PROLOGUE CONTAINS ARC 9 SPOILERS, IF YOU DON'T WISH TO READ SPOILERS, PLEASE SKIP THE PROLOGUE. IT'S NOT RELAVENT TO THE IF STORY.

The only thing that floods his senses now—the only thing real—is the burning sensation in his left leg.

That, and the knowledge that he's not getting out of this one. Losing an arm had been survivable. Barely. But losing a leg?

This had to be the end for him.

Aldebaran—Al, knight of the ever-unbothered, ever-irritatingly-radiant Priscilla Barielle—collapsed onto the bloodstained orange floor, the pattern beneath him blurred by tears and dirt and the pulsing haze of agony. The circle beneath him, once a spell array of perfect geometry, now looked like a ritual site for failure.

And above him… floated her.

?: "Ahhh… classic sack-of-meat behavior!" came the voice, sickly sweet and soaked in mockery.

?: "You lost to my extraordinary blue dragon arms—or whatever I should call them. Teehee~ oh dear, oh dear~!"

Her voice slithered through the air like oil on fire. Her eyes glimmered with a joy that had nothing to do with happiness and everything to do with ruin.

?: "Doesn't it hurt? YESS! It does, right? I wonder who'll give out first… that silver-haired sack of meat, or you~?"

Capella Emerada Lugunica.

Sin Archbishop of Lust.

In every loop, in every hellish iteration, she remained unchanged. Immutable. Like a virus in the DNA of the world.

A creature of nightmares, wrapped in flesh that was always… wrong. She hated humanity. Hated its rules. Its fragility. Its order.

And she loved tearing it down.

Her voice wormed its way into your skull—like someone dragging a blade across your eardrums while whispering childhood secrets.

And then—

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

A scream. Inhuman. Agonizing.

Louder than anything that should've been possible.

It pierced through the battlefield and vanished into the wind, like a banshee's cry swallowed by chaos.

Al's head jerked toward the source. His vision blurred, pain screaming in protest.

But what he saw—

What he saw erased every other thought.

Her.

Emilia.

No longer the shining girl of frost and fragile ideals. Not even a person anymore.

Blood soaked her silver hair until it looked like rusted iron. Her body—a canvas of crimson and ruin. Her limbs were mangled. Her face—barely distinguishable.

If she'd been born this way, no one would've called her the Silver-Haired Half-Elf. They would've wept and walked away.

And through that broken face came a voice, barely above a whisper.

"Na…tsuki Subaru… save… me…"

Her last words. Tainted by despair. And guilt.

She had failed him. She knew it. And she said his name like a prayer too late.

Al tore his gaze away.

He didn't want to look.

He had to.

There—Subaru. Motionless. Silent.

His body lay still, like a discarded doll. No twitch. No glow. No Return by Death.

He would've come back by now.

Right?

Right…?

Al tried to move. His body screamed. But he had to reach her. He had to see. Confirm.

But what he saw—

—Her legs. Gone. Cleanly severed.

—Her torso—split. Entrails like garlands of horror. Elsa? No. She was dead. This… this was Capella's touch. Elsa's mother.

And her skull…

Split.

Brain matter bubbling from the cavity like candle wax melted over a shrine of tragedy.

His vision swam.

How could he save anyone from this?

In a final act of rebellion against death, his trembling fingers carved something invisible in the air.

A number.

43.

Forty-three loops.

Forty-three failures.

Forty-three times he tried to get it right.

Each death had bought him time. Had let him be selfish. Let him protect the people he cared about.

But now…?

Now there was no second chance.

Only the end.

Then—the voices.

"GIVE UP."

"JUST GIVE UP ALREADY."

"YOU'RE JUST SOME ISEKAI LOSER WHO THOUGHT HE WAS A HERO. YOU'RE TRASH."

"TRY TO PROVE YOU'RE A HERO. GO ON. DO IT."

"YOU CAN'T. OBVIOUSLY. HAHAHAHA!"

"IF YOU CAN'T THINK, THEN DON'T THINK. JUST GIVE UP. LEAVE IT ALL BEHIND."

"—"

His lips twitched. Blood dripped from his tongue as he forced one last word through gritted teeth.

"Why?"

His vision flickered like a dying lightbulb. But the pain… the pain wasn't the worst part.

It was the screams.

The cries of those he failed to save. Louder than the blood in his ears. Louder than any scolding he ever gave himself.

That damn Witch Cult.

They tore through the city like wildfire. And him?

He let it happen.

He'd died here before. Not in this exact spot, but close. Always close. He'd always come back. One step earlier. One choice better.

But this time…?

Maybe he didn't want to open his eyes again.

"Flood the city," she had said. "Buy us time," she had begged.

But he didn't.

Not after watching the children drown in that one loop. The way they screamed. The way they reached for him.

He couldn't do it again.

And now?

This.

Black.

That's all there is.

No light.

No pain.

No guilt.

Only a single thought adrift in the void:

"They say heroes rise again."

"Me? I'm sick of rising."