I will just make a bit disclaimer
I won't make a first person POV for our MC
Why?
Because....
Y̵̮͒o̷̟͌̋ṵ̷̧͆ ̶̜̇c̴̨͝á̵̰ñ̴͇̈́'t ̸̺̆͘ú̴̗̏ͅn̸̫̞͊͑d̶̫͔̈́͊ë̵̞͝r̴̦͙͗̐ṣ̶̈͠ͅt̸̰͊̕͜a̷̧̋n̷̛̘d̷̺͙̊ ̴̯̿ȟ̷̢ĭ̸̗s̸̭̔͘ ̶͙̾͝m̶̮̖̀̀ï̵̧̪n̴̓ͅd̴͔̖̀
Also, don't worry, the snippet is a the bottom of the chapter.
Without any further to do, enjoy!
------------------------
(Third Person's POV)
The first light of dawn painted the walls of Akira's sparse apartment a gold colouring.
He sat at a small table, a cup of tea cooling, untouched, before him.
He didn't sleep; he hasn't had a need to for a long time. The night he just did work, or sat in his living room, going to any memory that got in his mind at that moment.
His crimson eyes were open but unseeing, fixed on a point far beyond the room.
The memories streamed behind his eyes, not in words, but in pure information. The past weeks reassembled themselves into a new, coherent whole.
'Kasumigaoka Utaha.
Yukinoshita Yukino.
Yotsuya Miko.
Shinomiya Conglomerate
Cursed Spirits
Hyakkaou Private Academy
Totsuki Culinary Academy'
The words flowed through his mind.
Individual anomalies were one thing. A collection of this density and diversity was another.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It was not an expression of joy, but of recognition. The pieces clicked into place with a final, silent certainty.
"A crossover world" He murmured, the words a soft exhale in the quiet room. "It's been a while since I encountered one"
His mind, a library of infinite realities, began to categorize. This wasn't a simple world with a single ruleset. It was a grand, chaotic intersection of many
A junction of points where the narratives of multiple universes had inexplicably tangled, their borders frayed and overlapping.
Slice-of-life romantic comedy was sharing space with a horror story and a battle shounen plot, all filtered through the mundane lens of a suburban high school.
This kind of bizarre world should have been a mess of narrative each fighting for dominion. And yet, here it was, functioning with a bizarre, chaotic harmony. It was less a planned integration and more a celestial traffic jam, and he was sitting at its centre.
The possibilities unfolded before him in a dizzying fractal array.
He could, if he wished, open his perception fully.
Not his eyes, but his í̶̪͔̔n̷͉̻̆̃s̶̪̔ī̶̫g̶̖̜̑͗h̸̨̝̓ť̶͖̺
He could gaze directly into the underlying source code of this tangled reality.
He could see every thread, every character's point of origin, every plotline yet to unfold, every potential future branching out from this chaotic node.
He could map it all with absolute, cold, sterile clarity. He could know everything.
The temptation was a faint, familiar itch in the back of his consciousness, the ghost of an old habit. Knowledge was, after all, the ultimate power, the ultimate defence.
But then his gaze fell upon the simple ceramic cup. He watched the last wisp of steam vanish into the still air.
He listened to the distant, rhythmic hum of a delivery truck down the street, the sound of a world utterly oblivious to its own impossible nature.
He thought of the tedious, predictable simplicity of his chosen routine: the measured walk to school, the quiet hum of the classroom, the methodical act of grading inane essays on English Authors.
It was a role.
A part to play.
A restful, minimalist performance in a single, contained act.
And after millennia of witnessing wars (Or causing them), conflicts of any kind, killing universal-level threats, fighting against beings so powerful their sheer presence break the mind of their inferiors, of playing king, soldier, slave, slaver, saviour, and destroyer, there was a profound, almost decadent peace in such mundane tedium.
This was not a mission; it was a sabbatical.
To open his í̶̪͔̔n̷͉̻̆̃s̶̪̔ī̶̫g̶̖̜̑͗h̸̨̝̓ť̶͖̺ fully would be to break the immersion.
It would be like reading the last page of every book in the library simultaneously.
It would render the entire experience… predictable.
And predictability was the one true death of curiosity, the only thing that truly bored him
The mystery, the slow, piecemeal discovery by the inhabitants themselves, that was the reason he decided to come to supposed normal world
He could already feel the "narrative pressure" increasing around him, the plotlines beginning to twist toward the silent void at their centre.
A flicker of genuine amusement, dry and old, crossed his features.
Let them circle. Let them investigate. Let them write their stories and spin their theories. Their noise was a small price to pay for front-row seats to the most fascinating, chaotic experiment he'd observed in centuries.
His own role was clear: to be the inert catalyst.
The unmoved mover. The still point around which their chaos could swirl.
His decision was made. He would continue to play his part.
The quiet, enigmatic teacher.
He would observe the interactions of these displaced archetypes with the detached interest of a scientist watching cells in a petri-dish.
He would offer minimal, precise interventions only when necessary, to maintain the stability of his chosen lifestyle, to prevent the experiment from prematurely self-destructing, and perhaps, on occasion, to nurture a particularly interesting variable.
He would go with the flow. He would let the story unfold.
He finally picked up the cup of tea and took a sip. It was cold. The taste was bitter, mundane, and utterly perfect.
The day awaited.
There were papers to grade on student's simplistic interpretations of poetry,
A curiously persistent author to deflect with perfectly constructed non-answers
A terrified girl to guide into another genre from her own
And a playful sorcerer who was likely, at this very moment, narrowing down his identity with infuriatingly clever precision
It promised to be, against all odds, interesting.
He stood up, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles from his trousers. A force of habit he got from his beginnings, when his clothes could still get dirty without any magic to instantly clean them
He was a single, quiet sentinel at the centre of a converging storm of stories, a man who had seen the birth and death of galaxies, now preparing to face a day of parent-teacher conferences and lunchroom gossip. He was content to watch the chaos unfold, a cup of tea in one hand and the entire, tangled, plot of this crossover world held gently in the other, waiting to see what the next page would bring.
-------------------------------
The gates of Soubu High were still swarming with students as Akira approached, a lone figure of impossible stillness amidst the river of uniforms and shouted morning greetings.
He did not slip in before the crowd; he arrived precisely as the current was at its peak, yet he moved through it like a shark parting a school of fish.
Students didn't just get out of his way; their movement seemed to unconsciously orchestrate itself around him, creating a pocket of serene, quiet space in the chaos.
His presence was a physical fact that demanded acknowledgment.
The morning sun caught the platinum strands of his hair, making it seem like a crown of cold fire. The sharp, impossible perfection of his features was a stark contrast to the soft, youthful faces around him.
He moved through the chaos with that same unnerving economy of motion, a silent, sharp knife cutting through the noise. Something that after thousands of years, couldn't simply undue.
A group of first-year girls fell into a sudden, breathless silence, their hands freezing mid-gesture. A cluster of students from second year eased their chatter, their eyes widening not with awe, but with a kind of primal, desire.
He moved through the halls with an unnerving economy of motion, each step precise and silent.
The chaos of the morning rush seemed to dampen around him, sound itself flattening to accommodate his passage.
The staff room was a bubble of comparative quiet, smelling of stale coffee and photocopier toner.
He acknowledged a few colleagues with a micro-nod, a gesture so minimal it was barely a twitch of his head, yet it was enough.
Their responses were automatic, slightly stilted, as if they'd been interrupted in the middle of a private thought.
At his desk, a neat stack of homework to grade awaited him. But sitting squarely on top of the pile was an anomaly.
It was an envelope.
Not the standard inter-office memo or a student's late assignment. This was heavy, cream-colored vellum, its surface watermarked with a subtle, intricate pattern. The address was calligraphed in jet-black ink with a flawless, aristocratic hand: 'Yoshioka Akira-sensei, Soubu High School Faculty Office' There was no return address.
The presence of the object was so statistically out of place in his meticulously mundane world that it gave him a moment of pause. His expression did not change, but internally, his focus shifted from passive observation to active analysis.
He picked it up.
The paper was thick, expensive. It felt alien in his hands, which were just getting more accustomed to chalk dust and cheap printer paper.
He slid a single finger under the flap, and the high-quality seal gave way with a soft, satisfying rip.
Inside was a single card, of the same heavy stock. The script was formal, precise, and utterly grandiose.
"The Shinomiya Group
Requests the pleasure of your company
At a celebration in honor of
Shinomiya Kaguya
On the occasion of her birthday"
Details of time, place, and a dauntingly exclusive address followed. The language was not a request. It was a summons disguised as an invitation.
A faint, imperceptible smile touched his lips. It was not an expression of pleasure, but of profound, dry amusement.
'So' he thought 'The financial conglomerates have finally decided to take a step'
He had known his seamless integration into the world's economic systems would eventually draw attention from the larger predators.
The Shinomiyas were merely the first to identify the unexplained variable in their equations. They weren't inviting a teacher; they were attempting to summon an unknown into the light to see what shape it cast.
The sheer audacity of it, the belief that their world of corporate empires and social standing could possibly contain or define him, was laughable.
It was like a single-celled organism attempting to issue a Q&A to a hurricane.
He placed the invitation back on the desk, aligning it perfectly with the edge. He felt a flicker of that old weary feeling, the tedious inevitability of power seeking to classify that which it cannot understand.
He kind that he had meet across thousands of worlds, but only met with the inevitability of his existence. The ant finding out there was more to the garden and its mind couldn't go back to their narrow perspective of the world.
Like the man that lived in a cave and discovered the light.
How did the saying go?
'Men tried to interpret their dreams, and the gods laughed'
He remembered
So many suicides….
But then, the amusement returned.
This was a new variable. An unexpected subplot.
The Shinomiya head, in his gilded cage, believed they were the ones conducting an investigation.
They had no idea they were merely side characters stepping onto a stage they couldn't possibly comprehend.
He picked up his papers for today's class
The invitation was dealt with.
He would assist, he would play their games, go to their level and beat them in it, just like he has done a million times before, where he decided to forgo power and deal with universes with only words and political maneuverability
All the potential responses were now mapped out.
For now the immediate task was teaching a class
The bell for first period chimed. The sound was a dismissal of one reality and the beginning of another. The world of financial titans and birthday galas was relegated to a back drawer of his mind.
Akira stood, collected his materials, and walked towards his classroom.
Let's see if he can mind-break some teenagers again
--------------------------
The final bell's drone faded into the usual after-school cacophony of shuffling feet and slamming lockers.
Akira methodically stacked his paper into a perfectly aligned pile.
As he stepped into the hallway, the flow of students instinctively parted around him.
He was a stone in a stream, his presence creating a pocket of quietude.
It was there that Hiratsuka Shizuka found him, leaning against the wall just outside the staff room with a casualness that seemed practiced.
"Yoshioka-san!" She said, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Busy on the weekend? Or are you finally free to let a concerned colleague pester you into a little bit of fun?"
He turned his head, those crimson eyes regarding her with their usual flat neutrality. "The concern is noted, Hiratsuka-sensei," he replied, his voice a calm, low baritone. "However, I have a prior engagement. A… social obligation."
Shizuka's smile tightened almost imperceptibly. She'd been gently, persistently trying to breach his walls for weeks. "A social obligation? You? Do tell. Did you finally get a fanclub?"
"Something of that nature," he said, the ghost of a dry smile touching his own lips. Maybe they were, seeing how they were probably investigating every inch of his background, finding out anything that they might have overlooked. He gave a slight, dismissive nod. "Perhaps another time."
He walked off, ending the conversation as cleanly and efficiently as he did everything else.
Shizuka watched him go, a mix of frustration and fascination in her eyes. The man was a locked vault.
His path took him toward the main entrance.
And there, he saw her. Yotsuya Miko was frozen just outside her classroom door, her body rigid, her knuckles white where she gripped her bag strap.
Her eyes were wide, fixed on an empty patch of corridor where a faint, shimmering distortion, a pale, weeping thing only she could see, was drifting a little too close to her friend Hana, who was obliviously tying her shoe.
Miko's breath was caught in her throat, a silent scream of terror and helplessness.
Akira's pace didn't break. As he drew level with her, he raised his hand and flicked his wrist.
The shimmering instantly disappearing, deleted from existence as he always does with that pest.
Beside him, Miko exhaled a breath of tranquillity, seeing the weight on her friend disappear
Then his hand moved to the breast pocket of his shirt. He withdrew a pair of simple, sleek glasses with thin, black frames. They were non-prescription, the lenses clear glass.
He didn't look at her. He simply held the glasses out to her, his movement so smooth it was almost part of his walking motion.
"Your visual acuity seems strained, Yotsuya-san" he stated, his voice devoid of any emotion, as if commenting on the weather. "These should reduce the glare."
Miko flinched, startled out of her paralysis.
She stared at the glasses, then at his impassive face, then back at where the horrifying apparition was.
Her hand, trembling slightly, reached out and took them.
Her fingers brushed against his, and his skin was cool, like stone.
Almost without thinking, she put them on.
The effect was instantaneous. The world didn't go dark. The small spirits of old men that ran around didn't vanish. But they… blurred. It became a faint, translucent smudge, like an afterimage burned into her vision.
The terrifying details, the hollow eyes, the grasping hands, were softened into meaningless shapes. The oppressive, chilling aura was reduced to a faint static buzz at the edge of her perception. She could still see it, but it no longer held the power to paralyze her with its horror.
She let out a shuddering breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.
Akira had not stopped moving. He was already past her, but his voice, still calm and level, reached her ears.
"It is a temporal solution," he said, not turning around. "A filter. It will not stop them from being attracted to your friend's energy. But it will allow you to navigate. To ignore the… glare."
He paused for a fraction of a second, just enough so that his voice can only be heard by her "The world is full of noise, Yotsuya-san. Learning to focus on the signal is the first step" He then raised his hand, and snapped his fingers. Everything, from the small old men, to the locker screechers vanished. Leaving everything in a still silence that she hasn't felt in a long time "I will try to keep the school as clean as possible, but those will help on your way home. Be safe Yotsuya-san"
And then he continued, saluting Hana and she greeted the teacher on his way out, turning the corner and disappearing from sight, leaving Miko standing in the hallway, her world suddenly, miraculously, made just a little bit more bearable.
She touched the frame of the glasses, a profound, bewildered relief washing over her. It wasn't a cure. It was a shield. And for now, that was everything.
"Hey Miko-chan, I heard there was a shrine that could fulfil wishes, let's go check it out"
------------------------------
The air here was different.
The cheerful chaos of the school's main entrance faded, replaced by a clinging, greasy silence.
A few blocks in, the streetlights flickered erratically, and the temperature dropped several degrees.
It was the unnatural cold of a spiritual presence, one stronger and more malignant than the usual nuisances. It was close to the school, and that's why he decided to take care of it first before going home.
Lumbering from a narrow alley was a Cursed Spirit.
It was a grotesque patchwork of mismatched, weeping eyes and too many limbs, all twitching with a frantic, hateful energy. It was a Grade 2, perhaps even a semi-Grade 1.
It radiated a potent miasma of despair and rage, the accumulated negativity of a forgotten, suffering place.
It hadn't noticed him yet; it was too busy scraping its claws against a brick wall, leaving behind streaks of ectoplasmic slime.
Akira stopped. He didn't sigh. He didn't tense. His expression remained one of profound, weary boredom.
This was a higher grade of pest than he usually bothered with. More noise.
The spirit sensed him. Its multitude of eyes swivelled in his direction, focusing on the lone, still figure. It let out a wet, gurgling shriek and launched itself forward, a blur of malice and claws.
Akira didn't move. He didn't assume a stance. He simply raised his right hand, index finger extended.
The spirit was mere feet from him, its foul breath a physical pressure, its claws reaching for his face.
Akira made a small, almost lazy flicking motion with his wrist.
There was no sound. No flash of light. No burst of energy.
The Cursed Spirit simply ceased to be.
It didn't pop, dissolve, or fade.
One moment it was a terrifying, physical reality, a concentrated knot of hatred and negative emotion, and the next, the space it occupied was empty.
The oppressive, freezing aura that had accompanied it vanished, leaving the alley feeling startlingly clean and neutral. The flickering streetlights stabilized.
It was erased, utterly and completely, as if it had never existed at all.
Akira lowered his hand. He adjusted the cuff of his shirt with a slight, fastidious motion, as if brushing off a speck of dust, and continued his walk home.
The entire encounter had taken less than two seconds. It was a triviality. A minor act of environmental maintenance.
He decided to check around and deal with any other pest that might appear on his way to the school.
Let's call the other actor into the fray
----------------------------
(?'s POV)
In a dim, secluded room far from the city's heart, he frowned. Before him, a complex, hand-drawn map of the city was spread across a low table.
Small, carved Cursed Spirit figures were placed at various points, their purpose to track the movements and status of the Cursed Spirits he had been strategically releasing.
Or more accurately, the ones that were supposed to still be there.
He picked up one of the figures, a twisted little thing representing a potent Semi-Grade 1 spirit he'd released near the industrial district just that morning.
The wood felt inert. Dead. The connection had been severed. Not through exorcism, which left a violent, satisfying scar on the area, but… severed.
Cleanly. Absolutely.
His phone buzzed. A message from one of his followers, a low-level curse user who acted as a scout.
'Area sweeps complete. No sign of the Festering Eye spirit. No residual energy. No signs of a fight. It's just… gone. Like the others.'
His frown deepened.
This was the fourth one this week. Not weaklings, either.
Curse spirits with real potential, placed to stir up fear, to test Jujutsu High's response times, to soften up the city's spiritual defences in preparation for his plan
He had initially suspected Satoru. His former friend had a habit of making problems disappear with overwhelming, flashy force.
But this… this was different.
There was none of his Cursed Energy in the aftermath, no expansive domain expansion residue.
There was nothing. It was a perfect nullity. A void.
It was as if the spirits were being right-clicked and deleted.
"This is becoming a pattern," He murmured to himself, his voice a low, displeased rumble in the quiet room. He picked up another inert Cursed Spirit figure. "They're not being exorcised. They're being… unmade."
He stared at the map, his mind working.
This wasn't the work of the Jujutsu establishment. Their methods were brutish, loud, and left a mess.
This was something else. Something precise. Something that didn't just destroy curses, but erased their very concept from reality.
A new player was on the field. One with a methodology he couldn't comprehend. And they were actively, silently, cleaning up his messes.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. It wasn't a smile of joy, but of cold, sharp interest.
"How intriguing," he whispered, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "Another one in the shadows. Let's see how you handle a much, much bigger mess"
His eyes gleamed to the school that was around the area.
'Soubu High School'
-----------------------------------
(Thousands of Years Ago)
(?'s POV)
The sky was a weeping canvas of violet and ochre, stained by the smoke of countless pyres on what had been once been a city.
The modern structures of Kuoh Town were now little more than jagged teeth jutting from a jawbone of shattered concrete and twisted steel.
The air itself was dead, heavy with the coppery tang of blood, the acrid sting of ozone from shattered spells, and the cloying, sulfuric reek of annihilated corpses. This was the absolute end of things, the silence that follows the last, fading echo.
In the epicenter of the destruction, centred in the crater that was once the courtyard of Kuoh Academy, Rias Gremory lay pinned to the earth.
A blade of shimmering, concentrated magic was stabbed through her chest, having pierced one lung and missed her heart by a calculated centimetre.
It was a wound designed not for immediate death, but for a slow, agonizing suffocation. The weapon didn't bleed; it passively unmade the flesh and spirit around it, creating a horrifying, void-black cavity in her torso.
Each desperate, shuddering breath she drew was a wet, ragged affair, causing her to choke on the blood rapidly filling her lungs.
The Crimson-Haired Ruin Princess, the prized heiress of the Gremory, was reduced to a gasping, broken thing, her brilliant hair a matted banner of crimson against the grey dust of ashes that surrounded her.
Then, a sound. A clear, calm baritone, utterly dissonant with the surrounding horror, cutting through the suffocating silence. It was a cheerful, almost jaunty tune.
"Total Slaughter~ Total Slaughter~"
The voice grew nearer, accompanied by the soft, rhythmic crunch of boots stepping over powdered bone and melted glass with an infuriating casualness.
"I won't leave, a single man alive~"
A figure coalesced from the swirling ash and smoke.
His hair was the colour of polished platinum-white, untouched by the filth that coated everything else.
His clothing was pristine, a stark and insulting contrast to the universal carnage. His eyes, a deep crimson, scanned the absolute devastation with the detached curiosity of an art critic in a new gallery.
"La Di La Di La~ Genocide~ La Di La Di Die~ An Ocean of Blood~"
He stepped directly over the bisected, smouldering remains of her knight, not even affording it a glance, as if it were a crack in the pavement.
"Let's begin, the killing time~"
He finished the morbid little song just as he came to a halt a few paces from Rias.
He looked down at her, his head cocking to the side. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It wasn't a smile of triumph or cruelty, but one of clinical interest.
"Well now," The man murmured, his voice a flat, analytical instrument that seemed to absorb her dying whimpers. "Still clinging to the mortal realm. A testament to your devil stamina, I suppose. Or perhaps it's your plot-armour trying to maintain some lasts kegs of hope. And you have two big amounts of plot" He nodded to himself
Rias' vision swam, darkness encroaching at the edges.
But she could see him. The impossible calm. The absolute absence of malice or rage. He regarded her not as a conquered foe, but as a mildly interesting specimen.
"W... why...?" She managed to force out. The word was less a question and more a bloody gurgle, a final bubble of air and life escaping her ruined lung. It was the only thing left to ask as her world had been utterly unmade in the span of a single, afternoon hour.
The man's faint smile didn't waver. He took a slow, contemplative step around her, his hands clasped behind his back as if he were a professor lecturing a particularly dim student.
"Why? A simple question. The answer is equally simple, I'm afraid: Because I could."
He paused, letting the sheer, horrifying simplicity of it hang in the blood-soaked air.
"I wanted to see how many levels I could get by destroying a full world. This world, with its amusingly plot where everything existed, Dragons, Gods, Angels, Devils, presented itself as a particularly efficient farming ground. This is the third one I have been, you see. The first two were… messier affairs. I'm refining my process. Optimizing the grind, as it were."
His gaze swept over the ruins of the school, the town, the very world itself, which was beginning to fray at the edges like old cloth. He was speaking to himself as much as to her, organizing his thoughts.
"And it led me to observe all this world had to offer. Apart from being part of it, of course. Which I have already done. But more importantly, to see the social dynamics. The romance. If you can call it that" He said the word with a subtle distaste, as if describing a mildly unpleasant smell. "It's all so... straightforward. Almost tediously predictable. It operates on a singular, primal axis: power."
He stopped his pacing and looked down at her again, a flicker of genuine anthropological curiosity in his eyes.
"Take you, for instance. You are the prime example. Your entire romantic paradigm was a transaction based on a power dynamic. You were bound to a, in your own opinion, and womanizer that only wanted you for your body, someone you despised. The solution? Not negotiation, not compromise, not building a life of your own. No. The solution was to find a stronger male to defeat him for you. And voilà, love blossoms. It's not about intellect, shared values, or genuine compassion. It's pure, unadulterated Darwinian selection. The strongest mate wins the prize. You are, without a single doubt, one of the easiest women I've encountered across the vast multiverse, and that is saying something considering the sheer, staggering volume of tragically written female characters I've had the profound pleasure of meeting, including many different versions of you"
Rias tried to form another word, another denial, but her body had nothing left. Only a weak, wet rattle escaped her throat. The pain was fading, replaced by a cold numbness. The light in her beautiful amethyst eyes was guttering out.
The man continued, his monologue uninterrupted by her silent suffering. "It's why the original outcome was so pathetically written. Your destined saviour, the boy you were written to fall for… someone whose most notable pre-plot achievement was a proficiency in using his own hand, roughly a dozen times a day. The absolute baseline of a virgin, the ultimate self-insert in many ways. That, truly, is the lowest bar imaginable. Literally any alternative, any variable introduced into the system, be it a slightly different personality, a modicum of genuine ambition, or someone else entirely, is better, way better than whatever you ended up with"
He finally paused, ready to deliver his final line. He turned to face her fully, expecting perhaps to see the last spark of understanding or hatred fade from her eyes.
"And that is why I consider this world the "Easy Mode" of romance. Not only you, many of this world are like that- For example, your supposed best friend, just tell her "I accept you for who you are" and the Daddy-Issues instantly falls in love with them. Trust me, almost every woman in this world has the emotional deep of an unbaked potato" He sighed, as if exasperated from the world itself "Not that it matters to you now, of course—"
He stopped. His faint smile vanished, replaced by a blank, almost puzzled expression.
The light had already fled. Her eyes were glassy, fixed and unseeing on the hellish sky above. A single tears failing to escape from the corner
She had died in the middle of his speech, her final question unanswered, her story ended not with a bang or a whimper, but with the indifferent analysis of a being so far beyond her comprehension that her existence was merely a line of a book to be commented on
He stared for a long, silent moment at the corpse of the Crimson-Haired Ruin Princess.
"Huh" He grunted, a soft exhalation of air. The sound was absurdly ordinary in the absolute silence. "I guess I overestimated your own resilience. Then I guess the damage I caused must have been off" He shrugged, a casual, effortless motion. "Welp, it's no biggie. You can't always find a worthy audience for my critiques on the genre of Harem Anime"
He knelt down, his movements efficient and devoid of any reverence. He reached out and used two fingers to gently brush her eyelids closed. It wasn't an act of respect, but one of fastidiousness; he found the empty, staring gaze aesthetically displeasing.
He gave her still form a final, clinical assessment.
"See you around, Easy Mode."
He stood up, absently flicking a single, invisible speck of ash from his immaculate sleeve. He turned his gaze away from the ruins, away from the corpse, upward to the bleeding sky where he could see beyond the fabric of that reality.
Two colossal, draconic presences stirred in the Dimensional Gap.
"Only Ophis and Great Red remain" He murmured to himself, a new checklist already forming in his mind. His voice was already losing interest in this world, looking ahead to the next challenge. "And then the Machine Gods, I guess. Should be a more engaging fight"
And with that, he took a step forward.
The world around him, the ruins, the corpses, the entire destruction of thousands of innocents ignored as casually as a forgotten draft. He was already moving on to the next page, the next battle, the next experiment.
The ocean of blood was already drying behind him, forgotten.