Love Letters Bearing Disaster

If someone asked me who dragged the Rahelon Continent to the brink of destruction...

I'd want to answer honestly.

It wasn't the Demon King. It wasn't the Outer Gods. It wasn't even the calamities slowly devouring the continent.

It was just some third-rate extra bastard who, pissed off at the future that was about to unfold, wrote love letters like a complete lunatic.

...Yeah. Me.

Three years ago, I reincarnated into this world.

No great bloodline, no unique skill, not even a munchkin—just the kind of guy who wouldn't get a single line of mention in a novel. The sort of person who would have become Student A, number 17 in Class 2 of the third year. By pure luck I managed to enroll in the academy. By pure misfortune, I also knew this place was an original academy novel whose ending was already locked in: total massacre of the protagonist and all the heroines.

So in my first year I simply moved to keep the main cast alive. Using my knowledge of the future, I quietly filled in the gaps without anyone noticing. Right before the protagonist was about to be ambushed, I "coincidentally" discovered the enemy's plan and tipped him off. Before a heroine could be kidnapped, I casually mentioned that the alley over there looked suspicious and nudged the patrol route just enough. On the day an Outer God was scheduled to invade, I made sure the patrols in that sector were doubled.

The result? The protagonist became a hero, and the heroines fell completely for the guy who solved every incident ahead of time. And me? Then and now, I was just the lucky extra who stuck close to the protagonist and somehow survived.

Still, that was fine.

When I became a second-year, the pattern became crystal clear. A crisis would erupt. I would stop it. Every scrap of credit would go to the protagonist and the heroines. While they were praised, scouted by knight orders, and applauded by professors, I sat in a corner in front of my exam papers, reworking the future-event list I had stayed up all night piecing together.

"Yeah, well. That's just how it is."

That was what I told myself. After all, I wasn't the protagonist, and I knew this world wouldn't fall as long as the protagonist lived.

The problem started after I became a third-year. The story had been rolling along smoothly; we were roughly a year away from the ending.

"Thanks for everything today. I really survived thanks to you."

Today, as always, the protagonist praised himself for swinging the sword—not me.

"Right? Without Leon we would've been dead for sure."

Heroine number one smiled at his words.

"As expected of our class ace!"

Heroine number two clapped, same as always.

"......"

And I, as always, sat in a chair far away, wiping blood from my gloves with a cloth while watching the whole scene.

But today, unlike every other day, a thought suddenly hit me.

Fuck. I did all the rolling around.

I was the one who found the kidnapping route. I was the one who cast the invisibility spell so we wouldn't trip the surveillance net. I was the one who lifted the curse on the artifact we looted. I was the one who figured out that today's Outer God stuttered its spells when it got nervous. All of it. Every single bit. So why the hell wasn't there a single woman standing next to me?

Less than a year remained until we could rewrite everything and reach the happy ending. As someone who knew the original work, I knew exactly which disasters would erupt, which cities would be erased, and who would die. Stop all of it and the continent lives. Stop all of it and I live. That was why I had endured until now.

But then...

"...Ah, I was really grateful today. I'll definitely repay you tonight."

"Y-yeah. I'll be waiting."

The moment I saw the protagonist smile at the heroine and drop a line that was obviously shady as hell, and the heroine bashfully accept it like she was thrilled—something inside me just snapped.

These fucking bastards are flaunting their PDA right in my face.

Repay?

Fuck repayment.

Shouldn't I be the one getting repaid? I was the one who saved you people, who conquered Outer Gods, who killed apostles, who saw through every trap—everything.

And so, that night, I made a choice I could never take back. A choice that threw away the future in which I could safely watch the novel's ending, and instead summoned a catastrophe so vast it made the Outer Gods' attacks look like child's play.

I stacked the original novel's setting collection on my desk and flipped through it page by page.

On the facing pages, their likes, dislikes, traumas, and complexes were scribbled in microscopic notes. How was it all so detailed? Because the author was a pervert who, every single time someone asked, wrote out the settings with obsessive, completely unnecessary care.

"We're all fucked. I'm going to date too. I'm going to have a woman next to me. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I already know everything they like, so I just need one of them to accept me. I'll give everything I have."

Ha. If only I had come to my senses even then...

Of course, that day I had been up for two straight nights doing assignments, all-nighters, and patrol duty. My brain was half-melted. And one very simple emotion rising from deep in my chest only clouded my judgment further.

Resentment.

I spent three years saving the continent and every heroine. So why is my own life this empty?

I picked up a pen. I pulled out four sheets of white stationery and wrote a name on each one.

Yet before I wrote the first sentence, I hesitated for a moment. About ten percent of my sanity had returned.

"Ah, this is insane. Seriously."

I knew. This was genuine madness. The very idea of writing love letters like a lunatic to the women who ruled half the continent was already a flag for the extinction of mankind. Even the author must have thought the power balance was ridiculous, because he hastily slapped on the setting that the Transcendents simply watched from their domains until the very end, wondering whether the Outer Gods destroying the continent might finally give their bored, listless selves a little entertainment.

But in that moment I genuinely thought:

I know, I know... but I still want to be loved by a beautiful, capable woman...

They had spent their entire lives receiving only reverence and fear from the highest seats of power. No one had ever loved them as "one person." I knew that fact better than anyone, and I was certain that if I used it well, at least one of them would fall. And every word I poured into those letters, while mixed with calculation and performance, was also the sincere feeling of one ordinary reader.

Line by line, I wrote down every scrap of knowledge I possessed and every understanding I held as a reader. Strangely, my hand moved with perfect ease. By the time I finished the letters, dawn was already breaking. Dawn emotions... truly terrifying.

Then came the problem: the fifth letter. It had never been part of the plan.

I had originally decided not to write this one. That damn Headmaster was one of the Transcendents, yet even when Outer Gods and their apostles kept targeting the academy, she only ever watched from afar. She found our desperate struggles "interesting." She called it "necessary for the children's growth." She called it "a test." Even when dozens of students died, she never once stepped in herself. Honestly, her face wasn't even particularly pretty. That was why she had been cut from the love-letter list at the start.

And yet, for some reason, my pen suddenly moved on its own.

When I finished, it looked far closer to a string of insults than a love letter. Still, I forced the last line into something that vaguely resembled a confession.

"...Ha. Fuck. Done."

I sealed the five letters into envelopes and wrote the final recipients. Then, through the magic mail system, I designated absolute coordinates and addressees. As long as you knew the coordinates, the letter itself would always arrive unless the recipient actively refused it.

Yet right before I pressed the send button, my finger began to tremble violently above the transmission magic circle.

Should I send it? Should I not? Should I send it...?

In one corner of my mind, the part of my brain that had woken from the dawn haze kept screaming: Tear them up right now, go to sleep, and forget this ever happened. But another corner whispered, very softly:

Anyway, a year from now everything will probably end. Only the protagonist gets a happy ending.

"...Fuck that. Absolutely not."

In the end, I listened to the whispering side.

"Send."

I poured mana into the circuit and activated the magic circle. The five envelopes vanished before my eyes.

For the next few days, absolutely nothing happened—so little that I started doubting whether the letters had even been delivered. The problem came the day after that.

The sky suddenly split open. High above the academy, someone appeared riding a colossal golden celestial palace. On the opposite side of the heavens, teal branches that looked exactly like the World ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Tree began sprouting from empty air. From underground, a crimson moon abruptly burst forth and rose into the sky, shaking the entire academy with a mana storm. And right in the center of the two Transcendents, a dragon that had appeared out of nowhere beat its wings with enough force to overturn the sky itself.

Only then did I realize something had gone catastrophically wrong.

And soon after, the academy that had endured three years of endless Outer God assaults vanished from the map of the Rahelon Continent without leaving even a trace—all ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠because of five love letters.