Ryou's Story

by ACE-in-Wonderland

This story is mine to tell. No, not the one whom most refer to as Bakura, the spirit of the millennium ring, just me. He already stole my name but I cannot- will not- let him take away the one thing I have left...my words.

7. The Truth About Stained Glass

Ryou's Story

By: ACE329

Summary: This story is mine to tell. No, not the one whom most refer to as Bakura, the spirit of the millennium ring, just me. He already stole my name but I cannot- will not- let him take away the one thing that I have left…my words.

Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-gi-oh! If I did, admittedly, there would probably be far less Duel Monsters. So I guess really, I'm just a fanatic of the characters :)

A/N: Long time no see, eh…? I got to this chapter far before I had planned, so yay. Now, just to warn you all, this chapter takes on a more religious tone, which is a very dangerous topic to address…comparable to stomping on ice with iron-clad boots. So heads up. Just wanted to clarify though, that I am not using this as a means of projecting my own beliefs. Keep in mind that an author's job is to distance his or her own values from the character being portrayed. So in no way, shape or form, am I marketing what I believe.

And by the way, there is a reason why I'm throwing a church scene into this story. I'm not tossing around this plot haphazardly, I can promise you that.

(*The psalm that I quote during this chapter is psalm 22)

Lastly, there's just a sprinkle of irony in this chapter. Can you find where it is…?

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Chapter Seven- The Truth About Stained Glass

"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

The solemn words of an ancient Christian psalm dreamily trailed through the chilly autumn air, reaching my ears while I was passing a church.

It was a dreary Sunday morning as bitter raindrops carefully fell from the slate sky. It wasn't quite raining yet; it was more so tentatively splattering from above. Occasionally thunder would grumble behind the clouds, threatening for a storm.

I was just heading back to my apartment from a local pastry shop. I woke up earlier with a huge craving for a sugar-injected confection, tiring of the typical Japanese cuisine. An English boy can only take miso soup for so long, after all.

I had every intention of making a direct trip from the shop to my home- I only planned to be gone maybe ten minutes. But there was something about the song that had drifted over to me that made me pause and listen.

"Why are you so far from saving me, so far from the words of my groaning?"

I shuddered. I hadn't been to church since I was a child, disenchanted by reality. I figured to myself, what God would let my life fall so miserably out of control?

And yet there I stood, completely still while passersby had to irritably sidestep the cumbersome boy who apparently forgot how to walk.

What was it about those words that appealed to me so much? It seemed to strike a chord from within me, awakening a once dormant curiosity for a God I had forgotten years ago.

And so there I lingered, dumbfounded, spontaneously compelled to actually enter the church. Even I didn't know why.

I hastily stared down at the wrinkled paper bag in my clenched hand, containing two generously-frosted éclairs in all their delicious glory.

It appeared my breakfast would just have to wait.

Somewhat reluctantly, I ducked out of the cool wet weather and into the nearby church that was beckoning me to enter. The song still carried on, growing louder in volume as I stalked through the large wooden doors, feeling more like a spy than a welcomed member.

The church wasn't too full, allowing me to sneak into one of the back rows without much commotion. In fact, no one seemed to care. Without missing a beat, people continued to sing with the choir, some with clasped hands in prayer while others held onto hymn books.

Everyone was standing, but I elected to sit down behind a pew, observing rather than participating. I didn't even bother to take off my jacket- I merely sat there, listening, allowing my shoulders to finally relax as I descended into a reflecting mode.

"My God my God, why have you forsaken me?
Why are you so far from saving me,
So far from the words of my groaning?
But I am a worm and not a man,
Scarred by men and despised by the people…"

A sardonic smile faintly touched my lips. I could definitely relate. All my life, I have always wondered when I would be saved, when help would finally come and ward off all the disasters that seemed to gravitate around me.

Then I considered Amane's words to me that one fateful day in my soul room.

"Stop being the victim," she had said.

I remembered the way her dark ocean blue eyes stared at me without a trace of sympathy. Clearly she cared for me, but so badly she wanted to communicate that I couldn't just curl up into a fetal position every time events took a turn for the worse. She wanted me to fight back, to never give up.

Of course, it was definitely easier said than done. After all, a murderer inhabited my body, without a hint of the human emotion we call compassion. Did he even care about what evil acts he had committed all for the sake of sadism? As far as I could tell, there was no end to what the spirit of the ring would be willing to do.

And those kinds of people, the ones without any sense of empathy, ethics, or a conscious, are the most dangerous.

Visions of my smashed piano and dripping blood churned in my mind. Days earlier I had eventually willed myself to pick up the piano pieces and transfer them into the garbage dump, not bothering to salvage any of it. To keep a part, even something as trivial as a piano key, would be a bitter souvenir of the power Nameless had over me.

I vaguely felt the chill of the ring's icy metal resting against my chest.

It began to rain harder outside. Heavy raindrops ceaselessly pelted the roof of the church, reminding me of bullets smashing into a tin can. I glanced up in mild interest, noticing how the dim lights flickered occasionally.

The stained glass windows engulfing the church sparkled like gems in the glittering light. The way the vibrant fragments would illuminate, it was like a dancing fire was swirling from the inside of the glass. Vacant eyes of apostles and angels alike sprung to life, glittering with their omniscience.

It almost made me wonder, could they see right through me? Did even inanimate objects know that I hosted a killer inside of me and fought so desperately hard to keep it a secret?

Did they recognize that no secrets can be hidden from God?

A flash of lightning made the kaleidoscopic images before me glimmer brighter than before. The shadows contouring all the faces appeared edgier, angrier. How condescendingly they looked down on me!

I shuddered, no longer willing to stare into the unnerving faces that appeared to scream accusations with their insightful eyes. And the way every depicted man, every messenger of God, would raise his hands up to the sky…

As if merely asking for salvation would bring it.

I was torn out of my thoughts when the song finally ended with its concluding stanza:

"Do not be far from me,
For trouble is near,
And there is no one to help."

Silence slowly crept through the church as the song came to its dismal close. The congregation remained in quiet contemplation, reflecting on the hymn until the priest raised his arms in acknowledgment, similar to the stained glass figures, and proceeded the service in prayer.

I didn't bother listening, for a timid idea sprung up in my mind.

What if I told someone about Nameless's actions from a few nights ago? What if I didn't have to carry the burden of hiding such a horrific secret? If I could just tell someone, anyone…

And so I sat there, watching, patiently waiting for the mass to conclude. It was sort of nice, resting there, pretending that I had a concept as powerful as God on my side. In a way I felt safe, as if there would be no way that Nameless could assume control of my body in a place as sacred as a church. For once I ignored the way the ring would cling to my skin like a parasite, imagining that I had the power to wake up from this nightmare at any time.

Twenty minutes or so seemed to pass relatively quickly, in a hurry to drag me out of my wishful fantasy world. I didn't know mass was over until I began to notice people gathering their belongings and leaving, heading out to continue their everyday lives. Soon colorful umbrellas were popped open as individuals ventured outside, braving the tumultuous weather.

Reluctantly I stood up, taking my weathered paper bag containing my breakfast with me. My stomach, as if on cue, started to growl in protest, but instead of exiting like everyone else, I headed over to the very back of the church where an isolated room resided.

Interesting, how the cascading raindrops from the outside made the angels trapped in the stained glass seem like they were crying.

The room I had brought myself to was closed. There was a light shining above the ancient wooden door, looking strongly similar to a traffic light. One half of it was green while the other was red. Observing that the green half was lit, I reached for the door handle, preparing to open it.

I have a memory from my childhood. It was back when my father insisted on attending church with my sister and I. It wasn't much later from when my mother had passed away, and my father claimed that going to mass every Sunday and learning about God was what my mother would have wanted.

Even though my mother was an atheist.

How do I know this? It was one of the many reasons that my grandparents disowned her. I distinctly recall receiving a letter from my grandmother once, "inviting" me to visit in Liverpool. The envelope was actually sealed in wax, pressed with her own logo. I couldn't believe it. And how did she find my address? My father and I must have moved at least five times. I suppose that like Magnus Cleaver, rich people have a strange ability to slink around until they find what they want.

It was about a year ago. Why my grandmother randomly decided that that was a good time to pop into my life I have no clue. But my favorite lines in the letter were these:

"Please, if you feel so compelled, come and visit your grandparents, who have been so anxious to meet you and your sister. We would love to see how your sadly misguided, atheist mother has raised you both. Allow us the pleasure of witnessing how you have grown from a mud puddle, Ryou dearest."

For honesty's sake, I laughed when I had finished reading the letter. It was so repulsively comical. If only they knew both my mother and Amane were dead.

Enclosed in this letter was a ridiculous sum of money. It could have been for airfare expenses, but it didn't matter to me.

I thoroughly enjoyed cremating that letter in addition to the money, watching the red wax sluggishly drip off the envelope that was probably more expensive than my shoes.

My apologies- that was absurdly off topic. Going back to my father, he dragged both Amane and I to mass every Sunday, perhaps believing that going to church would somehow help turn our lives around. Or maybe it was his penance for not being there when my mother was killed. Either way, I felt his efforts were pointless. I mean, how could he expect his children to willingly attend church and believe every word spoken while he didn't believe in anything himself?

Even when my father went off on his extended trips he made sure the nannies continued taking both my sister and I to church. Week after week after week. And eventually, even when he was home, my father didn't bother to attend mass with us- he said he was just too "tired."

Maybe my father wasn't so concerned about his own soul after all.

Maybe he was just concerned about mine. Or Amane's. Perhaps he feared the murder of our mother could have planted a seed for evil in our young minds.

And, coincidentally, during that phase in my life when I was force-fed religion, I had been caught doing something that my father was horrifically ashamed of.

Stealing.

It was just a plain deck of playing cards. I was around six at the time, and as I was grocery shopping with my father, I came across an aisle packed with random cheap toys and hoards of candy. Really, today I think that these sorts of aisles are put in to annoy the living daylights out of parents.

But for some odd reason I was compelled to get those deck of cards. They just looked so colorful, and I remembered seeing people dealing with similar cards on TV, suavely thumbing and flicking cards in such a mesmerizing way. In a simple child's mind, I suppose I wanted to look that "suave" too.

"Dad." I had stopped in front of my desired item, refusing to move until my father had looked back. It was one of those rare times when my father was actually doing the grocery shopping, taking me along with him. He must have felt I was old enough to handle myself in public.

For the time being, he was wrong.

"What, Ryou?" My father had impatiently asked as his eyes followed the direction mine were glued to.

"Can I have them?"

"No." And then my father had continued walking, trudging the cart with the squeaky wheel along. I had stared after him in momentary silence.

Children are crafty. The way I saw it, I could have done one of several things. First, I could have created a scene. Cry, maybe shout how my father hated me, cry some more until enough people would look over and my father would grudgingly give in.

Second, I could have used some sort of bribe. Perhaps offer a truce. If I didn't ask for anything else- including the gum in the gumball machine- I could have the cards.

Or…

Or I could pretend as if I had moved on, letting my father continue with his shopping, and when his back was turned, I could simply take the cards.

Just like that.

It was just too easy. No one was around. My father wasn't even paying any attention toward me. I could just reach out and grab the cards, pocket them, and move on.

And so I did.

Too bad I left all my newly obtained cards lying around the house later that day. It was then that my father realized that perhaps going to church was not enough.

I soon became familiar with the practice of confession. Or as the Christians call it, "Reconciliation."As punishment for stealing a deck of cards- not likely to be worth more than a pound- I had to sit in an awkwardly tiny confession room and tell a priest about all the "sins" that I had committed. This went on every week for months.

Needless to say I used to know the entire ritual of confession by heart. But that was years ago which brings me back to the present, where I stood before the very room I swore to myself that I would never step foot in again.

I vaguely remembered a priest explaining to me when a green light was lit above a confession room, it indicated that a clergyman was in there, ready to listen.

And there the green light glowed, daring me to enter.

I noticed that my heart had suddenly picked up its pace and commenced hammering away inside of my ribcage. I hesitated before I opened the door, wondering if Nameless could detect my apprehension. I threw this thought aside as I swallowed my fear and willed myself to enter the room.

Thankfully, there was a wall separating me and the priest; otherwise, I probably wouldn't have been able to even tell him something as insignificant as not eating enough fruits and vegetables in a day. It was better this way…I couldn't bear to look a priest right in the eye and tell him what I intended to.

"Good morning, my child. What has brought you here today?" The priest's words made me jump in alarm.

Wiping my brow, I hesitated, as my mind scattered to form a sentence.

"Um, good morning, Father," –is that what you call a priest?- "I'm here to…to confess my sins."

Well, obviously. Why else would I be there?

I could faintly see the outline of the priest through a veiled screen. Nodding his head, he said, "And so you are. We open our hearts and will pray for God's divine forgiveness in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit…"

He then fell silent. I quickly glanced over at the wall separating us, uncertainty washing over me.

"…Amen?" I very slowly enunciated, hesitant.

I saw him nod his head again in affirmation. "Amen," he agreed. "May God, who has enlightened every heart, help you to know your sins and trust in his mercy…"

The priest then continued on to read a brief passage from the Scripture as I tried to stifle my galloping heart. What was I doing? Was I really going to go through with this? What if Nameless found out…?

I heard the priest voice the sign of the Cross, followed by another string of silence.

Was this the part where I confessed my sins…?

"You may commence your confession."

Oh.

I felt blood rush up to my temples, slowly and powerfully throbbing. I was so conflicted. Should I be entirely honest? Maybe I should just tell only part of the truth. But I was already in there…

"I-I'm sorry, I haven't done this in a really long time," I softly began, afraid if I spoke too loud Nameless would have heard me, "But I really need to- to get this off my chest…"

Well, it was a start. I suppose "this" could count for both my guilt and the ring.

"My child, nothing is too big to be kept a secret, especially from God. Tell me whatever it is that ails you."

I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with as much air as I could take in. It now felt like my heart had risen up to my head, pounding ceaselessly in my brain.

"I…I think…"

I had to swallow as my vision began to blur. I had to do this.

I couldn't keep it all to myself any longer.

"I think I killed someone."

I heard a startled gasp emerge from the priest, for even he was unable to contain such a revelation.

I could tell he was desperately fighting for composure. His voice descended into a harsh incredulous whisper. "What…did you just say?"

"Ryou…" I heard a familiar voice hiss dangerously in my ear. In response, the ring lying against my chest awakened, pricking its pinnacles into my skin. Nameless was warning me.

So he was listening after all. The whole time.

I bit my lip in frustration as I squeezed my eyes shut. "I can't let this pass. You robbed someone's life and I can't rest knowing that you could easily do it again."

I heard the faintest scoff from the spirit, not amused enough to be his usual chuckle. "But, foolish Ryou, that was only to punish you for your actions. If you had only behaved-"

"Don't you dare turn this on me!" I exclaimed, anger welling up inside of me, "You're a monster and everything is all your fault-!"

"Oh, 'everything' now? Who was the one who simply sat there and watched idly as I would trap countless of souls into your silly little board game…?"

I was so enraged, I wanted to cry. Instead I turned my attention back to the priest. "I mean, it wasn't me, there's this demon living inside of me-"

Faster than I could finish my sentence, Nameless forced my soul out of consciousness and snatched away the control that I had.

I blacked out for hardly a moment, regaining my bearings again when my eyes were greeted with the eccentric colors that existed only in my soul room.

My eyes darkened as I watched leaves endlessly rain from the sky, spinning like toy paratroopers and blanketing the ground.

I was laying face down, the earthy soil pressing against my cheek. I blinked in disbelief. Instead of revealing to a priest about the genuinely evil soul that I shared a body with, there I was, stuck once again inside of my soul room.

Letting out a cry of frustration, I slammed my fists down into the ground. If only there was a way to get out…

I let my eyes seal shut as I merely laid there, scarcely moving. The sound of a grand piano trailed through the breezy air, playing an eerie and brooding piece that seemed to contradict the blindingly bright sun that I was shielding my eyes against when I closed them.

And then I heard him. Like a person talking loudly on the other side of the door, I heard Nameless communicating with the priest, doing a horrible impersonation of me.

It was like a slap to the face.

"Well, that is, in my dream. Goodness no, I would never harm anyone! But I am a tad worried, is it a sin to dream of killing someone…? I am just so horribly ashamed…"

I heard the priest heave a sigh of relief as he offered his two-cents. "Well no it is not my child, but sometimes, you need to recognize that dreams can be an indicator to your inner frustration…"

My face twisted in disgust as I turned my head away, refusing to listen to any more.

…

Did the spirit of the ring honestly think that I talked like that…?

And then, impulsively, I got to my feet, rushing over to the door that led to Nameless's soul room. I made sure to not look through the eye-shaped 'peephole,' not wanting to witness how badly Nameless was imitating me.

I began to harshly pound on the door. "Spirit! Let me out! You can't get away with this! Let me out now!"

I continued to incessantly bang my fists against the impenetrable wooden frame, shouting similar sentiments, failing to notice that Nameless had cut my session with the priest short by barely offering an excuse to his sudden departure.

Unexpectedly, the door I had been pounding on burst open, nearly hitting me in the face.

A strangled gasp got caught in my throat as I jumped back as if electrocuted.

And there he was.

Nameless stood before me, staring down at me with steely cold eyes. He looked like a dangerous combination of irritated, disgusted, enraged and somehow indifferent, all at once. It was enough to make my blood freeze over.

It was also the first time I had ever seen the spirit of the ring apart from my body. I was left speechless as I looked up at Nameless, almost with a sense of horrified awe. There were some obvious differences, such as his looming height and infinitely stronger build, but there were more subtle disparities as well. For one, his posture was undoubtedly much more confident than mine. The way he kept his chest protruding, his head tilted slightly to the side in mockery…and his arms, which were resolutely folded, could scarcely conceal his bulging muscles. And his sneer…he seemed to have the expression of someone who knew more about you than you did plastered on his sharply contoured face.

I think the most disconcerting facet to his appearance was his eyes. They were a murky shade of red, similar to dried blood. Within those pools of hell lurked a maniacal tint, indicating to me that yes, he was perfectly capable of murder without feeling the tiniest spark of guilt.

And then a thought dawned on me- could Nameless actually touch me in my soul room? I mean, he was just a spirit, right? But then again, in there, I was too….

Finally, Nameless spoke.

"You are a bigger idiot than I had once thought. What, did you honestly believe that a priest could do some pathetic exorcism on you or something to be rid of me?"

He then took a step closer in my direction; I took a step back.

"Here's a clue…" Nameless continued, observing me intently, "Not gonna happen. It would never work. You can't get rid of me that easily. In fact, you will never be able to make me leave. Your body is my property as well. Now stop this rebellious nonsense immediately. Unless of course if the death of one person isn't enough for you."

I finally snapped out of my shock enough to speak. "H-how did you get in here? There's no way that-"

Nameless ignored my question as he proceeded to walk closer to me. It was more like a prowl, really. His eyes burned with malicious conviction.

Unflinchingly, Nameless lashed out and grabbed a handful of my hair. I winced, feeling nausea rise up from my stomach and causing my entire body to shake uncontrollably.

Admittedly, his grip didn't really hurt, but rather he used it to tilt my head up. He was alarmingly close, far too close for my comfort. It was like a lion having its massive paws on its victim's throat.

Molten russet eyes seared into my own.

"Look at me, Ryou Bakura. I am very much real. I am not some fleeting voice that you hear in the darkness of the night. This isn't going to go away on its own. This isn't a 'bad' dream. So I insist that you wake up and deal with it. This is your life, now it's about time that you accept it." He then released me, letting me tumble to the ground.

I clutched at the earthen floor underneath me, letting the dirt seep between my fingers. So badly I wished I could just stop shaking.

What happened to all the words I had thought of earlier to shout in retort? Why did every insult, every brave accusation, escape me all too willingly?

I did, however, muster up enough courage to look back up at Nameless. In turn, he stared back down at me, his lips pressed together in revulsion.

"So this is what happened to the other half of my cursed soul," Nameless spat, his eyes swimming with contempt.

I was too shaken with the fact that the spirit had gotten so close to me to come up with a response. I just remained in the spot where I had fallen, uncomprehendingly watching Nameless turn on his heel sharply and leave. The door slammed with a sickening smash.

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I returned home in a daze a little later, realizing that I had forgotten my éclairs in the church with a feeling of dismay washing over me. So much for breakfast.

As it turned out, it was perhaps a good thing that I didn't have anything in my stomach as I burst through my apartment door, for I was greeted with a very indigestible surprise.

"Ryou! I was wondering where you were. How are you doing, son?" My father gave me a smile, an oddly pleased smile, as he clapped me on the back.

I blankly stared at him.

What was my father doing here? He was never home…

"Father…hi," was all I managed to choke out. I also wanted to ask him, "Why are you here?" but bit my tongue.

"I just got back from a conference. And you'll never guess what happened."

"What." I couldn't bring myself to even sound curious. My mind was swarming with too many other thoughts and, I won't even try to lie, annoyance. After all, since when had my father ever looked so… cheerful? He reminded me of a salesman from an infomercial persuading his audience to buy a 'magic' hand sweeper that could vacuum anything. Could it even suck off the smile on my father's face?

"Ryou, I got a promotion! Isn't that fantastic? My hard work is finally paying off." My father's smile was still plastered on his face.

And since when did my father ever say the word "fantastic"?

"That's great, really. So does that mean that you'll be working even more, or-"

"Oh, no, definitely not. On the contrary, I'll be working far less! I've been transferred over to a local museum that collaborates with my firm so now I'll be helping out with the management there."

"You mean the museum right next to Domino High?"

"Exactly. My hours will be far more regular, which means I'll be home a lot more often."

I felt the color drain from my face as his words registered. This couldn't have been happening.

The spirit of the ring was a murderer and now my father wanted to stay close to home?

"You must be happy," was all I had managed to say as I smiled weakly. I could feel the corners of my mouth slightly wavering.

My father took no notice of this, abruptly turning on his heel as he headed into the kitchen. "Oh, I am, Ryou. Hey, I just made some coffee. Would you like some?"

"You know I don't drink coffee."

"Oh, right. Just figured your tastes grew up a little, that's all."

I heard the sound of coffee pouring. The way my father was acting so casual, so conversational, was driving me mad.

"Say, did you hear the news?"

My eyes trailed over to the kitchen area wearily. "What news?"

I heard a refrigerator briskly open and close. "You know, about the disappearing high school student? He was around your age, I think."

I ignored an alarming thought that fleetingly dashed through my mind. "Doesn't that sort of thing happen all the time?"

"Not in Japan, no. Apparently crimes are considered far more taboo here than in the U.K. Especially in suburbs like Domino."

"He…he was from Domino?"

"Domino High, yes. I believe he was a junior? That's your grade, Ryou, maybe you would recognize his name." I failed to correct my father that I was actually a sophomore, too occupied with my previous suspicion which was now coming to me as a badly tuned radio station on maximum volume.

Carefully balancing a cup of coffee and a pastry in one hand, my father made a beeline for the television in the living room as he went to turn it on.

Coincidentally, far too coincidentally if you ask me, the TV answered my unspoken question before my father did.

"Police are still searching for high school student Botan Nosaka, who has been missing for three days. Sources say that no evidence has been found of a perpetrator just yet…"

An image of a frail teenage boy flashed on the TV momentarily. A pair of indigo eyes looked out vacantly from the screen, matched with a demure smile.

I was vaguely aware of my father rambling on about the tragedy of a parent losing a child, and how it was "such a shame," but I couldn't bring myself to fully listen. With eyes glued to the television screen, my mind began to reluctantly connect the pieces together.

I knew that Nameless murdered someone three days ago. About two days ago, I had thrown away the piano pieces stained with blood, taking away all the evidence that went with it. Did that one thoughtless move just buy Nameless a ticket to undeserved innocence?

But I often forget, the spirit of the ring's fate is my fate, too.

Did that mean, if I had confessed to the priest, or if I had confessed to anyone about Nameless's actions, that I would be the one to suffer the consequences?

"Your life is my life, Vessel…" I heard a faint whisper, "And my life is yours…"

Despite the chill that washed over my body, I was getting used to Nameless randomly interjecting into my thoughts. And for once, I didn't feel like responding to his words. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. And besides, with my father in the room, who knows if I would have been able to contain my conversation merely in my head while keeping a completely neutral facial expression. I didn't need my own father to question my sanity as well.

"Yup, it's really a shame with that boy's family, too…" my father continued, rousing me out of my thoughts, "Make sure you say your condolences to Botan's sister, you hear? These sort of things just don't happen that often in Domino."

Miho Nosaka. I barely remembered her. She was that shy, quiet girl- almost as quiet as me- whom Honda had obsessed over every day in school.

"Did you guys notice? Miho changed the color of the ribbon in her hair-!", "Did you see how she smiled at me at lunch?", "When they called attendance in class today, I swear, Miho's voice is the most beautiful of all…"

Such is the ways of someone who has fallen victim to love. And personally, I hope it never happens to me. How else could a masculine, war-obsessing jock turn into the latest Shakespeare…?

In any case, I knew that Miho was a fellow classmate in my grade, and she definitely did not deserve to suffer for the inconceivable actions of the ring. No one did.

And what I'd like to know, is why am I the one to feel so utterly responsible for the people Nameless had come into contact with?

As if his actions were my actions.

And that scares me.

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