Life is Precious
Life is precious. Humans are born with inherent dignity and value simply by virtue of being human. Why? Because a life is one of a kind.
"Ugh... Helena, Ispa, you're too slow! Hurry up, hurry!"
"Yuta. Your voice is too loud....!"
"...Everyone, this is a dungeon, remember? Be careful, or you'll get hurt."
An unchanging, eternal truth. The rich, the old fogeys, the poor—all get one-shot equally, getting along just fine in that regard. They say Abraham Lincoln set all men free, but Samuel Colt, founder of the firearms company Colt, made them equal, didn't he? Sadly, unlike in games, reality offered no coins to substitute for life. No auto-respawn feature kicking in after thirty seconds.
Maybe God overestimated his own abilities when he created humans.
"Ispa really! Every single day it's just 'be careful'! If you keep acting like that, you'll never succeed with a big ~bang~! Right, Helena?"
"Ugh... Yuta! I told you not to go on ahead!"
"...Really, you guys are all such scatterbrains."
What if death wasn't the end? What if everyone in the world revived after dying, reborn with all their memories intact—what would that world look like? Would teachers still drone on with empty platitudes about how life is precious and suicide is mere escapism, all just to earn a paycheck without any sincerity?
No way. There might be kids born to wretched parents who hurl themselves off buildings the moment they can walk, all because of their unfortunate birth. Suicide itself could become an act worthy of respect. People might toss away their lives lightly for lacking talent, hating their gender or race, or feeling no attachment to their birthplace. Like gamers who stumble on a cheat code, the instant they feel a twinge of discomfort in daily life, they'd end it all, praying for a better next round.
Well, I've rambled long enough—let's sum it up simply.
"Life is fleeting and easily lost, unique and thus invaluable."
I gaze now at the two children far ahead. Helena, timid and fragile, trailing after the hot-blooded, impatient Yuta. Yuta, abandoned by her parents and thrown into the orphanage, surviving her impoverished days by dreaming of sudden riches. Helena, who's lived her life swept along by others, unable to voice her own opinions properly. Kids truly living life, unlike me.
Sure, right now they have rough edges—personality flaws aplenty—but thinking of how they'll weather storms and emerge as diamonds, those unpolished gems even sparkle in my chest with excitement. How far can those children grow? When trials come, how far can they reach without despairing?
~♪
I hum a little tune unconsciously as I follow their trail. I've long since mapped out this dungeon's paths. How many times do you think I've crawled into holes like this one? How many times have I—died?
A crude dungeon like this? I could navigate it blindfolded. Where the treasures hide. Where the traps lurk. How the dungeon lures novice adventurers into its snares. I know it all.
Experience, after all.
"...Found it! If we get that, we're rich!"
"N-no... Let's wait for Ispa..."
They've already found it, huh. Looks like the kids veered toward the trap. A treasure to them, anyway. I had a sliver of hope, but oh well—inevitable, really.
Experience is just slapping a name on our "mistakes," isn't it? For kids this green, making it this far deserves praise.
"U-um... Ispa. Yuta says she found a treasure chest inside that door..."
Helena whispers to me as she creeps closer. I'd rather hear your thoughts than others', you know.
"No. It's dangerous."
"Why!! We just go in quick and grab it!!"
"No way a treasure chest would just be sitting there plain as day. Be more careful—"
Even the most finely programmed machine glitches sometimes. Humans, swayed by emotions? No chance of perfection. Everyone makes mistakes. Standing back up from them, vowing never again—that's what we call growth.
Growth. Yes, that's what I am for these children: the foundation of their growth. Their noble, pure, irreplaceable "one" precious life—I'll make it bloom. Compared to my own life, worth less than a discarded pencil, isn't this exchange more than fair?
"Ispa really! Don't be so stingy! We're proper adventurers now too! Right, Helena?"
"...Y-yeah.... Yuta... Ispa just worries about us..."
Yuta's fiercely independent. Maybe from being abandoned by her parents? She hates anyone looking after her. Even the orphanage director gets her tantrums nonstop. She rejects even well-meant advice or lessons. Joining the guild was a sweat-fest because of it.
Put kindly, she's brimming with confidence, a bright sun of a kid. Put harshly, a lone wolf. If she could temper that prickly edge toward others and learn, she'd make a fine adventurer.
Knowing she hates it, I deliberately play the advisor role by her side.
"But there might be a trap, Yuta. If you get hurt—"
"No risk, no treasure, Ispa! Helena thinks so too, right?"
"Uh, y-yeah? I-I guess."
Helena always goes along with others. She embraces even absurd ideas without rejection—leader material, by my standards. In truth, she's just terrified of being hated, can't stomach harsh words. Ears or nose, whatever's hung there becomes it. I just hope she cultivates that malleable nature well.
Who likes being hated? But you have to overcome it, Helena. Even history's greats and saints had haters. Some get flak precisely because they're flawless. Sometimes, you need to be firm. That's why I always handed her the final say.
Her answers were always "whatever," but lately she's voicing preferences—like coffee over black tea. Progress, though it leaves a vague sense of something missing.
"Fine! You scaredy-cats stay here! I'll be quick—"
"H-hey... Yuta!!"
"Yuta! Come back!"
She shakes off my grip on her arm, red ponytail flying as she charges off. Her speed ranks high even among adventurers I've seen. Talent. Real talent, unlike my fake sort. That kid will surely make a name for herself later.
What a joy to be the stepping stone for such a great adventurer. Plus, it satisfies my hobby to boot.
—Rumble rumble rumble...
"Got it...!! Wh-what is this?!"
"Yuta—! Th-the ceiling!!"
As expected, the trap activates right when the treasure chest opens. Hmm, the ceiling and pillar layout felt off—ah, this type.
Yuta, who rushed in alone, flails in panic. The chest's contents are bulky, heavy—too much to carry easily. Brutal.
"Yuta! Get out fast! Damn it!"
"Ispa?!"
I leave Helena at the door and head for Yuta. Greed? Or shock from the unexpected? I dash to the clueless Yuta, clutching her "treasure" obstacle.
The ceiling's already low enough to touch if I look up. No quick escape, and we're rat pancakes.
"Go!"
"B-but the treasure!"
"No time! You're more precious! Next time!"
You two end when you die. A live grunt beats a dead emperor. As long as you're alive, the next chance comes.
I seize Yuta's hand tight, heading for the door. Full speed would escape easy, but I throttle it just enough to barely miss. I'm set to die here.
"Whoa?!"
"Yuta!?"
As I lunge for Yuta, she steps on the small pebble I secretly tossed from my pocket to a perfect spot—pitching forward. Her face full of terror. Yes, remember that sensation of death. Remember how rashness, ignoring others' advice out of arrogance, brings death crashing down. And how a comrade you cherish like family will take that death instead.
"Hurry!! Faster!!"
The ceiling's down to waist height now. I scoop the fallen Yuta, crawling low on knees and hips toward the door. Helena stamps anxiously outside. But my speed's short. This way, we're both crushed beyond recognition.
Well, I tuned it that way. Don't worry—as if I'd let a promising kid die when I could save her alone.
"Raaahhh—!!"
"Ispa?!"
Whoosh.
I bellow and hurl Yuta hard toward Helena. More like a curling toss than a throw, but calling it curling with a person seems rude—so, tossed. Yeah, I flung Yuta far away.
She slides out the door following my hand, eyes wide staring back at me. Surprised? Cute.
Alone now, I crawl fast—but not quite full escape, faster than full-body crush. People learn best from seeing death and corpses up close—so, half-smashed it is. Yeah, right at the midpoint.
Rumble rumble—the vibration echoes from the ceiling. The press ready to squash me presses down slow. Solid stone texture on my shoulders. Head squeezes through the narrowing gap first. Then neck, shoulders, arms, flat chest, waist—and—
"—Gaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!"
The last thing to escape was my scream.