The exhaustion is eating away at my mind—I can barely think straight anymore. How many times has it been? I lost count after my deaths reached the double digits. Taking on over twenty armed professionals alone was never meant to be fair… and it never gets any easier.
Though fairness isn't something I'm in a position to comment on, with the authority of time, I managed to take down every single one of them. I didn't kill anyone, though—that's something I am not ready to handle. Still, I made sure they wouldn't be getting up anytime soon. Yet, things would've been far easier if it weren't for yet another penalty.
What was it again?
[You have used the Authority of Time a significant number of times despite being a mere mortal. The world is now resisting your interference by applying a minor penalty.]
[Penalty: Pain Multiplication — The pain experienced at the moment of certain death will be amplified by 2x.]
Yeah, it was something like that. Because of it, every time I died, it felt like I died twice. The searing pain, doubled and relentless, is gnawing away at my sanity—warping my thoughts more and more with each return.
"Who the hell are you?!"
Someone barked at me the moment I kicked the door open and stepped inside, my every movement slow and deliberate. The twin katanas in my hands scraped against the stone road, their metallic whisper echoing in my ears.
Why katanas instead of my usual crowbars? I don't know, they seems more effective and feel comfortable.
I lifted my gaze, locking eyes with the one who dared to ask. My blood surged, burning hot as the memory of Mikazuki's death replayed in my mind—Issai, standing over her lifeless body.
There's no way I'm letting him walk away. Not this time.
I remember him. His face, his voice—burned into my memory like a brand.
But… who am I?
Why am I here?
Is revenge really all that's driving me?
…No. I remember now. I'm not here just to settle a score. I'm here to protect them… to end this endless, blood-soaked night once and for all.
I tighten my grip on the katanas, the weight of my resolve anchoring me.
"Someone you should fear," I reply, my voice cold and distorted through the mask.
There's no way I'm revealing my true identity here. If I wanted to be known, I wouldn't be hiding behind this mask in the first place.
With a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, I shouted,
"Everyone on Mikazuki's side—stand down! Tend to the wounded and fall back. Leave the rest to me."
The weight behind my words wasn't just volume—it was intent. This fight, this bloodbath… I would carry it to the end.
"Why are you helping us?" Mikazuki asked, her voice laced with confusion and disbelief.
I responded with a casual shrug, "Is that really important right now? Just think of me as your benefactor."
Without waiting for her reply, I turned my back to them, shifting my full focus to the enemies ahead. Ten in total. Six armed with guns, four with katanas—and at the center of them stood Issai.
Gripping both katanas tightly, I launched forward like a drawn arrow released.
The four swordsmen met my charge head-on, blades flashing in the dark. Behind them, the gunmen raised their weapons and opened fire, using their allies as living shields while they provided cover.
Right—slide—strike.
To the others watching, my movements must've seemed almost unnatural, slipping through a hail of bullets and cutting down the first man like it was nothing. But what they didn't see… what no one but I knew, was that in those fleeting seconds—I had already died a couple of times.
Each death carved their attack patterns into my memory. Each rewind let me adjust, dodge, strike with precision. I wasn't dancing through danger—I was learning through death.
They didn't know. They couldn't know.
That I refuse to die. That I'll keep coming back. Over and over again—Just like a cockroach.
Backstep, right, left, strike—another man falls.
"Is this guy even human?" one of the gunmen beside Issai muttered, his voice trembling with disbelief. His hand shook as he gripped the gun, but not a single bullet they fired had even come close to grazing Hayato.
Issai's condition wasn't much better. His face had gone ashen, the sweat of nervousness beading on his forehead. Despite his bravado, the terror was creeping in. He was actually starting to fear Hayato.
Charge, left, left, jump, wide slash—just like that, the last two swordsmen crumpled to the ground.
Now, only the gunmen in the backline remained. Their faces twisted in panic as they realized their front line had fallen, and they were next. With nothing left to hold them back, they began to fire without restraint, aiming straight at me, their fear of friendly fire gone.
The air thickened with the crack of gunshots, but I moved like a blur, weaving between the deadly hail of bullets.
They fired with desperation, and I died again and again—but each time, the same bullets that had struck me before no longer found their mark.
It didn't take long for them to run out of ammo.
Panicking, they didn't have time to reload. Instead, they drew hidden knives or grabbed whatever weapons they could find from the ground, hoping for a final chance.
But no matter what they tried—no matter the weapon, no matter the strike—they couldn't actually "kill" me.
One by one, they fell, each man dropping to the ground, their bodies crumpling under the weight of inevitability. And as their numbers dwindled, it was only me and Issai left standing.
The exhaustion is overwhelming me, each breath a struggle as my mind threatens to crack under the pressure. It feels like my head is about to explode, the weight of countless deaths piling on top of me, not to forget the increased pain. I don't know how much longer I can keep this up. If I die once—or maybe just twice—more, i'll collapse the moment i make it back to reality.
I need to end this. And I need to do it without dying, if at all possible.
I stared at Issai, his usually composed demeanor shattered. His hands trembled, his posture hesitant. Something about the change in him triggered a shift in me—a sensation I couldn't suppress.
"What's wrong, Issai? Are you scared of me now?" I couldn't resist mocking him, watching as he bit his lip in silence. No words came from his mouth, just the flicker of fear in his eyes. Was it the fear of death that tightened its grip around his neck?
Even though he had done things I could never forgive, I couldn't deny that I had done the same. I had, in my own way, destroyed his life. In the face of that, could I really call myself any better than him? He's the villain here—that's the justification I cling to. But deep down, I know... he's human too.
If I truly believed I was the "good guy," could I still do this to another human being? He's lost someone too—someone close to him—and he's fighting to avenge them, just as I am now. We aren't that different, are we?
I shouldn't have done this to him. I should be feeling sorry about him right now. And yet... why? Why does it feel so good to crush someone like him?
What is this sensation?
It's terrifying, this feeling creeping into my chest, gnawing at me like a dark truth I'm not ready to face. I fear it. I fear what it might turn me into.
Did I win against him because my vengeance was stronger? No. It's because I cheated. I wouldn't even be here if not for the Authority of Time—that power, that unfair advantage. I could have easily been in his place, just another man fighting for something lost.
But despite that, there's this undeniable, overwhelming feeling of dominance rising inside me. I can't ignore it. It feels... good to trample on my enemies, to shatter their carefully laid plans and walk away with an overwhelming victory.
This feeling according to me is inhuman.
So, what do I do? The only thing I can do is drop my katanas. I can't use the advantage I have. This is my challenge to him to a fair hand-to-hand showdown.
I can't die anymore. Not now. My mental exhaustion is pushing me to the brink, this challenge to him— is my way to see whose rage is stronger.
"What's wrong, Issai? You're not this much of a coward, are you? Is *this* all your revenge amounts to?" I taunted, my voice sharp with scorn.
His jaw tightened, teeth grinding audibly as his trembling subsided. Slowly, he straightened his back and shifted into a fighting stance, fists raised, eyes burning.
That's more like it.
He's not weak—not the kind to break so easily. This was the Issai I remembered. The one who wouldn't go down without a fight.
I lunged forward and threw a punch, but he blocked it cleanly with his forearm and immediately countered with a swift strike of his own.
It wasn't my exhaustion that let him keep up—no, Issai had been trained by professionals since childhood. His movements were sharp, calculated, and precise.
He wasn't just some rich man's son with connections—he knew how to fight.
However, experience-wise, he was still a step behind me.
Instead of blocking his punch, I tilted my head to the side, letting it graze past as I slid in close. With a sharp uppercut, I landed a clean hit to his chin, snapping his head back.
But what I didn't expect—what caught me completely off guard—was the sudden punch that followed.
With the same hand he had just used to block, he slammed his fist straight into my face. A hit born of instinct, not training.
We both staggered back, clutching our faces where the punches had landed, breaths ragged—but neither of us stopped.
Without a word, we charged at each other again. As I closed the gap, I ducked low and swept my leg in a wide arc to knock him off balance.
But Issai reacted quickly, jumping into the air just in time. He twisted midair and swung his leg down, aiming to kick me square in the head.
I raised my shoulder and caught his leg, thinking I had him—only for him to clamp his other leg around my neck, locking me in a scissor hold.
With a powerful twist, he flipped his body, and I was thrown hard to the ground.
He didn't waste a second—lunging at me mid-fall, aiming a crushing kick straight to my chest.
I planted my hand against the ground and rolled backward just in time, narrowly avoiding the impact.
As I got back on my feet, I threw a punch at him. He blocked it smoothly, but I was already following up—a swift kick aimed at his ribs.
He caught it again, just like before.
Caught in that awkward position with one leg held and the other barely supporting me, I had no choice. I pushed off with all my strength, slamming my foot into his body to force him back.
The impact sent us both crashing to the ground.
But neither of us stayed down for long. Planting our hands into the floor, we pushed ourselves up and charged again—no techniques, no hesitation.
We threw punches like madmen, blocking what we could, tanking what we couldn't.
And then, with everything we had left, we hurled our fists at each other—crossing arms in a brutal clash, both of our punches landing square on the other's face.
We both staggered back, nearly collapsing from the force of that last exchange.
But maybe it was all the deaths, the pain, the countless resets—whatever it was, my endurance had gone beyond normal.
I held on to consciousness just a heartbeat longer.
Planting one hand on the ground to steady myself, I twisted my body and delivered a clean roundhouse kick to his head.
His body crumpled with a thud. That marked the end of our fight.
We both panted heavily, our breaths ragged and uneven, the air between us thick with exhaustion.
Yes, he wasn't unconscious—not yet—but his body had given up. He lay there, too drained to move, his chest rising and falling like he'd run a marathon through hell.
Between gasps, he muttered, "It's… your win. I should've taken your warning more seriously… Amane Hayato."
As expected, After observing me this long he figured out the identity behind my mask.