Chapter 51

When the curtain falls in a play, all the characters leave the stage.

The stage remains empty until the next play begins.

But what if there's a character who remains behind the thick curtain?

What would that character see?

Whatever they saw, it certainly wouldn't be a landscape as desolate as this.

Parched, crumbling ground.

Broken stone buildings scattered here and there.

A gray sky that made it impossible to determine whether it was day or night.

Stale wind swirled in the air,

And unfamiliar constellations were drawn above his head.

Where was this place?

He began to walk aimlessly.

Neither warm nor cold,

Neither painful nor itchy.

Slowly, like a drifting spirit or ghost.

Whether he was wandering in search of a place to ask for help, or simply wanted to confirm what existed in this space.

As he continued walking, a small hill protruded before him.

Someone was sitting atop what looked like a pile of scrap metal.

A yellow cloak that stood out even from a distance.

The cloak was long enough to cover most of the hill.

Upon getting closer, he saw that the person was crouched on the hill, incessantly writing something in a massive book.

"Excuse me."

He didn't raise his face.

But there was something familiar about him.

His build and movements seemed like something he had seen for a very long time.

He slowly crawled up the hill.

Only after barely climbing the mountain using both hands and arms could he confirm the man's face.

Without even blinking once, he continued to fill the paper densely, and he was.

"-■■■."

A strange pronunciation sprang from his mouth.

The pen the man was holding stopped, and he raised his head.

"Brother."

"You... why are you here."

Why are you.

In this damned world.

Wasn't this supposed to be inside a novel?

Or had he died and come to heaven or hell?

Where were they now?

Was he really, truly dead this time?

Countless questions arose.

■■■ looked around as if he didn't know where he was, then huddled back, clutching the book.

He grabbed those bony shoulders.

"■■■. Look at me. ■■■. What are you doing here?"

"Brother."

"What are you doing here?!"

Despite his yelling, his younger brother seemed to be in a daze.

He only muttered something while tightly holding the book and pen with empty eyes.

"■■■!"

"I can't get out."

"What?"

"I can't get out."

"What are you talking about?"

"I wrote so many times, revised and rewrote everything, kept writing, but I still can't get out..."

His younger brother kept repeating that he "couldn't get out."

What did he mean by saying he couldn't get out?

You're the one who wrote this story, not anyone else.

He snatched the massive book from his brother and opened it.

A story written haphazardly. There were marks where lines had been crossed out with a pen, and pages that had been torn out.

This book was the story of this world.

Upon returning to the first page, he saw the familiar opening sentence.

[The story begins when three people return to Hartmann Castle.]

Arndt, Leandros, and Arenheit.

The beginning of all stories starts from here.

And through development, it heads toward the ending.

[...Leandros delivers the final blow and together with Yurik...]

[...If not, then after harming Yurik, he spends his lifetime with his beloved...]

[If not that, then after completing his revenge against Yurik, he wanders the continent forever until he closes his eyes...]

Someone survives, or dies, or makes a third choice.

This was the end of this story.

No, wait.

This was strange.

How many endings did this story have?

Whether one liked it or not, a single story had a single ending.

Multiverse-like endings were merely in the realm of readers' imagination.

When he looked up at his brother, he was now tightly hugging his knees and rocking back and forth.

"■■■."

"What should I do? What should I do? If I had known this would happen, I wouldn't have come here. If I had known, I would never have made such a promise with that person. I, I had no idea. I can't get out of here. No one can get out. Absolutely no one can get out."

"What promise did you make? With whom?"

"A story, I need to offer a comedy, a comedy that satisfies him, but because I lack strength, he said he would give it directly. He gave me a yellow cloak, crowned me with a yellow crown, and took my story."

"What did he give you?"

Empty eyes turned toward him.

"I tried, but nothing went as I wanted. So I tried harder. Because stories can be revised, I wrote anew again and again. I went back so many times, rewrote, went back again. Yet I failed."

"What do you mean by 'went back'..."

At that moment, his foot slipped and kicked something down.

As he staggered and looked down, there was a familiar object.

A black stone necklace.

The necklace was hanging on someone's hand.

That hand had emerged from this small hill.

As he slowly lowered his gaze, he could see several faces.

Arndt.

The former Duchess.

The former Duke.

Amelia.

Rotaer.

And even Leandros.

It wasn't just one. There were countless Arndts, countless Amelias, countless Leandros.

They were piled up like discarded dolls, forming this small mountain.

Upon seeing this, he immediately understood.

A story revised innumerable times.

Those who had regressed numerous times without realizing it.

People who had died countless times and survived countless times.

And his younger brother, who had sat on these corpses for an eternity until the end of the world because he couldn't write a story that would "satisfy" someone.

Despite already being dead in reality, without finding peace.

An indescribable emotion welled up.

Anger, despair, all mixed together.

At the end of it all, he uttered only one sentence.

"You can get out."

"I can't get out, I can't..."

"You can get out! Don't talk nonsense. You can get out!"

The massive book he was holding still had many blank pages left.

When he tightly gripped the book, the unfinished page crumpled.

So all he had to do was write a comedy that would satisfy that thing or whatever it was.

"I can do it. I can do it! So don't say such things. You will get out of here, and I can get out too. Just show the ending of this damned story!"

He was the only one who remembered the criticisms that had poured out on the free serialization site.

It's not interesting, the settings are inconsistent, the explanations are too long, it's hard to read.

Yes, this world-building was a mess.

People died at the drop of a hat, and once a flag was set, it couldn't be removed.

It was a world where death came all too easily!

If he could show an ending that everyone would accept.

If he could create a story where everyone becomes happy.

Then even his brother, who was despairing and wailing alone in this unknowable place.

"...I'll write it. You just,"

He hoped his brother could finally rest peacefully.

Because they had never had a moment that wasn't difficult.

Leaving his brother behind, he slid down the hill of corpses with the book.

He also managed to extract the horn that had been hanging on someone's hand.

Unlike the one he had in the previous iteration, this black horn was elongated.

He remembered the scene where Yurik combined the two stone pieces into one.

Was this the horn in its original state?

-Wheeeet!

When he blew the horn, a sharp sound resembling tearing wind echoed.

The sound spread to every corner of the ruined city.

After looking around for a moment, he suddenly discovered a creature that had docked a distance away without making a sound.

A grotesque bird-like monster.

A head with no eyes, nose, or mouth, but instead covered with all sorts of fine down and antennae.

A body without skin, with thick blood vessels underneath that seemed to pulse all over.

A long tail extending behind it.

It had no front legs, but bat-like membrane wings were attached, and it seemed to use some of the bones supporting the wings as front legs.

A hideous and terrible beast that was repulsive just to look at was staring at him.

At first, he froze in shock.

But it didn't rashly approach him or let out a terrible scream.

It just calmly stood still in place.

It looked as if it was waiting for a command.

He approached the beast.

The monstrous bird, more than twice his height, lowered its head as he stretched out his arm.

A sticky feel, an unpleasant sensation.

Yet he couldn't take his hand away, and as he stroked it, the creature brought its muzzle closer to him.

As he touched the elongated muzzle, it felt somehow familiar.

So, this current action was.

"My horse."

The black horse he had bought in his second life.

That horse which became docile when its nose bridge was stroked.

Was this that horse?

Amidst the confusion, he faithfully moved his hand and whispered.

"You... Ah, I haven't even given you a name yet. I'm sorry. What's your original name?"

-Chirrrrup.

"Does that mean you don't have one? That's what it sounds like. Can we understand each other now?"

The place where the monstrous bird's eyes would be turned toward him.

As he rubbed the sticky skin, a good idea suddenly came to mind, and he asked.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to give you a name. We'll meet again in the next life. I'm not sure if you'll maintain the form of a horse."

-Chirup.

"If we meet again, how about Sleipnir... Sleigh for short?"

A horse from Norse mythology.

The mount of Odin, the god of wisdom and king of gods, said to be able to cross between the world of the living and the dead.

The monstrous bird seemed to like it, as it gave no particular response.

He looked around while touching the creature, now named Sleigh.

"How do I get back from here now?"

It seemed like it was time to regress.

Since regression happened so arbitrarily, he had been wondering how to do it.

As he pondered, Sleigh suddenly thrust its long muzzle beside him.

"You scared me! ...Want me to ride? Why? All of a sudden?"

Sleigh, who had lowered its body and was looking at him, opened its mouth, which split into three parts.

It must be a sign of friendship. It must be a sign of friendship.

Watching it, he carefully mounted.

Unlike riding a horse, there was nothing to hold onto, so he had to grab the unevenly protruding bones.

As soon as he settled in place, Sleigh let out a long cry in a tone he couldn't hear.

As its massive wings spread out on both sides, he lost consciousness.

* * *

"Huh."

When he opened his eyes, drenched in cold sweat, Arndt and Leandros were looking down at him.

A familiar ceiling, familiar faces, and the smell of dust.

As soon as they saw that he had regained consciousness, Arndt spoke with a face that looked like he was about to cry.

"Your Grace, are you conscious? You collapsed in the carriage on the way to the castle! Your fever hasn't broken the entire time, and we were so scared. I'm so relieved, truly,"

"I, am fine."

He had returned.

Back to the beginning of the story.

As he sat up with support, his head spun.

Somehow, it seemed like his condition worsened with each regression.

He clenched and unclenched his numb hands and checked on the two.

They still wore shabby, worn clothes and had gaunt, tired faces.

This time, he would start with this.

"Arndt."

"Yes, Your Grace. How may I serve you?"

"How much money do we have on hand right now? No, never mind. Open the closed banquet hall."

"What?"

"There's something to extract from there. Also, I'm sorry for suddenly saying this, but we all need to go to the west. Please make preparations."

"What?"

Arndt and Leandros looked at each other.

After stripping the gold leaf from the closed banquet hall, they set aside some spending money after travel expenses.

And then they arrived in the west, at the prayer hall crawling with gamblers.

After dragging Leandros around between gambling tables,

Their three copper coins multiplied to three hundred gold coins in a single night,

And the prayer hall entered a tearful temporary closure.