Chapter Text
It must’ve been years since he was thrown in that cell—though perhaps mere months for anyone unaware of the loops. He could’ve tried to count, marking the guard shifts or tallying the nights he managed to sleep for more than a few hours. But what would be the point?
He always dies. He always loops. He knows he will never get far enough for something to change and why would it?
The Witch cult had remained undefeated for centuries, their Gospel guiding them to one assured victory after another. Only his Authority—once a gift, now unmistakably a curse—had ever disrupted that rhythm. It allowed the royal camps their few triumphs over the Archbishops, but now…
Now that he was here, shackled and powerless, the world was doomed to fall back into another centuries-long losing streak. And he? He’d remain the scapegoat–branded forever as the Archbishop of Pride. The last victory this world would see against the Witch Cult would not even be true.
He lay in his cell, battered and broken—bones bruised, skin raw, muscles twitching from aftershocks. The stones beneath him were always cold. The air always stale. The silence only ever broken by footsteps—and screams, most notably his own.
Another day of torment. Another torture session with someone he once dared to call a friend. The so-called healer—now always wearing a sadistic smile—came armed with his own frustration at his inability and a different set of tools each day. As if the variety would be what got him to crack. None of it compared to the moments when he fried Subaru’s nerves—pain so pure and blinding, it felt like his very soul screamed, trying to escape from its cage with no success.
Subaru sometimes wondered if the healer brought new tools just to keep himself entertained. Maybe if he’d asked nicely he’d try to scream differently each time. Save them both the bother.
But just because Felix was the only one physically there didn’t mean he was the only one who inflicted pain.
Turned away. Falsely accused. By those he trusted most—those he saved, again and again—they all played a part in this.
Maybe not all of them knew what was happening to him, foolishly ignorant as they tended to be. Maybe some would even object to it… though not loudly. Not forcefully. Not enough to make it matter.
But that did nothing to stop the ache—the sharp, hollow kind that cracked through his chest and sat heavy in his lungs.
It hurt. Just like dying.
No… worse.
Because this pain was there to stay.
He only wished death would be that permanent.
Although this ache wouldn’t fade—perhaps not ever—he still held hope that this death would be his last.
It wasn’t blind hope—that had died long ago. This was something new. Even chained up and helpless, Subaru Natsuki had managed to change something.
After a couple of deaths in that cell, once he realized he could not convince his allies nor could he break out of there by himself, he had lost his hope of getting out of that cell. Now he simply wished for it to end.
The fire that once burned in defiance of near-certain defeat was now barely an ember, always dwindling, threatening to be put out completely.
It was then that the Witch of Envy, Satella, had visited him after his death.
He didn’t even bother asking her to take him back before his name was eaten. He’d already begged for that—again and again—when he was still alive. Though, given the state of his body, ‘alive’ might’ve been too generous a term.
Her silence back then had been rejection enough. He wouldn’t squander this chance repeating the same plea.
No, what he asked for was something simpler: a single mercy—his own death. A release. An ending. Even a bad one.
That was all he asked, all he would ever ask of her, if she was willing to grant it. But she wasn’t. She claimed her envious counterpart would never let him go, that it is pointless to ask that of her, for she cannot grant that request. She offered him the only thing she said she could: her love.
Between each of his deaths, sometimes, even when he merely lost consciousness from the torture, she visited him. He clung to her, desperate to hear her words of comfort, that temporary escape from pain, from his own physical cage of suffering. She let him lay his head in her lap and murmured sweet things to him, that it will be over eventually, that he would reclaim his name, that he would find his happiness once more.
But that was not nearly enough in the face of being tortured for eternity. Was he desperate? Perhaps frustrated? He can’t even recall what feeling led him to ask her once again, after a couple more months of his own slice of hell, to let him die. She claimed once again that she could not do it, but this time he had his own thoughts on that supposed inability of hers.
When he grew tired of thinking about his life before he was thrown into this cell, he started thinking about his life inside it. Among the things he turned over in his mind was Satella. He wanted to think of her as his only light in this dark, long tunnel. He truly wanted to.
But he couldn’t forget what he’d seen, the things he’d noticed. Those small tells of her emotional state–telling a different story from the one he wanted to be told. The way her fingers ran through his hair, slightly faster, somewhat impatient, as if she were giddy–not with concern, but with anticipation, when he was clinging to her even more desperately than usual. Her responses getting shorter, as if she couldn’t trust herself to stay composed while speaking.
”Ya dare try to sneak into the princess’ camp? My amazing self should kill you for that, witch cultist bastard!”
*Garfiel, please don’t do anything rash”
”Emilia-tan… I knew you’d-”
”We should hand him over to the proper authorities.”
”I shall do it, Emilia-sama. I’ll make sure to keep him away from the others, seeing his choice of weapon, perhaps he’s the brain behind this attack, better not give him any cultists to command.” The Knight of Knights, true to his title, volunteered.
”Cultists to command? Julius, are you kidding me?! It’s me! I’m the one who helped kill the Archbishop of Sloth and just recently Greed. Emilia-tan, I helped you get Garfiel on our side and free the sanctuary! I helped Crusch and Wilhel-”
”Please, that’s enough!” Emilia’s voice cut through, colder than he ever heard.
”Is it not enough that your attack has claimed hundreds of innocent lives but you’d even try to take credit for our hard earned victories?
Crusch and Wilhelm have prevailed against the whale, this is disrespectful to those who have fallen in that battle and those who have survived it.
I remember defeating the Archbishop of Sloth thanks to my spirits, and I’m the only one who could have freed the Sanctuary between the two of us thanks to my demi-human heritage.
And how could you have done anything to affect the battle against Greed?
Archbishop of Pride, your intel must have failed you, since your lies are not holding up. Julius-san, please take him away.”
”Of course, Emilia-sama.” Answered Julius, sealing his fate.
A memory. A particularly painful one. Like with all of his memories with the Emilia camp, he combed through it, trying to find the mistake, perhaps multiple mistakes, that led him to this seemingly endless hell.
He remembered when Emilia would express her insecurity, saying she thinks she’d done little or perhaps won’t be enough. He always reassured her, saying that she’ll learn, she’ll grow, that she’ll be a great leader.
Was that a mistake? Did he cross the line from reassurance to feeding a delusion? Was he feeding that delusion for him or for her?
It must have been a mistake, for that unwarranted confidence in herself, that unearned confidence, has not allowed her to even consider her achievements not truly being hers. That someone as weak as him could achieve something someone as strong as her couldn’t.
Was he doing it again? Feeding another silver haired half-elf’s delusion, claiming a small comfort in exchange for prolonged torment?
But now he knows better than to make that trade. If he wants his torment to stop, he must be strong enough to walk away, to shut her out. Once he stops feeding into her obsession perhaps she’ll let him die. And so, when he arrived once again at the Shadow Garden, he turned away. He didn’t wish for a body, he rejected the love he felt even as a mere consciousness in her shadows and he went right back into his cell as soon as he could.
It took a few loops, his most lonely ones by far, but this time, he finally felt it. Something deep inside him–something that had a hold over his very Od–released its grasp.
He instinctively knew. The next time he’d die it would be over. No more loops, no more torment. A lack of existence. A mercy. Maybe if it had happened sooner, he would’ve cried happy tears. But his emotions had dulled and his tears long ran dry. No, now he was simply relieved.
It was somewhat ironic. This loop was definitely his longest yet, the furthest he managed to reach. Was it because of his lack of reaction? His clear resignation to the end, that prevented Felix from “accidentally” killing him while lashing out? From his guards to beat him up until he draws his not-so-final last breath, knowing they can simply claim he had tried to escape? But it seems his final moment has finally drawn near.
He could hear the footsteps long before he heard the voice.
Measured, somewhat heavy from armor, a guard, then.
Those steps had used to draw him into alertness, his still sharp mind that could never quite grow dull, would come up with subtle word usage and body language to prevent the guard from accidently going too far and killing him, resetting progress that would ultimately lead nowhere anyway.
Now those steps only drew mere acknowledgement in his mind.
The guard had looked at him for a few seconds. Subaru looked up at him, guided by slight curiosity, though his hands remained at his sides in surrender.
A key turned in the lock.
“Subaru Natsuki,” came the voice–a bit young. Not unfamiliar, yet unimportant. “Archbishop of Pride, by the order of the Council, you are to be executed in your cell” his voice was laced with hatred, though lesser than what had once been, probably due to his clear resignation to his fate written all over his face.
"Executed in my cell, huh?" It was a bit funny, the Council, unwilling to make his execution public in wariness of him escaping, had shown more respect for his capabilities than his camp showed him even when he had slayed an Archbishop and 2 Great Mabeasts. Though it no longer matters, he supposes.
The door creaked open.
He did not sit up. Did not plead. Did not speak. No subtle manipulations born out of desperation.
Not this time. Now that his Authority had let go, so had he. No point holding onto a world that rejected him.
He exhaled. Closed his eyes with resignation as the footsteps drew near. A moment of quiet. A blade being drawn. A cold press of steel and a flicker of pain.
Silence–not one that will soon be broken by his screams and cries.
Darkness–not one that will soon flee when his torturer arrives.
Both stretching, engulfing, until it, he, was nothing. This time, there would be no return.
The screams echoed from the far side of Priestella—distant, but unmistakable.
A testament to the fear and mayhem even the least destructive Archbishops could cause. Not that they were any less deadly. No, it was simply that they’d much rather eat their victims than slay them outright.
The air itself seemed to vibrate with chaos, carried on the winds of clashing attacks and raw panic. Even from here, far from the center of the skirmish, you could hear the distant hum of spells colliding with stone—or hitting their targets, when those targets weren’t the slippery Archbishops.
Pandora stood still amidst it all, her expression untouched by the violence she had orchestrated. Not a speck of dust marred the pristine white cloth that draped over her. Her hands rested at her waist, her gaze fixed on the quiet storage room ahead—an unassuming structure now repurposed as a temporary crypt.
Capella Emerada Lugunica stood a few paces behind her, the weight of obedience clinging to her shoulders like a chain. Her wings were hidden, her form more human than usual. She had not shapeshifted. Had not spoken until spoken to. Her eyes twitched with irritation she dared not voice. But her patience had its limits, eventually giving way to curiosity.
“…Sooo?” she finally said, voice low, careful, lacking her usual flair. “Why’d you send those two meat bags to die after all this time? Seemed a bit… dramatic, even for you.”
Pandora didn’t turn. Her voice was calm, smooth—curious, even, like she was answering a child’s question.
“They served their purpose.”
Capella frowned. “Yeah, sure, sure. Fine. Fire and brimstone, city falling to bits, big distraction, all that. But what for, exactly? You don’t usually show up when we’re out and about—let alone get your hands dirty.”
Pandora’s lips curved into a faint smile—somewhat amused.
“Now,” she said softly, almost lovingly, “I will claim a different piece. One I have longed for… for quite some time.”
If her Authority hadn’t twisted her biology beyond belief, Capella would’ve swallowed. Hard.
It was only then that her eyes followed Pandora’s line of sight to the chapel’s modest door. A pair of guards had once stood there, but they had long since abandoned their post—either to help their comrades, or run away. Either outcome was reasonable when faced with the presence of two Archbishops in the city. Exactly as planned.
“And you’re sure he’s in there?” Capella asked. “Dead?”
“Quite,” Pandora replied. “But not for much longer.”
The door creaked open at her touch. Not locked. No resistance. No alarms. As if the world itself had allowed this moment. Or rather, as if the world wouldn’t dare to prevent her from getting her way.
Inside, it was quiet.
No candles burned. The only light filtered through narrow stained-glass windows, painting muted colors over the pale body that lay on the stone table at the center of the room.
Subaru Natsuki.
Still and unmoving.
Not yet touched by rot or time.
Pandora smiled again—a gentle smile.
And in her usually unreadable eyes, the adoration was unmistakable.
Finally, the pieces have all fallen into place–her desire within reach. Soon enough, she would make him hers
Capella wrinkled her nose. “He looks like shit.”
Pandora kept her smile, though the warmth in her eyes faded as she looked away.
“Perhaps on the outside. He has been thoroughly tortured, after all.”
She glanced at Capella. “Would you step outside for a moment?”
Despite the frame of a request, Capella knew it was a command. And she had learned to comply.
Pandora stepped closer. The hem of her poncho-like garment whispered against the floor. One hand extended—not to touch him, not yet—but to hover just above his chest.
“We finally meet,” she whispered.
The chapel remained silent. It felt like even the air had gone still. The voices from outside dared not intrude. The dead boy didn’t stir.
Pandora lowered her hand and stepped outside.
“Bring him to the cave. Mend his body with your Authority. You may return to Gusteko once you’re done,” she said at last.
Capella obeyed, eager to part with the Witch—though she didn’t dare show it.
She had questions, of course. But she knew better than to risk displeasing her.
Pandora cast one last glance toward the town, faintly amused that something far greater than the Archbishops' arrival had just occurred—though it would take time for anyone to realize it. Then, as if she had never been there at all, she vanished.
Reinhard had left the Capital at a sprint, a red blur streaking across fields and rivers, his cloak snapping like a flame caught in a storm. He didn’t tire or slow down, nor would he need to anytime soon.
The current Sword Saint—equipped with unprecedented strength and speed. An absolute monster in body. According to himself, a monster in mind too, though he no longer voiced it. His lady would never approve of such thoughts.
He’d received a tip in the Capital: the Witch Cult would once again strike Priestella.
By the time he reached his destination, the air was unmistakably thick with the scent of battle—blood and scorched buildings.
Civilians were running in panic, all fleeing from the same direction—from where the sounds of battle still echoed.
It didn’t take long to find the source. Reinhard landed on a rooftop and looked down on the scene below.
A surprising number of buildings still stood for a Witch Cult attack.
And there they were—the two Archbishops of Gluttony.
Even if they hadn’t been surrounded by corpses and carnage, Reinhard would not have mistaken them for anyone else.
Something felt off.
But he couldn’t afford to dwell on it—not yet.
Only after he defeated the brothers of Gluttony would he allow himself to revisit that feeling.
Something isn’t right...
The Sword Saint is here, but Regulus is dead. Will Lust show up to distract him? Will Wrath?
We can’t defeat him—we’ve seen his strength through the memories we’ve consumed. There is no way to win. So why is he here, now, when we are?
The Gospel has never led us astray.
“Archbishops of Gluttony, I am Reinhard van Astrea. Should you surrender, I will take you alive. Should you resist, I will be forced to use lethal force.”
We can’t shake the feeling. Something is wrong.
Our brother doesn’t notice. Or doesn’t care.
“Sword Saint, tsu~ We live to eat, consume, devour, and savor life... how could we accept doing it from a cell, tsu~?”
A flash.
A blur of movement.
Our brother’s head flies through the air.
Shock comes—but terror overwhelms it. We give in to instinct and run. Run like prey. Desperately. Sparing no technique.
The Gospel has never failed us like this.
But we didn’t look in the Gospel this time.
We only followed Her instructions.
Did she do this?
We’re angry. Our brother is dead.
But even if she did lead us to our death…
What could we do against Her ?
The corpse hit the ground with a dull, final thud.
Just like that, one of the Archbishops of Gluttony died.
Reinhard stood still.
The sword he had picked up wasn’t even stained with blood thanks to the absurd speed of his swing. He knew the Dragon Sword well by now–he knew it unlikely to deem the Archbishops of Gluttony worthy.
He could give chase.
But he shouldn’t.
He’s grown familiar with the Cult’s attacks. He knows of their eerie synchronization, their strangely coordinated attacks despite the madness residing in them all.
The hopelessness they always seemed to inspire.
So he listened.
With senses sharper than any human’s–some born naturally sharp, some enhanced by the absurd number of divine protections he carried.
But he heard nothing.
No, not nothing. He could clearly hear a couple of cultists still fighting the guards. Spells exchanged in the battle. Fire still burning around him. Civilians running in panic.
She’s missing. Where is she?
“Lust,” he murmured aloud.
The Archbishop of Lust was reckless, dramatic, and loud. Always eager to twist flesh and minds alike into writhing horrors, to prove some insane point no one but her could possibly grasp.
Too vile. Too mad to miss another opportunity to terrorize Priestilla.
If he couldn’t hear her–then she wasn’t there.
But then who else could it be?
He went over the seven cardinal sins in his mind, a strange checklist to be sure, but an effective one.
Sirius of Wrath is still locked up in the Capital, and he would've noticed the rising panic had she escaped.
Regulus Corneas of Greed is dead.
Petelgeuse Romanee-Conti of Sloth was slain.
He had just killed Lye Batenkaitos of Gluttony, with his brother Roy Alphard now fleeing.
And Subaru Natsuki of Pride is loc–
Reinhard froze.
The name slipped out of his mind–half-formed, as if caught between teeth.
“Subaru…?”
Memories flooded his mind.
An awkward exchange in the Capital. A boy shouting at nobles in the Royal selection. A hand extended in an offer of friendship. Reports on the slayer of the White Whale and Archbishop of Sloth.
A slight smile crept onto his face. Though only for a moment. More recent memories, memories that until now seemed insignificant, mundane, sank their claws into his soul, threatening to drag him into despair.
A conversation with Emilia about the capture of the Archbishop of Pride.
Another one with Felix, with the demi-human knight vowing he’ll get the information to save his lady, no matter what it took. His mind, too, enhanced with multiple divine protections, easily connected the dots. A vile picture formed in his mind.
“No…”
Reinhard’s whisper trailed off, barely audible over the fading echoes of battle.
But he was already moving.
His cloak snapped once more, a blur of red vanishing into the smoke-choked city.
Where would they have kept him?
The storm raging in his heart clouded his usually unshakable focus. He could not manage to spare much thought into that question. No matter.
If he can’t speculate, he will use brute force. He ran through the city with inhuman speed–faster than the wind, a blur unseen by untrained eyes. He did not hesitate. Not now.
Minutes later, he found them.
Two guards, bloodied and panting, were tending to a wounded ally near one of the alleyways.
“You there,” Reinhard said, his voice calm, but with a weight that made the men stand up straighter. “The Archbishop of Pride. Where is he held?”
They exchanged glances. One spoke.
“The one they captured a few months back? He—he was executed this morning.”
Reinhard’s breath slowed. For once, his hands trembled—not from fear, but something colder.
It couldn’t. It couldn’t end like this.
Subaru Natsuki.
Someone who would never hesitate to face danger. Someone who, as weak as he was, had managed to accomplish things people far stronger never could. Someone who could change battles with nothing but his wits, heart and desperation. Someone who would help even a monster like him. Who would even smile at him with nothing but genuine kindness. He called him his friend. Reinhard thought of him as a friend too.
And Reinhard had let him die.
Tortured. Branded as a monster.
Who the monster truly was had never been clearer to the Sword Saint.
He had accepted the testimonies. He had read the reports. He had said nothing.
And now, he was once again, too late.
Or was he?
A single thread of hope tugged at his mind. A memory—Felix, solemn and rare in his confidence. A spell. A miracle. A move of desperation, no doubt about it.
The Sacrament of the Immortal King.
Not always possible. Not even close to always successful. But if the body was preserved… if the soul hadn’t yet slipped too far…
He had to try.
Reinhard turned sharply back to the guard.
“The Archbishop of Pride,” he called to him. “Where was he executed?”
The guard straightened, surprised by the question.
“In his cell, sir. Quietly. By the Council’s order.”
“Where was the body taken?”
“Old chapel near the east district,” the guard replied. “Hasn’t been used in years—was turned into a storage site during the last Witch Cult attack. They’ve used it as a crypt before, when space was tight.”
Reinhard vanished before the guard could finish.
The wind howled in his wake.
The chapel stood on a low slope, tucked behind a line of trees. Untouched by the chaos. The door creaked slightly, ajar. Not forced. Not broken.
Just open.
Reinhard stepped inside.
It was colder than outside. The windows were high and narrow, stained glass dulled by dust. Boxes and broken furnishings lined the walls. But at the center, cleared of clutter, stood a stone table.
Empty.
He quickly scanned the rest of the room. No other place for it to be. There was no body to be found here. Of that, he was certain.
He stepped back out of the chapel and spotted two guards loitering nearby.
“Who was assigned to guard this place?” He asked, grabbing their attention.
“W-we were, sir.” Answered the guard, seeming like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. “We went to help with the battle and when we returned the body was gone. We assumed the Council had sent someone to handle it.”
“They didn’t,” he said–more to himself than anyone.
The guard started to stammer, making excuses.
Reinhard had already tuned him out.
His mind was racing, trying to figure out what happened. No, the “what” was obvious. What he couldn’t figure out was the “Why”. Tip offs against the Witch cult have never borne fruit before, always either turning out false or being too late, so how come this one did? Did it come from the Witch Cult? Wouldn’t it be better for them to take Subaru’s body amidst the peace rather than the chaos? Simply dispatch the two guards and smuggle it? And why take it in the first place? They had resurrected important figures before–Theresia and Kurgan and had used them as no more than flesh puppets. But Subaru’s prowess lies in his mind, his body alone is worth little. He couldn’t figure it out. Whatever it is they are trying to achieve was enough to blatantly sacrifice an Archbishop over. And by the looks on the face of the other Archbishop of Gluttony, perhaps two.
His worries were strong, but they were still eclipsed by the overwhelming feeling of one single truth.
He was too late. Again.