Rosaria

The first thing that came to mind after hearing the whole story was doubt.

A heavy doubt about my own existence.

So I set aside the storm of emotions threatening to surface and posed my question to Canaria, whose expression was difficult to describe.

"...Because there's no way someone like me could be that Rosaria."

And in that moment, tears began to fall.

I couldn't hold them back.

I couldn't even define why I was crying.

And I refused to let myself recall the reason—because even the answer was certain to be repulsive.

But now was the time to regret those tears

and those words that could never be taken back.

Calmly, Canaria responded to my question with another.

"...Then, do you remember your own name?"

It should have been an unanswerable question for no reason at all.

A name is proof of one's existence. The symbol of the self.

I would have said—what person in the world doesn't know their own name?

So I tried to think of it.

...And the moment I did, I felt nothing but ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wrongness.

Why did I have to try and recall something called a name?

Shouldn't it simply come to mind,

recognized on reflex?

Why was there a process for this? Was a name only perceived and spoken into the world through such a complex sequence?

It was strange.

Something inside me began to crumble.

If one's own existence was nothing more than a false idol cast by an illusion born of ignorance, how many people could accept that fact with composure?

It didn't stop at trembling hands and feet. Nausea, cold sweat, a heart pounding far too hard—a cold shadow crept up my spine.

But Canaria paid no mind to my state. She simply asked again.

"If not a name, even your family would do. The parents who birthed and raised you, blood siblings—or failing that, a friend. Or tell me the name of the person most precious to you."

...I didn't know.

And that fact was terrifying.

Because there was no way I could know why I didn't know.

Before I heard those words, I had definitely existed.

The related memories and knowledge were there. Yet, strangely, I couldn't remember how I died. Worse, what I had thought about, what I had dreamed of, what I had lived for—none of it surfaced. It was as though none of it had ever been there from the start.

The being called me vanished beyond a horizon I couldn't perceive. A loneliness like standing alone in a vast ocean began to fill my heart.

And in that ocean, there wasn't even a lighthouse.

"There won't be any. Because you haven't yet been born into that world. The memories and knowledge within you are merely an inputted fate—what you were scheduled to experience while living in that world."

I wanted to deny it.

That the center of my own world was me.

I had lived believing in my own personal geocentric theory.

The being before my eyes euphemistically rejected that claim.

She pushed forth undeniable proof that my assertion was wrong. She told me the truth I knew was an error and brought knowledge from beyond it, shattering the castle of ego built by confirmation bias.

A sensation of life itself being rejected surged through me. Something more painful than the trampling of a longed-for sweet illusion—a longing that had never existed in the first place—bloomed from my crumbling heart.

It was too agonizing.

The dissonance of my world breaking apart was so terrifying I could barely breathe. I was afraid of the fact that something beyond death had brushed against me. And yet, I hated myself for not being able to flatly say no to it.

Still—shouldn't I at least be able to say something? I thought that perhaps it wouldn't be such a great sin to rebuild the castle of my ego once more with those bricks of stubbornly made lies.

But I knew, through knowledge, that such an act was arrogance.

I also knew the rule—that the Tower of Babel, built by arrogance, would eventually crumble.

"...If you have more questions, you may ask them."

It was a merciful Canaria.

Was it because she knew the sensation herself?

My entire body ached from the pain of that fall from the sky. The phantom pain created by illusory agony was distressingly vivid.

What am I? What are my thoughts? What is my existence? What other method is there to prove one's being? I crossed out all such futile ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠questions.

I slashed a cross mark through the various other philosophical abstractions that came to mind—and even through the firm self-image I had held of myself.

Unfortunately, what filled my head after processing all those thoughts were words like spilled water, uttered by my past self.

Regrets that could never be taken back flooded my mind.

It's just, I don't want to leave this house where I've lived my whole life.

It had been a lie. And Canaria had known it too.

Yet she had smiled and accepted that lie.

Had she clutched her chest because it was painful?

Then—were the last words I spat out the result of her own ego's escape, an attempt to overcome that pain somehow?

But why had I, the one who thought I loved her, blurted out such knifelike words to the person I loved?

Even though I wasn't Rosaria—why had I done such a thing?

No. Am I now Rosaria?

But then, who on earth is me?

Why am I agonizing over this while being Rosaria?

As she said—isn't Rosaria exactly me?

Symptoms of meaning saturation came over me from the endless chain of questions.

The existing world felt like scattered puzzle pieces.

Of course, the recollections didn't end there.

...I also don't want to see you hurting, Canaria.

She would hurt more because of me.

Because I had stolen Rosaria.

Because I had snatched away that endless happiness.

Because I, who couldn't become her, would cause more pain.

No—still, at least I could say something like that.

But what right did I have to say such a thing?

...When you think about it, wasn't I a being who was nothing?

Many other memories passed by as well.

Even those irreverent thoughts that had ended only in my imagination, never spoken aloud, came boomeranging back and began shattering my already crumbling heart. The ache of a constricting heart was agonizing.

Why had I harbored those thoughts and lived back then?

Why had I so presumptuously thought I loved her?

And why, while claiming to love her, had I never tried to understand her?

And why had I only paid lip service, saying I must give back as much as I received?

Everything became a regret.

Every memory I had up to that moment was agonizing.

I felt sorry for every action of Canaria—no, of the Saintess.

For the sake of the Rosaria who might still remain inside me—her love for a fake was so sublime, and I felt so disgusted by myself for having rudely accepted that sublimity, that I felt like retching.

And only then did I realize the identity of the occasional elation I had felt. It was Rosaria, engraved into this body. Her instincts were reacting to the memories Canaria had given her. They were moving me.

Even though she had died.

Even though she had forgotten all of that.

That faintly remaining heart—for the love carved deeper than her soul into her very essence—had been dominating this body.

At that time, it was to grant the curse she had placed upon her.

To make Canaria happy. The Rosaria who might have been nothing more than fragments had moved.

Yet I, an obstacle to such love, loved the Saintess. Even knowing her love was not directed at me, I vilely wished for that love to flow my way as well.

The wine glass at the very bottom had been craving the wine poured from above. Was I so full of deceit that I hoped—if the glass above me was filled to the brim—even a single drop might fall to me? Was I truly wishing for that filthy trickle-down effect?

"...I'm sorry."

Apologizing was my only answer.

While being a being of nothing, I had obstructed that love. Worse, I had craved that love for myself and forced my own tainted love upon her.

"...I'm truly sorry."

What was the identity of these lumps of lead flowing from my eyes now?

Which emotion's lumps of lead had become these tears, falling now?

Self-defense? Sadness? Guilt? Disgust at my own vulgarity? Repulsive self-comfort? Or if not that—a sense of dejection at failing to reach my idolization? Was it conveying love? Were these calculated tears, disgustingly hoping for pity?

I didn't know.

But it was certain that various turbid emotions were flowing.

And the one accounting for the largest portion was, as expected, guilt. I thought it was an inscrutably pure guilt—felt toward my own vile emotions that had butted into a pure love.

"...There is no need for you to be sorry."

In that moment, a hand of salvation reached down.

It was warm.

Soft.

And shamefully—I had yearned for this.

I had thought this warmth would come to me as well.

...Shamefully, I had presumptuously loved her.

"...Because you are Rosaria."

Had she read my thoughts? Or did she simply want to deny me and set her own world upright?

I couldn't tell.

Because we were both twisted people.

The one who broke first was comforting the one who broke later.

"The fact that Rosaria's body did not reject you is proof that your soul is indeed Rosaria."

The Heart-Mind-Body Triad.

Heart, Thought, and Body.

The trinity that composes a person—that completes their existence.

Currently, Rosaria was complete in terms of heart and body.

And now, what needed to be completed was the thought. In other words, the memories.

"...To you, who became a nameless fate suffering because of my own obstinacy—may I make one more unreasonable request?"

I couldn't understand why you were the one apologizing.

Wasn't I the one who had committed a sin in this place?

Because I was the one hindering the completion of the being called Rosaria.

Right now, the one killing your love was me.

It was a me who existed, yet did not exist, who killed it.

Then why did you not despise me?

I couldn't understand.

And at the same time, my heart reacted to that compassion.

It was a sense of obligation.

An obligation to repay her.

Only then was the spirit of sacrifice completed.

Something the Saintess had done for me time and time again.

This lowly and cowardly soul finally made up its mind.

Because, after all—I still liked the Saintess.

That was it. Even knowing that love wasn't directed at me, I had come to like her. The Saintess who could love someone so uprightly and deeply.

That was why I resolved to grant her request.

Even though I knew what the right answer was.

Even though I knew it was an unreasonable demand, requiring efforts close to death.

I simply wanted to dance one last dance to her tune.

"...It doesn't matter."

If granting her request made the Saintess happy—

then this wretched existence could disappear.

I could wear a mask and act for a lifetime.

And just like that, become a fake,

and hand this body over to the real one.

That was what I decided.

Because that alone was the only love I could give her.

I prepared for my final atonement in life.

I expressed my last love as that being.

Hoping it would shine purely, even if it was repulsive.

"...For my sake, please become Rosaria. The Rosaria I know. The one I love, and the one who loves me. Please become that Rosaria."

Neither a Saint nor a Demon King.

Simply a girl who couldn't forget love made the request.

"......Is that the only atonement I can make?"

I asked her with sincerity.

The Saintess quietly nodded in affirmation.

Then I would accept it.

I would be consumed by the mask.

...No. I would become the mask that is taken off.

As long as I could watch that play ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from behind it.

If even just a tiny droplet could fall my way, it didn't matter.

Because a light as small as a single candle flame was enough for me.

In any case, I was a being that never even existed.

I was simply exiting the stage for the sake of Rosaria, who should be happy.

"...Then, may I say just one last thing?"

Still, I had been greedy.

I wanted to leave behind a single sentence like a will.

I wasn't dying—but I would cease to exist, wouldn't I?

Then, even as I was going, I thought I could be allowed this final luxury.

The Saintess. No—Canaria.

She quietly nodded in affirmation this time as well.

"...Thank you."

Neither too long nor too short.

So she wouldn't feel any particular emotion.

A single sentence that would simply pass through her noble life.

I settled on that as my last words.

"...Thank you."

Canaria responded to those words.

It felt like the first time she had spoken to the me beyond Rosaria.

And at the same time, that became a signal.

A signal that I was handing over the baton.

For the first time in this world in a long while, the authority of a Demon King—the power that pushed through with sheer force—began to unfold in that place.

It forcibly stitched together those memories that were disconnected in places, continuing that story in a form that was as consistent as possible with the original while preserving maximum plausibility.

*

It was a place with truly bright sunlight.

The air was clean, and the sky was clear.

A beautiful countryside that looked like a painting.

And a sickly noble young lady living there.

That was the identity Canaria had assigned to me.

Another identity of mine, resurrected thanks to Canaria after I died due to the Pope's betrayal and lived a previous life I could only faintly remember.

Being nobility, there was no trouble making a living.

My body was a bit sickly, but that could be dealt with later.

Above all—wasn't this the peaceful and happy life I had always longed for?

Living like this until death, spending my life just as I had imagined back then with Canaria, whom I loved, as a noble young lady, and dying peacefully—wasn't that a life worth living?

"Lady Rosaria, you have a guest."

Erika's voice—one I hadn't heard for a while and now heard daily. I had only heard she worked as a maid, but I had never seen her before. Because of that, on the first day, I had even committed the discourtesy of asking multiple times if she was really Erika.

"...Tell the guest I'm sorry to have kept them waiting."

The guest who visited every day—someone I had really missed and felt deeply sorry for. Canaria, who had become the Saintess, opened the door and walked in.

"...Rosaria."

Slightly different from back then.

But still a lovely lover.

"...I missed you. Every day without you was so painful."

Canaria, who had become a bit more dramatic with her moans of longing, rushed onto the bed.

"I'm deficient in Rosalium... You will let me recharge, won't you?"

Then she named the element she claimed to lack every day and clung to me, begging, just as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠she had before.

"...It seems that Rosalium is always lacking."

"...Probably, even a lifetime together won't be enough."

Looking at just this side of her, she was exactly the same as back then.

"Then I'll have to stay by your side for a lifetime and fill it up for you."

I stroked the hair of Canaria, who had buried her face in my chest. Then she briefly turned her head this way and that, and after I confirmed that Canaria had cast a barrier, I whispered into her ear.

"...I'll fill you up right now."

As I said that, I took Canaria's chin. My own face was reflected in her silver eyes, which I still wasn't used to.

And just like that, on reflex, I sought her lips.

...For some reason, it felt like a kiss after an immensely long time.