A Terrible Feeling

A terrible feeling came over me. Birds were chirping, flowers blooming—a day brimming with Mother World Tree's grace.

My insides felt like they were burning up. So hot. Nauseating, repulsive—like flames were about to spew from my gut.

I thought he was the Hero. I thought I'd reunited with a friend once more. I thought we could meet again, even after death tore us apart. I thought he was a friend. I thought we'd shared a bond of friendship.

It was all a delusion.

The Porter always saw us clearly. So that day, the longing I couldn't explain to him—he saw right through it. That I was searching for someone else. That I couldn't give him true friendship. That I was merely chasing the shadow of one long gone.

The Porter already knew. He knew, yet he apologized instead, smiled, and pretended not to notice.

And the object of my so-called friendship? None other than the Hero the Porter had devoured back in the days he was cursed. Did he not know? Impossible. He had to know. He always looked at us straight on. Only the Porter saw us without illusion.

It wasn't in the letter, but I knew. How could I not? Every time the Porter looked at me, the horrific guilt he must have felt, the way he must have cursed his own existence, seeing the longing for the Hero reflected in my eyes— just imagining it made my stomach churn, my eyes hard to open.

How cruel had I been to him?

Why did I look at the Hero of the past instead of the Porter right in front of me? What did I expect from him? Even knowing he was different, even thinking he had no memories, did I hope he'd recognize me? How selfish was I?

I couldn't do that. I couldn't ignore his devotion with flimsy assumptions and faith. I had to look at the man before me, not memories buried in my heart.

Horrific. Was it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠because I'm an elf? Because my emotions are weak? Because I'm a long-eared long-lived race doomed to this? I wanted to slice off these elongated ears.

No. No. It's not because I'm an elf. I know that's not the issue. I was just escaping into convenient delusions. Clinging to belief in the afterlife for solace. Too scared to make new friends and face new farewells, I lied to myself that it wasn't the end.

I should have said a proper goodbye. But I didn't prepare for farewell, convincing myself it wasn't over.

Idiot. What does it matter if he's the Hero or reincarnated or whatever? He was right here, not in the past. During our journey, he was our companion, our friend. Why did I never spare him a glance as the Porter? While he carried our burdens, listened to our worries, cheered and comforted us—why didn't this stupid girl ever think to carry his load?

"Hic, sob..."

The dead don't return. You can't reunite with those who've left. That's why farewells matter. The Porter knew that, so despite his fear, he tried to confess everything to us in the end. To finish the journey together. To die by our hands.

"S-sorry..."

He meant to send us off with a smile. To leave us smiling.

It was my fault. My arrogant delusions about what came after death rendered our journey meaningless. Prevented me from even mourning my friend's death. He always saw me as a friend. But I never treated him as one.

"Sorry..."

What right do I have to apologize? Not even a friend, never treating him as one, forever trapped in the past—and only after he's gone do I seek forgiveness? The hypocrisy makes me want to vomit.

If I'd only faced him properly, looked at the Porter before me...

I could have forgiven him. Eased his guilt. Told him it wasn't his fault, that he didn't prevent us from reuniting with the Hero, that he did more than enough—so no need to apologize.

How immense his guilt must have been as that kind man died.

"Sob... hic... whimper..."

Ah, Mother World Tree. Please, never forgive me.

The Hero wondered what the Porter thought during their journey. Comforting himself, shouldering the Hero's burdens, contemplating his impending death—what worries plagued him?

He reread the Porter's diary countless times. The will he left, the unfinished letters he'd written and erased, his belongings, even the home where he'd lived—he examined it all.

Maybe the Porter was afraid. Unable to kill himself out of fear of death, he must have dreaded dying by the Hero's hand someday. Perhaps he saw the Hero as his executioner and tried to buy mercy by winning his heart. Maybe he inwardly sighed in relief that the Hero was a coward who couldn't kill the living.

Or perhaps guilt tormented him. Knowing he existed by burning the past Hero, maybe he tried to atone to the current one. Seeing the Hero as a debt collector, he helped to lighten his own sins. Perhaps he felt reassured that the Hero was immature and helpless without aid.

Maybe it was all of that. How can you sum up a human heart in one way? He must have felt unimaginable fear, guilt, anguish.

And yet, despite all that anxiety, the Porter cheered me on as I changed to slay the Demon King.

He lifted me—the future killer of himself.

He comforted me, thanked me, treated me with kindness.

So, the one who truly saved the world wasn't someone like me—it was the Porter. His courage saved it. His kindness redeemed everyone. Because he saw us as friends, we could hesitate yet press forward.

Ah. Aah. Aaaah.

I, joyfully thanking you for letting me kill the Demon King... was truly horrific and incompetent.

The stench of booze. Overwhelming alcohol fumes. The first time the Hero drank was when the Porter visited his room, and the last time he got drunk was that day too.

But now, they poured even more down their throats. The Saintess who shouldn't drink, the Mage who must keep her wits, the elf who could only sip dew-brewed liquor—they all reeked of it.

Drunken wrecks sprawled across the room, lost to oblivion. Broken. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Shattered. No energy left even for grief.

Just regret, self-torment to forget the regret, regret for forgetting, then more drink to forget the forgetting. Unthinkable for the Hero Party that saved the world.

Inevitable. The departed don't return. Some farewells are so cruel they utterly destroy a person.

And this... wasn't a particularly good ending.

We who repeat death have one 'perk': points settled from achievements in a loop, influencing the next.

The system creator probably wanted us as munchkin regressor protagonists.

I smirked scanning the system log. My life reduced to a few lines. Not a valuable one, it seems. No grand talents or perks to buy.

But I wasn't after pricey clichés anyway.

I selected the perk I'd planned without hesitation.

...

"Porter, you're expelled from the party."

"Wh-what? Why?"

"...Huh?"

"I thought we were comrades..."

"Wh-what the...?"

"Sorry, Hero."

"Por... ter...?"

Ah, this is regression. We can change the past.

"Porter!"

"Ow... Hero? Wh-what's wrong all of a sudden?"

"Sob... S-sorry... It was me..."

"I-it's fine. I know I'm not much help."

And I am the Demon King's Ember.

"Hero."

"..."

"Thanks for everything."

Someday, I must die by your hand.

"Ah, aaah..."

This wish for you to end my breath—surely pure love, right?