The darkness that greeted me after shattering the mirror was not like the others. It wasn't the void between deaths, that brief respite of non-existence. It was conscious. I was awake in nothingness, a point of perception floating in a sea of infinite, silent blackness. I had no body, no form, only the echo of my own shattered mind and a single physical sensation that anchored me to reality: the sharp, throbbing pain in the knuckles of my right hand.
The pain was my compass. It was proof that the mirror had been real, that my fist had been real, that my collapse had been real. In the silence of the void, the fragments of my last revelation spun like broken glass. The question from my reflection resonated endlessly: Was it pain... or was it just laziness?
Here, in the absolute blackness, with no fire, no phantoms, no distractions, there was nowhere to run. The answer was obvious and nauseating. It had been laziness. A spiritual laziness so profound that I had preferred to construct an entire identity around manufactured sadness rather than do the arduous work of seeking joy. I had chosen to be a victim because being a hero, even the hero of my own small life, required an effort I was unwilling to make.
This acceptance was not liberating. It was the final shovelful of dirt on the coffin of the person I thought I was. The misunderstood Kenji, the sensitive soul, had never existed. It was a fiction. A lie. The ultimate heresy I had committed was not against any god, but against myself.
And with that final truth came a colder, heavier despair than any before. I revisited the levels in my mind, but this time with the clarity of an executioner examining his own performances.
I saw Yuki, alone on the park bench. My indifference was not a simple childish oversight. It was the first brick of my laziness: it was easier to run after a beetle than to face the emotional complexity of friendship and farewell.
I saw my parents in the school office. My rebellion was not a fight for freedom. It was the easy path. It was simpler to paint my parents as tyrants than to admit my own fear of failure and work to overcome it.
I saw Valeria in her kitchen. My vampiric need was not born of deep existential anguish. It was born of laziness. It was easier to absorb her strength than to cultivate my own. It was easier to complain than to listen. It was easier to take than to give.
I saw the garden of unspoken futures. And that was the final consequence. The logical outcome. My laziness, my selfishness, my refusal to grow, had created a void so vast that a potential future was sacrificed so as not to disturb my comfort. Valeria's decision was not just to protect herself from me; it was to protect a potential child from me. From my weakness.
All my tragedies, all my purgatories, were not trials imposed by a cruel universe. They were the direct consequences of my fundamental choice: the choice of inertia over effort.
I was lost. In the void, I understood the finality of my situation. It was irredeemable. The damage was done. The scars I had left on others were permanent. Even if there was a way out of this hell, what would I return to? To a world I had poisoned with my own apathy? I could not undo Yuki's loneliness, nor give my parents back years of worry, nor erase the memory of the clinic from Valeria's mind. I could do nothing. I was a ghost, tormented not by what had been done to him, but by what he had done. An architect who finally realized that the only structure he had built was his own prison.
I felt my consciousness unraveling, this time voluntarily. What was the point of continuing? Of clinging to this "me" that had turned out to be a sham? It would be better to simply let go, dissolve into this blackness, become nothing. It was a form of justice, after all.
I was about to let go. About to surrender.
And then, something happened.
In the center of the blackness, in the heart of my absolute despair, an image appeared. It wasn't a memory. It was an idea. A question.
What if I can?
The thought was so small, so absurd, so illogical, that I almost dismissed it. But it persisted. It was a spark in a gas-filled room.
I can't change the past, I told myself, my old voice of self-pity trying to extinguish the spark.
No, replied the new voice, a voice I didn't recognize, stronger, fiercer. You can't change the past. But you can honor it. You can learn from it.
The spark grew, fueled by a desperate logic.
I can't go back in time and find Yuki on that bench. But if I get out of here, I can find her in the present. I can look her in the eye and say, "I'm sorry. I was a selfish child. Your friendship mattered." Maybe she'll laugh. Maybe she won't remember me. But the apology would be real. The act would be real.
I can't erase the words I said to my parents. But if I get out of here, I can call them. Not to talk about me, but to ask about them. I can listen, truly listen, to their stories, their fears, their dreams. I can stop being a son who demands and start being a son who gives.
I can't give Valeria back the years, the energy, the love I stole from her. And I can't... I can't undo the other thing. The pain of that thought was a mountain. The spark wavered.
But the fierce voice roared back. No! You can't. But you can live a life that makes her sacrifice not in vain. You can become the man she deserved, the man who would have been a good father. You can take all that weakness, all that laziness, and forge it into strength and responsibility. You can live with so much kindness and so much intention that the universe bows before the weight of your regret.
And the spark became a flame.
It wasn't a warm, comforting flame. It was a white, burning fire at the core of my being. A fire of pure fury and determination. Despair didn't disappear, but it transformed. It became fuel. Every mistake, every sin, every failure, was no longer a chain binding me. They were kindling for the fire.
If I get out of here.
It wasn't a question. It was an oath. IF I GET OUT OF HERE.
I will make things right. Not by erasing them, but by building something new on their ruins. I will earn my second chance. Not because I deserve it, but because I will claim it with blood, sweat, and every breath I have left.
The human spirit, or what remained of it, that tiny ember buried beneath layers of laziness and self-pity, was ablaze. And it burned away the void.
The blackness around me began to recede, as if the light of my new resolve was too bright for it. My form began to coalesce again. I felt my legs, my arms, my torso. The pain in my hand was sharp, a reminder of the moment of my breaking and the moment of my rebirth.
The void receded completely, revealing not a level, but a simple space. A gray stone floor under a non-existent sky. And before me, materializing from nothingness, the seventh staircase appeared.
It was different from the others. It was steeper, made of sharp, black rock that seemed to absorb light. Each step was uneven and treacherous. It was a staircase that did not invite, but challenged.
I stood up. I looked at my hands: one wounded and bleeding, the other intact. I looked at the staircase.
I was no longer a victim being dragged to the next torture. I was no longer an automaton walking towards its fate. I was a fighter. A pilgrim with a mission. I had a reason to climb, a reason to descend, a reason to face whatever came. I had to get out. I had to go back.
With the fire roaring in my chest, a fire fueled by pain and forged in despair, I placed my foot on the first sharp step. The pain in my wounded hand intensified, and I welcomed it. It was real. I was alive. And I was ready to fight my way out of hell.