I wasn't seeing things.
My eyes were fine. They weren't playing tricks.
It was true. It really happened.
Malthus killed forty-six Heroes in one swing.
One clean, godless, merciless swing.
Their heads dropped to the ground like overripe apples in a cursed orchard.
Their eyes still gawked at me, wide open, as if asking, "My lord... what happened?"
They were alive a second ago. Forty-six! Not forty-five, not forty-seven — forty-six!
I counted. I counted them like school attendance. And every single one was now absent forever.
Yamete had a sister. What will I say to her? What answer will I give her? Who will make her wet now?
But will I even get a chance to say anything at all?
Ted Bundy. He died. What will I tell that old woman now? That the man who made her feel like a girl again is no more?
Pedro. He died too.
His fishing rod lay next to his head — stiff, still, as if mourning.
He caught nothing today. Not even life.
Kudasai was dead.
