The piercing, continuous beep of the heart monitor faded, gradually dying down, before sinking completely into a silent void.
The thick darkness swallowed him whole. Gone was the smell of antiseptic, gone was the coldness of the solid concrete at the port, and gone was Chizuru's gut wrenching screams.
All that remained was a feeling of floating, free falling into a bottomless pit.
He was sinking.
His body was weightless, but his soul carried the weight of thousands of tons of lead ore. It was not the weight of gravity, but of exhaustion. An extreme weariness, seeping into every cell, gnawing at every neuron.
He was too tired.
In that indeterminate space between life and death, a massive screen suddenly appeared before his eyes, along with slow motion footage, tarnished memory fragments from a life he had always used ruthlessness to bury.
The light casting from the prism of memories bore the cold blue hue of a 144Hz computer monitor.
He saw his past self. Under the brilliant lights of an Esports stage, the cheers of tens of thousands of spectators echoed like thunder.
He once stood there, at the pinnacle of the Northeast Asian region, hand tightly gripping the mouse, eyes glued to the screen, issuing commands that were short but more complete than any long winded explanation.
He was a professional FPS player, but above all, he was a Playmaker. Anyone who ever worked with him knew his brain was a miraculous calculating machine. He could process variables in milliseconds, read enemy positions, deploy tactics, and mind control the psychology of the entire opposing team on the map.
But, a flawlessly calculating brain could not measure the heart of a woman.
The glorious image shattered, replaced by a fading pink silhouette, the girl he once gave his whole heart to.
She, his ex girlfriend, was publicly embracing another man, dropping sweet lies before the guillotine of public opinion to whitewash herself.
Baseless accusations fell from the sky just like that.
Romantic scandals. Match fixing. Selling out.
He was clean.
He never took a dime of dirty money to betray his career or had any other relationships. But she, with crocodile tears and a perfect victim script, turned him into a sinner. The great Playmaker was forced to drop his mouse, retreating backstage to be a lowly coach amidst the community's humiliation.
That was the first knife. It made him doubt what was called love.
Even so, it wasn't too bad, at least when he personally started over in a different role - as a streamer.
He personally clarified what he was accused of using his slick tongue and gritty mind on stream. He even turned the tables on those who framed him, causing them not only to lose their careers just like he did initially but also to go to jail for a few years. He used his supreme adaptability to turn new generation prodigies into a joke every time they matched with him, whether on his team or the enemy team in any FPS game.
But this world did not want to let him go.
Another woman appeared. The manager of his stream channel. The person he trusted with his entire schedule, finances, and public image. He considered her a partner, a good sister. And then, she repaid that trust with a denunciation letter.
Accusation of rape.
He remembered his pale face when the police read the temporary arrest warrant. He remembered the female manager's pitiful, weak, crying face on national television. 180 days. For six long months, he was locked within the gray walls of a detention cell, enduring the contempt of cellmates and wardens.
He had never done anything. When the judge's gavel struck down the verdict of Not Guilty after the fabricated evidence was exposed, no one apologized to him.
The prison doors opened, but the world outside had slammed shut. His stream channel was removed. Overwhelming compensation contracts. No platform or team dared to accept someone with a stain, even if that stain was unjust. The one who once manipulated public opinion was now crushed into dust by that very public opinion.
He lost everything, and now there was no longer any chance to start over. This cruel betrayal officially nailed his hatred of women deep into his marrow.
And then, the final knife. The physical knife that ended everything.
The memory shifted to a dark alley, drizzling rain.
He was walking in a ruined state. At that time, with all he had left, he sent anonymous evidence exposing the dirty play of a rival team, the ones who used tricks to harm his old team right after he left. That team received a heavy penalty and was immediately disbanded. Justice was served, but the price fell upon him.
A small figure in a raincoat rushed out from a dark corner. An extreme fangirl of the rival team. Her eyes were streaked with crazed bloodshot lines, her mind out of control because her idol had collapsed.
Thud.
He clearly felt the coldness of the dagger plunging into his abdomen. Then the second thrust, the third. The pain tore his internal organs apart. That girl screamed meaningless curses, crying bitterly for a bunch of scum players, while her own hands took the life of an innocent person.
He collapsed into a puddle of rainwater stained with blood. In the moments as his life ebbed away, looking at the crazed face of the murderer, the last bit of compassion in him died. He realized that politeness, the industrial demeanor to please others, and kindness were just a one way ticket to hell. What is the point of living decently when a woman's tears and the madness of the crowd are always the weapons that drown the good?
He told himself in his mind. In his past life, ruined by women, stabbed to death on a cold street. Waking up in this life in a cowardly body, eroded by blood cancer, beaten half to death by Yakuza, and then encased in concrete to be sunk to the bottom of the sea.
He had used all his intellect, his cruelty, his arrogance to fight back against fate. He cursed Mami, forced Ruka to back off, made Chizuru live true to her dream, and sacrificed himself to wipe out an underworld organization.
He had done it all. He had burned down to his last drop of energy.
But now, the exhaustion had reached its peak. It surpassed the endurance limits of a soul or even his own intrinsic nature.
He did not want to try anymore.
Truly. He just wanted to sleep. A dreamless sleep. No blood, no cancer, no fake women, no betrayal. Just close his eyes, let go, and this soul would vanish into nothingness forever.
How peaceful.
He slowly closed his heavy eyelids.
"Hey."
A voice suddenly rang out, breaking the absolute silence of the realm of death. The sound was not resonant, not sharp, but carried a hesitation, an awkwardness, yet was incredibly familiar.
He opened his eyes wide. In the thick darkness, a warm light gradually condensed, forming a silhouette just a few steps away from him.
That young man had a scholarly build, his black hair slightly messy, ungelled, and uncombed. He wore an orange short sleeved t shirt paired with light blue jeans, a simple, somewhat rustic, and foolish outfit. His face was gentle, his eyes carrying timidity but hiding a sincere smile.
"Kinoshita...Kazuya?" He casually confirmed, as if drained of all motivation to live.
It was no illusion. It was the original, the true owner of this body. The weak, lovesick, and pathetic person he had always hated and cursed endlessly from the first day he woke up.
The original Kazuya reached up to scratch the back of his neck, a gesture exactly like what was in the memories of this body. He smiled awkwardly, stepping closer to him.
"Hi. This is the first time we are...officially talking, isn't it," the original Kazuya spoke, his voice thin but very clear. "Sorry about this body. It is terrible. Weak, and carrying a terminal illness too. I have made you suffer a lot."
He stared at the young man before him. The usual arrogance of a superior completely evaporated. He never thought his soul still existed in some hidden corner of this mind.
"What are you doing here?" He frowned, his tone dry, carrying ultimate weariness. "Came to take back the body? Take it, if there is anything left to salvage, do it quickly and get out of here and leave me alone."
He intended to turn his face away, letting himself continue to sink into the darkness. But a hand, though not strong but incredibly firm, reached out and grabbed his shoulder.
"No. You cannot give up right now," the original Kazuya shook his head, the smile on his lips vanishing, replaced by an incredibly serious gaze. "You said you are tired. You said you did everything. True. You did things that a coward like me, even given ten thousand lifetimes, would not dare to do. You protected Grandma. You faced Mami. You dared to trade your life to protect someone else."
That young man took a step forward, facing his desolate gaze directly.
"You always call yourself a cruel person, a monster who only knows rationality," the original Kazuya said, his voice trembling but full of respect. "But deep down, you are the warmest person. You bear all the pain so no one else gets hurt. You endure the ghosts of the past alone. But my friend. This life is not like your past life."
"What the hell do you know!?" He gritted his teeth, trying to brush his hand away. "They are all the same. One day they will turn their backs."
"She is crying for you right now." The original Kazuya cut him off, pointing toward a faint white light flickering far above.
From within that light, a sound echoed down. Very small, very faint, but sharp enough to tear the heart apart. Sobbing, calling his name in ultimate despair. Ichinose Chizuru's voice. Accompanied by the chaotic beeping of a defibrillator.
"Listen," the original Kazuya smiled, his eyes welling with tears. "Don't you see? Those tears are not fake. That is the purest love you have earned by being your true self. She is not crying for the weak Kinoshita Kazuya of the past. She's calling you. Calling the man who always raised his quills to protect her."
He was stunned. His barren, calloused heart suddenly contracted violently. The words of this foolish young man were like a warm stream seeping into the deep cracks in his soul.
"You do not have to fight alone anymore," the original Kazuya wrapped an arm around his shoulder, using all the meager strength of a primal soul to help him up. "Do not let the ghosts of the past deceive you anymore. Stand up. Do not give up in a dark place like this."
The exhaustion still dragged him down, but the strength from the young man's arm provided a strange upward push. The original Kazuya supported him to walk in the dark, toward the white halo that was growing brighter and brighter above.
"Keep trying... Almost there." The young man panted, smiling encouragingly.
As the white light began to blind him, he could feel the warmth of life calling out. A heartbeat, pain in the chest, the burning of chemicals in the veins. All the biological sensations were gradually reconnecting.
But right at the moment he was about to touch the halo, the original Kazuya suddenly stopped.
The young man gently released his hand from his shoulder.
He paused, turning his head to look. The spot where the original Kazuya stood was gradually being engulfed by darkness again. The young man's body began to fade, dissolving into tiny motes of light.
"What the fuck do you think you are doing?!" He yelled, his deep black eyes widening, an unprecedented feeling of panic surging. "Go! Step into the light! This body is yours!"
The original Kazuya shook his head. His foolish but kind smile was more radiant than ever against the backlight.
"I have fulfilled my role," the young man said softly, stepping deeper into the darkness. "I am not strong enough to bring happiness to anyone. If I go back, I will only ruin everything. But you are different."
"Stop your bullshit and get up here right now, you fucking pussy!" He roared, frantically reaching out to grab the young man's collar, ignoring the fact that he had just endured ultimate exhaustion.
But his hand tore through empty air. The original Kazuya had stepped out of reach.
"Please live on," the young man in the orange shirt cupped his hands over his mouth like a megaphone, shouting loudly toward him, tears rolling down his cheeks but his smile unfading. "Live for my life. Be strong, not just for everyone, not just for yourself, but for us,"
The young man's silhouette blurred into nothingness. His final voice echoed, blending with the sound of life rushing in like a storm.
"And live for the one you truly love. Do not let her cry anymore."
"DAMN IT MOTHERFUCKER, GIMME YOUR FUCKING HAND KAZUYA!!!!!!"
He screamed, using his last bit of dying strength intending to rush back into the darkness. But it was too late.
The original Kazuya smiled peacefully, thrust both hands forward, using all the final lingering thoughts of his soul, jumped up, and gave his chest a hard push.
A push that carried no physical force, but carried the weight of an entire life entrusted to him.
He lost his balance, plunging straight into the center of the blinding white light.
The darkness, the coldness, the resentments from his past life, the exhaustion of this life. All were burned away and cleansed by that light. The teary eyes of the young man in the orange shirt closed forever behind the doors of death, leaving him a truly complete second life.