You'll be absolutely forgotten once you die.
No one will remember you, except for the passing thought as "the Septimal Moons member who tried to take down Seimei Aoyagi." You have not made a deep enough impression on enough people for your memory to linger on. Even now, no one really cares much about you. You've always been, and will be, that one lone forgotten vigilante who has stalked the streets in moonless midnights and saved many lives from a terror they couldn't comprehend. No one is able to sense the haunting solemnity with which you pursue a rat, nor hear the wearied echoes of your footsteps with which you tread upon the hallowed earth. No one recognizes the loneliness that permeates your life—not that you yourself are lonely and in want of a companion. What surrounds your every action is emptiness, but you don't perceive it. You ignore it. That void of emotions, pain, and understanding means nothing to you. You cannot connect to it, because you have no reason that binds it to you. And in the end, no one feels your small hand click the chess pieces into the place, one by one, as you struggle against an adversity who is just as a genius, if not more so, as you.
No one will understand you. They don't understand your drive for a reason, how a reason defines your whole entire world, and how that elder Aoyagi failed to give you a reason. No one fully comprehended how much anger tore through the child's body of yours, how you lusted for days and nights on end for the scent of his blood. No one could feel, not even your Fighter, the intense and profound capability of emotion that you possessed, and how it nearly drove you insane due to your inability to control them without a reason. You don't identify with emotions within yourself and others, nor can you control them. You end up disregarding them, and say that you have none, demand for others to recognize that you need none, even though that may be the most dangerous course of action from all possible. You know the truth after all- the truth that you do have a turbulent storm of passion created by a mind with metaphysical capabilities higher than the average crowd that threatens to break out if not for your (somewhat im)perfect mastery over how you act. Maybe you could even term yourself as a high functioning sociopath, or just something absolutely inhuman, as Beloved is.
No one will remember for you. It's true. Your Fighter might—but he'll die due to a broken heart immediately. A minor side character in a story- that is what you are. So minor, that people won't even remember the correct spelling or pronunciation of your name. So small, that you'll be seen as nothing more than a plot device, a way of setting things in motion. So insignificant, so negligible, that you'll be passed over and forgotten completely in a matter of months after your death. The multiple colors of your hair, the way you brush your long bangs to the right, the shape of your wide eyes and the spidery length of your eyelashes, the way your tiny full lips curves into a smile, the thrilling chirp of your voice, your ridiculously small hands with indelicate nails, your ears which stick out from the sides of your head like a mouse's, the smooth length of your thighs and shins, your long and delicate hipbones that only two has ever seen in full length as you remained panting, on the ground and with your back pushed up against the wall, the lack of a curve on your perfectly straight back, your twenty-two-point-five centimeter feet, your one hundred forty three centimeter height, your caseless iPhone, the way you sign all your texts with "Mikado," the umbrella with an unsmiling frog button, your perchance of quoting phrases from animes gone viral, how you dislike white shoes because of the quickly accumulating dirt, the fact you carry lap blankets in your bag, your dislike for storms that continue on end and how you miss being in perfect harmony with the only other person in the world who allowed you to share a bag of potato chips with him, the fact you don't care about losing your virginity as much as not receiving a reason- no one will ever remember those details that somehow add up to you.
A small scowl passes across your face, and you say that you are no sociopath. You are perfectly healthy, and have no troubles adapting to high stress situations. Nor do you have any misbehaviors that can classify you in with any disorder listed by the most recent edition of the DSM. And you most unquestionably don't care about being lost in the scheme of the story. You square your shoulders, and arch one eyebrow. So the point of your monologue is. . . ? you ask. Even if you are forgotten by those who don't matter, you don't give a shit. In fact, you correct my earlier words. You tell me that you'll definitely win, and that the prize you claim at the end would be Aoyagi's dead, stiff corpse packed neatly away in a box- after you've cut him to bits and pieces. You yawn, then remind me that the word "gomon" means "torture." There's a reason why you clarify for people that your two names share the same "imperial" characters, you say. Too many are afraid of the girl who tells them her name means "heavenly torture." It would be a shame to fail your own namesake, you pointedly comment.
Is it okay to think that way? I ask. Hubris is the downfall of many. Like Achilles, you have a choice of hiding away and living a longer life, or actively seeking out your enemy and die in the process. It's a question poised to aggravate you, and we both know it.
You shake your head, and you speak words that people need to hear, comprehend, digest, break apart syllable by syllable, and listen just for this onefuckingtime. There is no other truth to your personality, and you still don't understand how the hell people can mistake your words- ! It's right there, right in front of them, and yet you still don't see how you can be confused for some lost, confused little girl who cries in her bedroom silently every night over the loss of her ears—which was bound to happen one way or the other! You settle down, your fury smooths over again, and you sigh a little, and pleasantly restate your words. In your eyes- in your eyes, you warn everyone not to create any misinterpretations.
"He didn't give me a reason. I have a grudge against him for that. It's treason towards a kindred soul."