"Appa… are gods real?"
The memory did not return as a memory.
It intruded—whole, intact, as if time had not passed at all.
"…If they are," the boy had asked, his voice small but unbroken, "will the Yama save us?"
His father had not answered immediately.
That silence had stretched—long enough for a child to believe there might be something worth hearing at the end of it.
"And why is he called death… if he saves people?"
His father laughed.
Not because it was funny.
But because there was no other response left.
"Because," he said, his voice already somewhere else, "death is the only gold people like us will ever receive."
A pause.
"It save us."
Something in his tone had collapsed.
"It ends evry suffering."
The boy opened his eyes.
The pit welcomed him.
The smell was not something he noticed; it was something that had already entered him, settled into his lungs, mixed with his breath until there was no distinction between air and decay.
Bodies surrounded him.
Not dramatically.
Not grotesquely.
Simply… present.
Layered upon each other in quiet agreement with gravity, as if even in death they had accepted their place—beneath everything.
For a moment, he did not move.
Not because he was weak.
But because he had expected something else.
Not hope.
Not salvation.
Just—
nothing.
Death.
"…So even that wasn't given."
The disappointment was quiet.
That was what made it absolute.
He sat up.
Something beneath him shifted, giving way without resistance, as though the world here had already forgotten how to oppose anything.
He looked at his hand.
It still responded.
Still obeyed.
Still existed.
"…Unnecessary."
There was no frustration in the word.
Only recognition.
Death had not rejected him.
It had simply… not taken him.
He stood.
The body resisted in small, irrelevant ways—stiffness, tearing skin, a dull echo of pain—but none of it demanded acknowledgment.
Pain had long since lost its authority.
He looked upward.
The opening above did not resemble hope.
It was merely an exit.
And whether he climbed or remained made no difference, because both directions led to the same destination.
Hunger.
Pain.
And the illusion that either of them could be escaped.
A piece of the past surfaced—uninvited.
"…Was any of that real?"
Gods.
Azael.
Vermilion.
The names lingered for a moment—
not as answers,
but as something that refused to fully disappear.
He let the thought pass.
Reality had never needed his belief to continue.
He began to climb.
Not out of desire.
Not out of instinct.
But because his body had not yet learned how to stop.
His fingers pressed into surfaces that no longer held shape, his footing unstable not because the climb was difficult, but because everything beneath him had already surrendered its form.
At one point, something collapsed beneath his weight.
A body, perhaps.
Or what had once been one.
It didn't matter.
He continued.
Because stopping would not change anything.
And eventually—
light expanded.
Not as warmth.
Not as comfort.
But as confirmation.
The world had not ended.
The slums were the same.
Not similar.
Not familiar.
The same.
As though nothing that had happened—death, hunger, loss—had any weight outside of the bodies that experienced it.
People moved.
Not with purpose.
Not with resistance.
Just… forward.
As if something unseen continued to push them into a future that never arrived.
He walked.
Not searching.
Because there was nothing left to find.
The sound reached him before the scene did.
A disruption.
Not unusual.
But specific.
He turned.
Three men.
One girl.
There was nothing remarkable about it.
That was the problem.
The girl was being held—not violently, not chaotically, but with the kind of casual certainty that suggested this had happened before, would happen again, and required no thought in between.
She saw him.
And in that moment, something irrational occurred.
Hope.
Her body reacted before her mind could suppress it.
She pulled herself forward, her movements uneven, collapsing between attempts as though her own body resisted the effort.
"Please…"
The word fractured as it left her.
"Help me…"
Her hand reached him.
Touched his foot.
It was light.
Weak.
Temporary.
One of the men noticed.
A smirk followed—not cruel, not excited—just… expectant.
"If you want to help her," he said, stepping forward, "you should be ready to feel it too."
The others laughed.
Because this was the part that never changed.
Someone sees.
Someone hesitates.
Someone fails.
The boy looked at them.
Then at her.
Then at the space between all of them.
There was no confusion.
No hesitation.
No internal conflict.
Only a gradual alignment of thought.
If he intervened, the outcome would not change—only its order.
If he saved her, she would suffer again.
If he killed them, others would replace them.
If he protected the weak, weakness itself would persist.
Multiply.
Endlessly.
There was no flaw in the system.
Because the system was functioning exactly as it was meant to.
The flaw—
was assuming it could be corrected.
Her grip tightened.
Desperate.
Unreasonable.
"Please…"
The word again.
Weaker.
As if even she no longer believed in it.
He looked down at her hand.
Clinging to him.
Asking something from him that did not exist.
And in that moment—
a conclusion formed.
Not emotional.
Not reactive.
Final.
If suffering could not be removed—
then those who carried it…
should not remain.
"…There is nothing to save."
The words did not reject her.
They defined her end.
Her body stilled.
Completely.
For the first time since he had seen her, she was not struggling.
Not resisting.
Not hoping.
Just—
still.
Then—
something unseen answered.
Not from above.
Not from around.
From him.
She collapsed.
Not violently.
Not dramatically.
But with the quiet finality of something that had been extended beyond its natural limit finally returning to its proper state.
A soft rupture.
A release.
Blood followed—not explosively, but inevitably, spreading outward with a certainty that required no force.
The men stepped back.
Confusion came first.
Then fear.
Not of him.
Of the conciquences.
They didn't finish.
Because finishing the thought would mean accepting it.
They ran.
Not because they understood.
But because they didn't.
The street emptied.
Silence remained.
The boy stood still.
Blood touched his skin.
Warm.
"…Did that happen because of me…?"
A pause.
Confusion—not fear, not regret—just something unfamiliar.
"Was it wrong… or was that the first time anyone was ever truly saved?"
He observed it.
Not with shock.
Not with detachment.
With understanding.
The suffering had not been stopped.
It had not been prevented.
It had been—
ended.
Completely.
No continuation.
No repetition.
No tomorrow.
"…So this is mercy."
The realization settled without resistance.
That was what made it irreversible.
Not kindness.
Not salvation.
Not protection.
But the removal of all future suffering—without exception.
A voice followed.
Not heard.
Recognized.
"…Interesting first act as a avatar."
He did not turn.
There was nothing to face.
But he understood whom does it belonged to.
"…Azael."
END OF CHAPTER 4