"Good words, truly, not quite sure that anyone right now possesses the power to decide fate, not just their own, but anyone's at all."
A voice sounded behind me.
A voice?
No, not quite. A voice, like a forgotten chord. A ghost of a melody you heard somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness.
An unfamiliar voice.
No, not that, not so unfamiliar. Rather, too familiar to be unfamiliar. A voice I'd already heard somewhere, but this wasn't the voice of a comrade at all. And certainly not the voice of an enemy. That is... not an enemy yet.
A strange feeling gripped me. As if... fear? As if I'm afraid?
Fear.
Fright is an emotional state. It's anxiety, it's panic. It's instinct, it's... human.
And me? I'm not human, I shouldn't be afraid.
A lie.
"Hey, maybe you'll turn around already?" he said, as if we were discussing something mundane. As if the rain was the main problem in this situation.
"I'm already tired of getting wet in the rain, you know, it's so unpleasant to constantly see the same weather."
He said. He said, a person unknown to me.
What will happen if I turn around?
What will happen if I continue standing like this, back to the voice, to reality, to what's already looming? Why do I keep thinking about this? Why am I still thinking?
The island. Without access to powers, without magic. Without the ability to defend myself.
Defenselessness.
There it is, that word. Like a fist flying straight into the stomach.
I'm defenseless.
I should... I need to... I must turn my head.
He's standing behind me, and I... I don't hear his steps, I don't feel his presence at all anymore. As if he dissolved.
As if he never was.
The unknown person... disappeared?Maybe, or maybe I disappeared?
With these thoughts, with what can be called will, or can be called panic, I slowly, almost reverently, turned around.
Turned around.
And saw.
And regretted.
'Was it worth it?' I thought.
The answer was obvious. No, definitely not.
He was holding a shotgun. A shotgun, not even a pistol, not even a knife.
A shotgun.
Does he want to get rid of me? Or just appear dramatic?
"W-who are you?" I asked in a trembling voice. That very voice I'd never heard from my own lips before.
Fear.
"Golden Figure!" he answered with enthusiasm you don't expect from a person with a weapon in their hands.
And immediately — bang! A shot.
Bang.
Thunder.
...
"Hmm, I wanted the bullet to pass through the head," he lazily reported. "But this weapon seems too powerful and simply blew through the right part of his head! Aha-hah-hah!"
Laughter.
Mad? Childish? Too carefree to be sincere, like... toys. He was playing with the head, with the shotgun, with me.
'Where am I?' I mentally asked myself.
"Ho-ho-ho-ho."
Laughter.
Voice.
Somewhere nearby. Somewhere inside. Somewhere in between.
"Though you're not the one I was waiting for in my abode, I'm glad to welcome you, just eliminated player!" the girl said, too cheerfully, too easily. Too... madly.
"Witch of Ryujima Island!" Enua answered with malice.
"Just like a rabid dog!" and laughter again. "Khi-hah-hah-ha."
Mariana. Laughter and a stomach about to burst from merriment.
"I was just shot and I died, where am I now?!"
"Isn't it obvious?" she said. "Think with your recently splattered into pieces brains! Ih-hi-hi-hah!"
She knows. Knows that I know. And knows that I don't know how to live with this knowledge.
Dead.
This place. It's not life, but not death either. Not that reality.
I'm not a body.
I'm not a thought.
I'm something in between, like a pause between words, like a comma between thoughts.
Emptiness. Absolute emptiness.
Never encountered anything like this before. This isn't what frightens, this is what doesn't fit. Not in memory, not in mind, not in being.
"This guy is even more boring than that young man..." the witch said without emotion. As if already regretting she called.
"However, fine, listen carefully, once immortal, and now pathetic mortal god. You understand what your presence in this place means, don't you?"
I was silent, I was silent, as if I didn't know. But I knew, of course I knew.
The witch's game.
She, all her. Screenwriter, director, producer, executioner.
I hate.
"Hey, rotten witch, start your vile move or whatever you want to do, but make it quick."
"Huh?" she said. "Why such impatience? Can it be you think you can defeat me, pathetic mortal? Ih-hi-hi!"
"Watch you don't tear your little belly, dear witch who doesn't want to lift her ass from the warm chair!"
"What a boor!" she could sting too. "Watch you don't burst from anger, pathetic fighter against fate!"
We're both set on victory, on a game without a draw. I don't lose, I don't know how to lose. I don't even know how this word is spelled.
I was a god. I created divine entities and still lost. Lost to fate, that very one that didn't submit even to me.
Fate.
A word that sounds like a sentence. People at the very bottom, I was at the top, but fate submitted to neither bottom nor top.
Then what is it? Who is it?
Fate isn't power.
Fate isn't energy.
Fate is... a person?
"How laughable to hear such a statement, especially from someone like you!" the witch burst into laughter. "If you don't stop spouting this nonsense, I'm afraid I really should start worrying about the state of my stomach, for it won't withstand and will burst from laughter! Agh-hah-ghah-hah-agh-hah!"
She laughed.
Not because it's funny, but because it's unbearably serious. A display of pity as a way to show her superiority.
"If fate were an embodiment of flesh, it would spit on such a helpless and pathetic creature!"
Helplessness.
Pity.
Superiority.