Chapter 9 – The Weight of Return
Darkness.
Pain.
A searing cold that didn't just burn — it unraveled. It tore through his cells, syllable by syllable of his existence, as if the universe itself sought to erase him from reality.
Silence.
Not the serene rest of the dead…
But the suffocating void of one rejected even by death.
And then—
The memories exploded in his mind like shrapnel:
The blade driven into his chest.
The ice spreading from the wound, crawling through his body like an absolute poison, smothering the world, freezing everything he had been — and everything he could have been.
And then—
The screams.
Issei. Matsuda.
Calling his name. Watching him die. Again.
Shirou's eyes.
Horrified. Lost.
Realizing — too late — who he had just killed.
Then…
Nothing.
No body.
No mind.
No time.
Only a frozen, eternal void.
Motohama floated — or rather, dissolved, like burned paper caught in the wind, slowly devoured by invisible flames.
And for the first time, he didn't know if he even wanted to return.
How many times had he died?
Once? Twice?
No.
More than ten.
More than ten times crushed by Kurogane.
Each time more cruel, more meticulous. A twisted dance of torture and death, always followed by resurrection — again, and again, and again.
Each return left less of himself behind.
And now…
Shirou.
The last to kill him.
Unaware. Unwilling.
But with a strike as precise as all of Kurogane's blows combined.
Maybe…
Maybe this time, he should remain in the void.
But then:
FOOM!
Like a hook buried in his soul, a brutal force tore him from the abyss.
A vortex of blue light ruptured the nothingness, spinning with merciless violence, dragging what remained of his essence.
Motohama wanted to scream…
But had no mouth.
He wanted to resist…
But had no body.
THUD!
His body reappeared, slammed to its knees against a wooden floor like a lifeless puppet tossed by the gods.
He gasped — lungs struggling for air as if breathing for the first time.
His hands clutched the floor, trying to anchor himself to a world that seemed ready to shatter him once more.
The digital clock blinked, indifferent:
"6:30 PM"
The ceiling fan spun lazily.
His phone rested on the desk, as if nothing had happened.
And outside…
A car drove by.
Someone had just died. For the eleventh time, he had returned.
Motohama slowly raised his head.
His eyes wide, glassy, wet — he was crying.
Not from physical pain…
But from a silent horror no language could ever explain.
— N-no... — he whispered, between stifled sobs.
Every fiber of his body trembled, as if there wasn't enough left to hold him together.
How… could he?
How could he simply return…
As if nothing had happened?
When, in those final seconds…
Shirou had killed him.
And Issei... Matsuda… had screamed his name.
Motohama clutched his chest tightly, trying to smother the memory.
Useless.
It was there.
Etched into his soul.
Even now, wielding the terrifying power of The Almighty, capable of glimpsing countless futures…
Motohama felt drained every time he used it.
Each use of that divine ability was a silent and brutal battle: an unrelenting drain on body and mind.
He carried the legacy of Yhwach — king of the Quincy, absolute master of The Almighty — but deep down, he knew: they were not the same.
And yet…
Some part of Yhwach's essence had inevitably merged with his.
The vast experience and inherited knowledge were unmatched advantages…
But his body, his reflexes, his spiritual strength… were far below the predecessor's level.
Before that battle, Motohama had prepared and dared to tap into a hidden fragment of power: the ancient art of shikigami summoning — guardian spirits molded from condensed spiritual energy.
Even in its rudimentary form, he managed to use the most basic version, relying on a paper talisman shaped like a doll.
With his power and the use of spiritual seals, he infused it with his blood… his mark…
And the result:
A shikigami.
Capable of mimicking not only his appearance but his spiritual presence with near-perfect precision.
That knowledge came not only from Yhwach's memories, but also from the souls of Onmyouji, who, upon death, returned to Yhwach — in one of the many realities of the multiverse.
The Onmyouji.
Hybrid descendants, born of the union between pureblood Quincy and spiritually attuned humans.
They rejected the ancient Quincy dogma of purity and broke with the code that separated them from their ancestral enemies: the Shinigami.
It was one of the greatest betrayals in Quincy history.
While the Quincy manipulated spiritual energy — Reishi — the Onmyouji embraced synthesis, merging inherited powers with Shinigami spiritual rituals.
Thus was born the Onmyoujutsu:
Shikigami summoning, talisman manipulation (ofuda), mystical barriers, and ancestral rites.
Techniques that channeled not just Reishi, but the natural forces permeating all worlds.
Almost heretical to the eyes of traditional Quincy.
During the civil war that erupted between pureblood and hybrid Quincy, the Onmyouji were annihilated.
Leaving behind only their knowledge — now in Motohama's hands.
Even with all the knowledge and experience he had inherited…
Even knowing countless futures…
Even combining techniques from every lineage…
He had lost.
Since that first death at Kurogane's hands — not once, but many times — something inside him had never been whole again.
And the worst part…
Wasn't the memory of death.
It was the invasion.
The feeling that his soul had been violated.
Every Quincy technique he used…
Every glimpse of the future with The Almighty…
Made him feel like a stranger in his own body.
A puppet of flesh, moved by Yhwach's echoes.
The terror wasn't just in dying.
It was in what came after.
In the growing doubt of where Motohama ended…
And where the other began.
And above all…
What hurt the most…
Was knowing that even with powers no human could comprehend…
He still felt weak.
A mere survivor of himself.
Broken. Irreparable.
And then, just like the first time—
She appeared.
The translucent window — cold, impersonal — cut through the room's half-light like a blade of frozen glass, indifferent to the pain that had just been lived:
________________________________________
[Unique Skill Activated]
「RE:START」
Effect: Each time he dies, Kusanagi Motohama returns 24 hours in time, retaining all memories and gaining the ability to copy one power from the one who killed him.
[Copied Power: Wheel of Fate]
________________________________________
Motohama stared at those words.
But he felt no relief.
No power.
Much less hope.
Only the weight.
Unbearable. Irrevocable.
A life sentence, written in silence.
His throat tightened.
His body trembled.
His mind, still fragmented by the return, whispered through echoes:
— "How long…?"
How long could he endure dying…
Returning…
Dying again?
How long… would he still be himself?
And then — like a shadow crawling beneath the skin — the presence emerged.
Yhwach.
The voice, deep. Dry.
Cold as the bottom of the abyss.
Arrogant, as only a fallen god could be:
— "Weakness is not tolerated."
Motohama clenched his eyes shut.
Tried to silence it.
As he always did.
As he always failed.
Because that voice didn't come from outside.
It was part of him now.
He looked toward the mirror — instinctively.
And didn't see just himself…
He saw Yhwach.
That gaze — devoid of warmth.
Of empathy.
Of humanity.
— "Stand. You may not fall now."
The command wasn't a memory.
It was a living seed, planted in his soul.
And it was growing faster every day.
The Wheel of Fate icon blinked on the system window — merciless.
As if mocking the pain.
As if saying: "It's not over yet."
Motohama raised a trembling hand.
And the interface expanded:
________________________________________
[Wheel of Fate]
Effect: When activated once per day using points, grants a random ability, power, technique, or item.
Cost: 100 points per spin.
Status: Unavailable until midnight.
Current Points: 215
________________________________________
He let his body fall back, slumped against the cold wall.
Exhausted.
His gaze empty, lost somewhere between now… and never.
Waiting.
Fearing.
Not what he might gain…
But what he might still lose.
And then, midnight arrived.
The clock struck 00:00.
The window lit up, as cold as ever:
________________________________________
[Wheel of Fate]
Status: Available
Current Points: 215
________________________________________
Without hesitation, he thought.
And the world unraveled.
The room vanished.
Time cracked.
And before him rose the colossal Wheel of Fate, spinning in layered planes of symbols, names, and powers that defied all human logic.
But Motohama didn't need to understand.
He could see.
The Almighty awakened.
His eyes glowed electric blue, pupils transformed into the five-pointed Quincy Star.
The power tore through his body.
But he endured.
Before him, timelines multiplied.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Brutal deaths.
Devastating failures.
Useless abilities.
End after end after end.
But among them all…
One.
One possibility.
Almost unreachable.
But real.
His nose bled.
His skin turned pale.
His body teetered on the brink of collapse.
But he pushed harder.
Reached out.
And spun the wheel.
The circle came alive, spinning faster than time could measure.
All realities intertwined.
Wept.
Shattered.
And he fought.
Against fate.
Against himself.
Against the part that whispered:
"Give up."
But he couldn't.
— "Just… a little… more…", he whispered, voice heavy with blood and tears.
And then—
CLACK.
The pointer stopped.
And the window sliced through the void:
________________________________________
[Wheel of Fate — Result]
Summoning Coupon
Effect: Summons an entity or artifact suited to current risk level. The summoned being will be bound to the user across all realities.
Restriction: One-time use.
________________________________________
Motohama gasped, heart on the verge of rupture.
A… coupon?
The power to summon something…
Or someone.
Or something that might destroy him.
The wheel vanished.
The Almighty withdrew.
Only the humming remained…
And warm blood dripping from his chin.
He looked at the mirror…
And saw two reflections.
A man.
And a god in ascension.
He rose, staggering, holding the golden coupon — pulsing in his hand like a heart made of raw energy.
And tore it.
A golden screen appeared before him:
________________________________________
[Confirm Summon?]
This action is irreversible.
[YES]
[NO]
________________________________________
He hesitated.
For a second.
Just one.
But then…
YES.
The halves of the coupon disintegrated into thousands of blue particles, spinning like broken stars.
The air grew dense. Electric. Primordial.
The ground shook.
The digital clock glitched.
Then, Motohama found himself floating in the void — but it wasn't an ordinary void. It was a space where even existence itself seemed to bend and distort. Sometimes, it felt like endless falling; other times, like he was being pulled into a frozen abyss or consumed by invisible flames. As if the void had a will of its own, shaping sensations, guiding him like a ghost on autopilot.
Then, beneath him, a faint ripple of white light broke the infinite dark. From its center, a hand — made of pure light — emerged, reaching out as if someone were drowning in a silent, colorless sea. Without hesitation, Motohama floated toward it. He extended his right hand, and the moment they touched, he felt a gentle squeeze in return.
In an instant, a torrent of overwhelming emotions flooded into him.
Cutting pain.
Despair so ancient it echoed across lifetimes.
Absolute loneliness.
A silent scream from someone lost between worlds.
Without thought, without doubt, he gripped tighter — with both hands, with all of himself.
Slowly, a female body made of light began to emerge from the abyss. Ethereal. Luminous. Yet tangible.
There was no time for admiration.
Driven by a force beyond reason, Motohama wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close until their faces nearly touched.
Though her face was still undefined, like a translucent mask, she opened her eyes.
And as they locked with his — something happened.
A connection.
Intense. Inexplicable.
As if two souls that had wandered for eons had finally found each other.
Motohama was back in his room.
The ceiling light exploded with a dry crack.
And at the center of the room…
A blue vortex contracted violently.
FOOM!
The energy dispersed like cold mist, spiraling gently across the darkened room.
And there…
She stood.
Akiyama Rinko.
At first, just a silhouette —
Curves sculpted with cruel precision, built to seduce… and to subdue.
Her hair — long, black as ancient void — flowed like living smoke, cascading down her back like a cloak of seductive shadows.
Satin strands caught ambient light, flashing silver highlights in violent contrast to her translucent, cold, porcelain-like skin.
Then, her eyes.
Deep violet.
Slanted, intense.
They locked onto Motohama with a force beyond human.
Blades hidden beneath petals.
Razor beauty.
Desire and danger entwined.
She didn't ask for permission.
She happened.
Her outfit — a taimanin bodysuit black as absolute vacuum — clung to her like a second skin.
Glossy vinyl, almost liquid, traced every line, every curve, with aggressive sensuality that bordered on aesthetic violence.
Her breasts — full, high — seemed held back only by the fabric's courtesy.
The suit hugged her narrow waist, shaping her into a living hourglass, then flared over hips sculpted like divine traps.
Shapely, powerful thighs appeared between strategic slits — partial revelations that promised more than they showed:
Promises of war and pleasure.
Metallic plates on arms and legs — elegant, lethal — did not hide her femininity:
They amplified it.
As if to say:
"She can protect you. Or destroy you. And both will be beautiful."
Her lips — full, softly pink — parted with a measured, slow breath, as if just awoken from a dream… or about to enter battle.
She wasn't just a woman.
She was a presence.
An entity.
An archetype.
Desire, weaponized.
And then, without breaking eye contact, she knelt.
A fluid, almost ceremonial motion.
One knee touched the cold floor.
Her right hand rested on her chest.
And her voice — low, steady, filled with reverence… and the shadow of a promise — filled the room:
— Kusanagi Motohama… my master. I was summoned by your call. My body and my blade now belong to you.
Motohama felt a shiver crawl up his spine.
This was real.
He was no longer just a survivor.
He was a Master.
The window shimmered one last time:
________________________________________
[Entity Successfully Summoned]
Name: Akiyama Rinko
Rank: D
Class: Novice (Unregistered)
Bond: Master Kusanagi Motohama
Status: Ready to receive orders.
________________________________________
The panel vanished.
And in the thick silence that followed, Motohama took a deep breath…
For the first time since he died…
…he was no longer alone.
— Stand, Rinko… — he murmured, voice hoarse, but firm.
She rose with feline grace, owning her body as a weapon.
And then…
She smiled.
A knowing smile.
Precise.
The smile of someone who understood.
From that moment on…
They would face it together.