering with tears, now burned with the fire of obsession. He looked at Flugel with the desperation of a man willing to destroy everything to fulfill his vision.

"I'll use anyone... anything... to reach my goal," he said, voice low and resolute. "Even you."

Flugel let out a broken laugh at Roswaal's words, a sharp, bitter sound that echoed through the dimly lit office. Sparks of fury flickered in his eyes, his usual calm shattered. "You talk too much for someone who hijacked the bodies of his own children. Not exactly a genius move, Roswaal."

That silenced Roswaal. His expression darkened, eyes narrowing into cold slits that reflected years of buried guilt and strategic calculation. Slowly, he closed them and exhaled a measured breath. "I won't question how you found out. But tell me—what business does the Sage have inside Subaru's body?"

The room seemed to dim further, as if shadows thickened at the corners. Books on the shelves trembled imperceptibly, disturbed by a presence far older than the walls that held them. Dark waves rolled along the floor and ceiling, drawing everything into quiet tension. Flugel's voice rang through the gloom, low and echoing, like a ghost drifting through fog. "Subaru and I signed a pact. Think of it as temporary cohabitation. A loaned vessel, if you will. But that's beside the point. I'm taking Emilia, Rem, Elsa, and Meili with me. And if you get in my way, Roswaal, I won't hesitate to remove you. I'll take all the girls and start a harem. In short: don't test me."

Roswaal's hands trembled, just slightly. He masked it well, but he knew all too well the limits of his power—and how far beneath Flugel he stood. Swallowing his pride like a jagged stone, he forced his voice to remain steady. "Very well. You may take Emilia and Rem. When will this happen?"

Flugel tapped his chin, feigning thought with exaggerated flair. "Hmm. Not sure. Maybe when I find a new mansion. I'll talk it over with Subaru. But I'm glad we came to an understanding, Roswaal."

Roswaal lowered his head in silent acceptance, his pride quietly bleeding out onto the stone floor. Beneath the surface, rage simmered—the sudden desire to fast-track his plans for Emilia nearly overwhelming. His fingers twitched, aching to cast a spell he knew wouldn't land.

The shadows receded, unraveling as quickly as they had appeared. The office returned to its familiar state, everything in place, yet the air far heavier than before. The scent of old paper and ink felt suddenly suffocating. Hands in his pockets, Flugel stepped out and wandered the hallway, his pace slow but sure, the weight of recent decisions pressing on each step like invisible chains.

When he opened the door to his room, he paused. Not just Beatrice and Hikari, but Meili, Rem, and Elsa were already there, seated and strangely quiet. Their presence, so subdued and expectant, caught him off guard.

Elsa looked up as he entered. "The girls said you went to speak with Roswaal. How did it go?"

Flugel dropped onto the bed with a tired sigh, one arm flung over his face. "Everyone here is coming with me."

Rem jumped up, eyes shining with barely restrained joy. "You mean it? You actually talked about me too?"

A faint smile curved Flugel's lips. There was a softness in his gaze, rare but genuine. "Yes," he said quietly. "Especially you and Emilia."

Beatrice folded her arms, one brow raised in skeptical amusement. "I expected Roswaal to be more stubborn. What exactly did you do to make him yield?"

Still smiling, Flugel shrugged. "Oh, I threatened him."

Her frown deepened, more from habit than fear. "You what?"

"Don't worry. It was a classy threat. Elegant. Diplomatic," he added with mock sophistication, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

(A/N: umm..)

Meili leaned forward eagerly, hands clasped under her chin. "What did you say? What kind of threat, Subaru-nii?"

Flugel fell back onto the bed, eyes already closing as he murmured with a hint of triumph. "That's a secret~"

His laugh rippled through the room, content and almost carefree. For a moment, it seemed he might actually rest. But before long, the weight of bodies pressed against him. Hikari, Beatrice, and Meili piled on without hesitation. Arms, legs, pillows—Flugel vanished beneath a pile of playful chaos.

Rem, watching from the side, chuckled softly and slipped out of the room with a smile, as though sensing they all needed the moment more than she did. Elsa sighed and scooped up a protesting Meili, hauling her out despite her flailing complaints and exaggerated screams of injustice. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving behind only the faint hum of the evening and Flugel's relaxed breathing.

For a few minutes, peace reigned. It was a fragile peace—the calm that precedes a storm—but in those brief seconds, the world outside seemed to pause, holding its breath with them.

Outside the window, night crept in fully, stars blinking into view. The hallway was silent, save for the faint echo of footsteps somewhere far off. Change was coming. They could all feel it, even if no one dared say it aloud.

Flugel quietly slipped away once the girls around him had fallen asleep. His movements were fluid and practiced, almost weightless. The wooden floor beneath his feet made no protest, not a single creak disturbed the silence. And yet, he felt like a foreign element within this calm—like a misplaced shadow in a painting of stillness. For a brief moment, he stood motionless, ears tuned to the soft, rhythmic sound of their breathing. That tranquil cadence pierced deeper than any blade.

With a sigh—barely more than a breath—he whispered to no one but himself: "If only I could sleep like I used to."

His voice was not so much spoken as it was exhaled, worn down by years of burdens no one else could see. Loneliness clung to each syllable like dew on dead leaves.

His feet carried him to the window, and he paused there, eyes drawn upward. The moon cut through the sky like a sentinel of cold remembrance. Its pale light washed over his features, revealing a face that held too many secrets. The glow outlined his silhouette, turning him into a figure from another time—something neither alive nor dead, but caught between.

Closing his eyes, he took a slow breath, filling his lungs with stillness. Deep inside, something long sealed began to stir—quietly, cautiously, like a dream returning after years of exile.

With deliberate patience, he began to withdraw from Subaru's body. His presence peeled away like mist in the morning sun. Slowly, his form separated—like oil parting from water. Subaru's body gave a faint shiver, his skin regaining its natural tone, his hair darkening once more. His eye color followed suit, fading into that familiar, earnest hue.

The boy's unconscious form tipped to the side, gravity taking hold gently. He landed next to Hikari with the softness of a fallen petal. As if responding to his presence even in sleep, her small hand reached out in his direction. The sight caught Flugel's eye—and for a fraction of a second, something stung in his chest. Regret? Yearning? He couldn't say.

Then, the shadows surged around him like an eager tide, and the world turned.

In the blink of an eye, the room vanished.

Now, Flugel stood in his personal realm—a domain wreathed in shadow and silence. The very air seemed to hum with old memories. Darkness pulsed with subtle motion around him, shifting like curtains stirred by a wind no one could feel. The whispers of the past were embedded in every flicker of shade.

Before him lay Subaru's soul—not in restful slumber, but in the throes of exhaustion. It was a total collapse: magical depletion, mental overuse, spiritual strain all tangled into one inert heap. Subaru's form was pale, his breath shallow. His essence was flickering like a candle on its last drop of wax.

Flugel stood silently, observing. No emotion broke through his face at first. He simply watched—cold, distant, thoughtful. Eventually, the tiniest twitch of expression touched his lips. It wasn't kindness. It wasn't sorrow. Just recognition, perhaps.

"I used to look like this too."

But the memory evaporated before he could hold onto it.

He stepped closer. Without hesitation, he balled his hand into a fist and delivered a precise, yet not forceful, punch to Subaru's chest. The sound echoed in the vast dark—a deep thud that reverberated like a heartbeat.

Subaru flinched. His soul shuddered. Fingers twitched. But he didn't wake. Not yet. He remained submerged, lost somewhere between the edges of consciousness and memory.

Flugel frowned, then muttered to himself. "Looks like the usual methods won't get through this time."

He raised his hand once more. This time, mana coiled around his palm—dense, potent, deliberate. A surge of raw energy condensed into a needlepoint of focus. Then, he struck again, precisely over Subaru's heart.

The moment the blow landed, Subaru's spirit jolted. Mana raced through him like lightning meeting a dry forest. The boy's essence soaked it in, responding immediately. A flicker of awareness returned.

A thin smile tugged at the corner of Flugel's lips. "That should do it."

Subaru stirred.

His body tensed as sensation returned. His fingers curled slightly. Eyelids trembled, then slowly peeled open. At first, the world was fog. Everything blurred at the edges, as if viewed through a veil. But the presence—the unmistakable weight of someone watching—cleared the mist.

"Mmhg...? Flugel...? What happened...?"

The shadows answered before the man did. Behind Flugel, a grand throne materialized—a construct of obsidian and moonlight. It loomed with elegance and menace, adorned with runes that pulsed like ancient hearts. A monument to forgotten royalty. He sat upon it like a sovereign returning to his rightful seat.

"You were asleep," Flugel said evenly. "So I borrowed your body for a little while."

Subaru blinked, rubbing his forehead as the truth slowly settled.

"Wait—what...? Ah! The meeting! Did I miss it?!"

Flugel gave a light shake of his head. "I attended it for you. But I think trying to explain it all in words would be too much trouble."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice low, yet echoing through the shadows like thunder behind silk.

"It'll be easier if I show you."

The shadows behind him pulsed once more. And the memory began to unravel.

Flugel raised one hand. With a slow, almost ceremonial motion, he traced a glowing circle in the air with his index finger. The shape shimmered faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat. Then, without warning, he flicked Subaru's forehead with the other hand—gentle, but precise.

"Hey!" Subaru yelped, recoiling as his hand flew up to shield his forehead. It stung—but more than the sting, it carried weight. Something else. His pupils widened, his breath caught in his chest. A flood of sensations—sharp, chaotic, and foreign—rushed into his mind.

Without consent, without filter, memories forced their way into him. Not his memories, but Flugel's. Scenes blurred together: voices in rooms he had never entered, sights from angles he had never stood at. Emotions he had never felt before. As if someone had torn open a dam and let a torrent of unfamiliar experiences pour in.

Flugel's thoughts, his actions while possessing Subaru's body, paraded through his consciousness like ghostly projections on a massive, infinite screen. Every whispered conversation, every critical decision, every subtle glance—it was all there. At first, the images were hazy, almost unintelligible, but clarity sharpened them like a blade.

Subaru's face twisted in real time, cycling through disbelief, shame, anger, and something he didn't want to name—understanding. Each emotion left a deeper imprint on his face, like scars etched by truth.

"That's not me," he muttered under his breath. "Those... those aren't my thoughts."

The air stilled. A silence fell between them, thick and suffocating, broken only by the sound of Subaru's labored breathing. He lowered his gaze, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. His body quivered with tension.

And then, with a jolt, he lifted his head and lunged forward. His hands grabbed Flugel by the collar with a mix of desperation and outrage.

"Oi! I don't act like that! Are you kidding me?! Why, Flugel?! Why do you have to be the brooding, self-loathing, tragic backstory dark guy from some endless 500-episode anime?!"

Flugel blinked once, as if caught off guard—but not really. His expression remained unreadable. Only the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed a flicker of amusement, one that vanished as quickly as it came.

"Because... I am."

Subaru's arms dropped. His grip loosened. The fire in his chest dulled, replaced by an exasperated sigh as he raked a hand down his face.

"Seriously? That's your big answer? That's it?"

Flugel responded not with words but action. He reached out and took Subaru's hand in his own. It was a cool touch, not unkind, but far from warm. It carried the weight of years—centuries perhaps—of memories, burdens, regrets. Then, gently, he pushed Subaru away. The motion was quiet but firm, more command than suggestion.

Subaru stumbled back three, four steps, almost tripping over his own feet. His eyes darted in confusion, his breath short.

And then Flugel spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but it rang out like metal against stone. Cold. Composed. Impossibly steady.

"Be grateful that I was there in your place, Natsuki Subaru. At the very least, Priscilla now desires you. Your reputation—though far from restored—has improved. You're close to severing your ties with Roswaal. That alone is the gate to your freedom. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

Subaru shook his head, as if trying to clear fog from his mind. He rubbed his temples and exhaled through gritted teeth. The words stung in a strange, intangible way.

He let his arms fall limp at his sides before lifting them again, as though brushing invisible dust from his shoulders. A shadow passed across his face—anger, quick and sharp—but it was overtaken by something softer. Guilt.

"People aren't dumb, Flugel. They're going to notice something's off. My tone, my behavior, the way I look at them. They'll sense it. Even if they don't say anything, they'll feel it."

He hesitated. The next words came quieter, more personal.

"And about earlier... I'm sorry. I reacted too fast. I just—felt used. Like I was a puppet in my own skin."

Flugel shrugged, unbothered, his voice hardening like cooling steel.

"Their opinions are irrelevant. Treat them like NPCs. Characters in a loop. Predictable, bound to a limited set of actions, incapable of change unless pushed. The system is mundane, Subaru. It rewards patterns."

The comparison hit Subaru like a blow to the chest. NPCs. Predetermined code. It was something he'd joked about once—comparing this world to a game—but hearing it from Flugel, so earnestly and so coldly, made it unbearable. Because deep down, hadn't he feared the same? That nothing he did truly mattered? That this world was a story with fixed outcomes?

But coming from someone else's mouth, it was no longer a thought. It was a sentence.

He took a deep breath, willing himself not to fall apart. His limbs felt heavier by the second, his mind foggier. But he refused to collapse.

"You're not exactly helping, you know. You act like some wise old mentor or something, but every time you speak, things get murkier instead of clearer."

Flugel let out a short laugh. Dry. Empty. It echoed faintly like the memory of a wound long scarred over.

"I'm no mentor, Subaru. Mentors guide with purpose. I don't guide. I steer. You'll learn the difference, one day. Probably the hard way."

Subaru didn't respond at first. His thoughts swirled like a storm behind his eyes. But one thing was certain—this wasn't over. Whatever lesson Flugel thought he was teaching, it wasn't one Subaru intended to accept blindly.

Even if it meant crashing the steering wheel through the rails himself.

Subaru remained silent for a few seconds, though to him it felt like an eternity. His eyes were fixed on the ground, the dirt beneath his feet offering nothing in the way of answers, yet somehow comforting in its stillness. His thoughts, however, were anything but grounded—spiraling far above like scattered leaves caught in a storm, lost somewhere in a sky filled with uncertainty and invisible weights.

Eventually, with a slow and almost reluctant motion, he lifted his head. The movement carried a quiet resolve, as if each vertebra in his neck weighed a thought of its own. His lips parted slightly before he spoke, voice low but steady, threading through the stillness like a needle through cloth.

"Anyway... I'm heading back now. Thanks for waking me up... I guess."

There was no sarcasm in his tone, but no warmth either. Just a hollow sort of gratitude—like a man thanking the cold wind for reminding him he was still alive.

Flugel finally turned his back to Subaru. He said nothing at first, but his steps began to echo faintly as he ascended the cracked, ancient steps of the shadowed throne. The throne itself loomed like a monument built from forgotten memories, casting long, jagged shadows. With each of Flugel's steps, the darkness around them pulsed gently, as though responding to his presence—like the shadows knew him and feared him, yet obeyed him all the same.

Then, without turning back, his voice emerged. It came slowly, almost as if drawn from the depths of a deep well of contemplation.

"Talk to Russel Fellow about acquiring an estate. That man isn't merely a merchant... he's a connoisseur of secrets, a spider with webs in every direction. Tell him you're searching for property near the capital. Ask for his advice. He'll know what you're really asking. A well-chosen location is more than just comfort—it's positioning, influence, foresight."

He paused just long enough for Subaru to wonder if he was finished, before continuing.

"Also... if you can complete the electric engine project at the Mathers mansion, it would be ideal. That engine will be more than a convenience. It's a statement. A signal. The pieces are falling into place, Subaru. You can't afford to lag behind. Not anymore. This world doesn't wait, and time... time devours the slow."

Subaru stood frozen for a heartbeat, perhaps two. The way Flugel spoke—so surgical, so calculated—it always unsettled him. As if the man saw too much and yet revealed too little. It didn't feel like receiving advice. It felt like being moved into position on a chessboard he didn't even know he was playing on.

Still, the logic in Flugel's words was undeniable. With a tired breath escaping his lungs, Subaru gave another small nod.

"Understood. I'll give it a shot tomorrow."

The space around him began to shift. Shadows that once clung tightly to the throne and walls now began to unfurl, unraveling like ink dispersing in a bowl of water. The very fabric of the dream—or whatever this realm was—started to dissolve. Borders became indistinct, light and dark lost their edges.

Subaru glanced around one last time. This place… it existed in that thin line between dream and nightmare. A liminal space suspended between real and unreal. Here, truth wore masks and lies whispered as prophets.

Then, without another word, he stepped back. His form melted into the encroaching darkness, swallowed by the quiet dissolution of this half-world.

Flugel was alone.

The shadows, as if in reverence, fell completely still. Not even a flicker betrayed movement. The silence was not simply an absence of sound—it was presence. Heavy. Aware.

And yet, in that utter quiet, Flugel's mind stirred restlessly.

He brought his hands together, fingertips meeting in a slow, deliberate rhythm. A quiet tapping. It wasn't noise. It was a heartbeat. Not of flesh, but of thought. Of something waiting to emerge.

His eyes closed.

A whisper, dry and half-breathed, touched the air.

"The burden of tomorrow... will fall to me once more. Perhaps as it always has. Perhaps as it always will."

And as if answering that soft confession, the darkness responded. Not with violence or noise, but with weight—an all-consuming quietude. It rose not to devour, but to enclose, folding in upon itself and drawing Flugel into its solemn embrace.

He didn't resist.

In the end, only deepening gloom remained. Not hostile. Not kind. Just... enduring.