Fire and Ice

Outside the mansion, dark clouds had gathered, unleashing a torrential downpour.

It was a familiar storm. I didn't even care about getting wet anymore.

I walked past the carriage and cut across the garden.

Iris, just as drenched as I was, came running up in a panic. She stood in front of me, spreading her arms wide.

"A-Ain..."

"Sorry, Iris. I couldn't take it anymore."

I looked into her eyes, set in a face covered in a mix of rain and tears.

They were the same color as mine, but the expression was entirely different.

Iris's eyes were trembling.

"Y-your sister... I-I'll get you another chance..."

"You know it's over. Everything is. Goodbye."

"N-no... If-if I talk to Mother..."

"She'll only look down on me even more. You can stop now. You've done enough."

Iris's arms slowly fell to her sides, and her shoulders began to shake.

It was a relief that the sound of the rain drowned out her crying.

Before I knew it, she stepped closer, leaning her trembling shoulder against mine.

"I'm sorry, Ain... I... I have no power in the family... I'm so sorry..."

Words I had heard before.

I no longer resented those words, nor did I resent what would follow—her turning back and stumbling away toward the mansion.

The acceptance of being abandoned gave me more strength than I expected.

But contrary to my expectations, Iris's hands didn't pull away.

This closeness, our shoulders touching, felt foreign.

A hand, colder than the rain, wrapping around my back to embrace me—this was something I had never experienced in my past life.

"A-Ain... In the future... if you need anything... you can always tell me..."

"It's fine. It's about time I stood on my own two feet anyway."

"I-I won't ever give up on you... So..."

"Iris."

"N-no... Don't call me that... Please..."

"Thank you for everything. Take care."

I gently pried off Iris's arms draped over me—arms that, unlike in my past life, I didn't know when they would let go.

I walked past her, retracing the path the carriage had taken.

Back to my house, where Mace was. To my home, which would now be brighter than a grave.

It was a long walk, and the alcohol had long since worn off, but ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I didn't care.

For once, I didn't even crave a cigarette.

Fuck, but how am I going to make a living?

I pushed down the sudden wave of anxiety.

I wouldn't starve. I could survive even if I had to live on rationed bread.

Money would be nice, sure.

But I already knew what I truly needed.

If I could live with Mace, watching her smile.

If I could live alongside the very first thing I had found in this world by my own choice.

Then anywhere would become a place where I could breathe.

Ah, maybe we could go to that rose festival Mace was looking forward to so much.

Since it rained this hard, the flowers would surely be in full bloom.

I wouldn't be able to buy her rose perfume, but just walking together would be wonderful.

Even as I walked the streets I used to walk with Giselle, my mind wasn't filled with thoughts of her.

I no longer had to suffer at the sight of the old trees by the Messiah River.

My pace quickened, turning into a run.

I sped up, splashing through muddy water and puddles, trampling the ankle-high grass.

Even the sweat dripping down felt good.

I didn't even mind the prosthetic arm brushing against my side, swinging uselessly after I had smashed it.

With my breath coming in short gasps and my heart still racing, I finally reached home.

Looking at the messy tracks of mud scattered in front of the door, it seemed Mace had gone out despite my warnings.

Her usual easygoing nature made my heart melt with fondness once again.

I opened the door, putting on the most cheerful face I could muster so she wouldn't see the exhaustion from my long run.

Creak—

The sound of the door opening felt distinctly lively now.

It was no longer lonely.

Seeing Mace surprisingly asleep in bed, I called out a greeting she would probably tease me for.

"Hey, wifey, your husband's home."

Mace didn't react. She ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠must have been fast asleep.

On the nightstand next to the bed, a labeled bottle caught my eye.

It was a shape I had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠never seen in the house. As I drew closer, I saw a translucent liquid sloshing halfway inside.

"What's this? Did you drink alone?"

Maybe she had been struggling, only hiding it from me.

After all, she had been kicked out of the place she came to after leaving her hometown.

Honestly, she might have had it worse than me.

But just as she had healed my wounds, I was confident I could do the same for her.

No more relying on things like alcohol and cigarettes... Well, we could start by cutting back slowly.

I set the bottle down and looked back at the bed.

Mace's wheezing breath, her face paler than Giselle's, and her twitching eyes—not closed in sleep, but clearly unable to open—sent a jolt through my warmed heart.

"Mace?"

There was no answer. Her lips didn't even twitch.

It didn't seem to be because of the rain outside.

It was the same even when I brought my face close to hers.

...Her arm was trembling.

I searched my memories, trying to place where I had seen this familiar trembling before.

A scent stronger than alcohol, resembling tropical fruit, brushed past the tip of my nose.

The scent coming from Mace's mouth.

The scent of the very thing I had sworn never to touch, not just in this life, but in any life to come.

I grabbed the bottle on the table and shoved my nose into the opening.

My heart no longer held warmth, only a freezing chill.

I slumped beside the bed, staring at the bottle that had clearly been emptied of its original contents and refilled.

It was a drug. This was a drug.

.

.

.

Ice and Fire.

The two drugs wildly popular in the empire's back alleys.

Fire was fine.

It was a smoking-type drug with no real addictiveness, and I heard it was even used medically for sedation and pain relief.

The problem was Ice.

The thing I had hooked myself on in my past life.

Sold in liquid form, it was the very thing in this bottle that Mace had swallowed.

The drug, sticking viscously to the nerves, completely rewrites the body.

Every stimulus in life becomes drowned in the drug, and all senses, including taste, grow dull.

Once you touch it, it's over.

It was so bad that when a famous traveling troupe's bard got addicted,

"God, help me. I pray desperately that I may escape from Ice,"

before sticking his finger down his throat and shooting magic to blow his own head off.

And of course, thanks to its cheap price that never fluctuated with inflation, it was fucking easy to get.

Ah, and I almost fucking forgot the smell.

Wasn't there a story about some clueless kid who drank it because of its sweet, exotic fruit scent and died foaming at the mouth?

Right now, under the bridge where Mace went day after day, Ice was what they were constantly doing.

The proper way to take it was to put it in a syringe and inject it.

But our dear Mace had apparently mistaken it for alcohol, drinking about half of it straight from a bottle that looked just like a regular liquor bottle.

...My thoughts turned to the fucking beggars under the bridge.

And the image of Mace happily stuffing whatever they offered her as a reward straight into her mouth.

I walked toward my sword resting on the shelf.

I didn't care if it took days.

Whether it was the drug dealers, the lackeys camping out, the beggar king, or the hundreds of lowlife remnants nesting in that den like maggots.

I would slaughter every single one of them until they talked.

I swear.

Whoever the fuck did this, I will mince them so finely that not a single trace of them remains.

Whether they gave it to her out of some misguided goodwill or did it maliciously to turn her into an addict.

I didn't know, and I didn't care.

Finding that motherfucker and killing them would be the end of this dog-like life.

"...A...in."

"..."

If only those words hadn't slipped through the tiny crack of her barely open lips.

My steps would never have stopped.

I sat on the edge of the bed next to Mace and looked down at her face.

"...I told you not to just eat whatever you pick up."

Maybe—no, it was definitely my fault.

If I hadn't taught Mace how to drink, she wouldn't have happily chugged something just because it was in a bottle like that.

It was my fault for introducing Mace to a habit of mine that helped absolutely no one.

What was going on inside Mace's head right now?

She was a clergy member, of all things.

A nun who lived a life completely detached from instant gratification.

By now, how had the tiny brain wrapped in that barley-colored hair been warped by the Ice?

Was there even a way to treat drug addiction in this world, when it was hard enough to treat in modern times?

There were no specialized hospitals for addicts, no systematic support like in the modern world.

At best, she would be sent to an asylum.

And with that dosage...

She would probably choke on her own vomit and die in half a day.

Even if by some miracle she survived, she would end up in a state worse than mine, living a miserable life unable to feel any pleasure for the rest of her days without Ice.

No one in this world could save Mace.

Except me.

If I die, everything resets.

Along with Mace's memories.

It would be resolved cleanly.

I gently moved Mace's head to the side.

I pulled the pillow from beneath her head and held it in my hands.

So that she wouldn't suffer if she were left behind.

There would be no resistance.

I wouldn't even need to press down hard.

I just had to place the pillow over that smileless face and wait until her chest stopped rising and falling.

I looked at the shadow cast over her face by the pillow I held up.

I listened to her breathing, which pierced my ears despite the sound of the rain.

The rotten planks of the ceiling must have finally given way.

Otherwise, there was no reason for the pillow to be getting wet, drop by drop.

I told you. I'm already dried up inside.

Only I could put an end to her pain.

Only I could let her end her life in a better state.

It was a necessary action, driven by rational logic.

There was absolutely no chance of things getting better for Mace if she remained.

But why the fuck... why?

Why did my hands only tremble like a useless idiot's, refusing to bring the pillow down?

Why couldn't I close the distance of less than a span to her face?

"I'm sorry, Mace. I... I can't do it."

Why did I throw the pillow to the floor and end up hugging her fragile, breakable body?

"I can't. I just can't."

Why was I spilling my tears, which were filthier than ditch water, over her face again?

"Please forgive me. Please. It was my fault. I shouldn't have wished for anything more."

What did I expect in return from her silent form as I spoke?

As I pulled my face away from her, I saw the notification window floating before my eyes.

I get it now.

I understand everything.

I'm sorry for insulting your work. It's all my fault.

If my rotten taste offended you, I'll apologize a hundred, a thousand times.

I'll beg on my knees.

If that's not enough, I'll gladly accept whatever punishment you give me.

A place where germs and jewels are worshipped, while the tears shed by a saint praising a god likely named after you are neglected—this is the era you wanted, the world you wanted.

I'll admit it. I'll accept this world and gladly kiss the dirt.

I don't care if you strip away everything I've lost so far all over again, leaving not a single trace.

If the soul Giselle tore apart actually exists, I don't care if you spit on it, pour oil over it, and burn it to ashes.

Just please, do something about Mace.

She's not even a supporting character. She's just an extra, isn't she?

There's no fucking plot consistency or logic to this anyway.

Even if she doesn't die, this world will keep spinning just fine.

Her suffering, a mere speck to you, shouldn't even matter.

But the Creator merely pushed my back in silence.

I walked into the bathroom and pried off a piece of the broken mirror with my mouth.

The shard dug into my lips, and the blood dripping from it stained the floor.

With the mirror shard clamped in my teeth, I looked down at my remaining hand.

Where was the vein again? Found it.

As if kissing my wrist, I stabbed and tore at the flesh over and over.

Trembling, I picked up the bottle with my bloodied hand and poured the Ice directly onto the exposed vein.

Not leaving a single drop. So that I wouldn't feel any pain.

A sensation like crushed dry ice being poured into my veins.

My consciousness grew hazy, completely out of my control.

Maybe this was the happy ending.

After all, I was sharing the same substance with my partner, leaning against her as I ended my life.

No supreme love in any novel could be more romantic than this.

I could no longer hear Mace's breathing, nor the rain outside.

My eyelids felt as heavy as if they had been nailed shut.

As I closed my eyes, I was certain.

This time, I had definitely reached that grand happy ending of yours.

.

.

.

Look at the attitude on this motherfucker.

If I ever get out of here, I'm going to spam the comment section with hate.

Well, not that it'll ever happen.