Chapter 36: Choice

“…The protagonist… failed.”

A sky of deep, blood-red—where blue once stretched without end.
And six red towers driven into Kivotos like enormous stakes.

The mysteries that once filled the world inverted into terror, and a nameless god fell to earth. The story could no longer support itself; its framework collapsed. The tiny garden of fiction—too fragile to withstand interference from outside beings—crumbled away.

And now, there is no one left who can guide that vanished story back onto its rightful rails.

Ah—what a magnificent bad ending. Frankly refreshing, even.

The canvas that should have held a beautiful painting was smeared and overwritten by strangers—ruined so completely it could no longer remain a “work.”
And no one survives who can restore its intended form.

“Then we may as well return the page to blank and rewrite everything from zero ourselves.”

Rip out that ruined notebook page, scribbled beyond recognition, and redraw it from scratch—mystery, terror, all of it. Throw it away and build it anew.

Reproduce the blue record.

…But even if you destroy the real thing, change its components, and call the result a reconstruction, in the end it’s still a forgery. Replace even one piece of the Ark, and it stops being the genuine article. For someone like me—who is not the protagonist, only a minor obstacle in the path, a pitiful villain—I could never reach a perfect happy ending.

—So at least, let me aim for a True End.

“Now then—first, we start by cleaning this filthy canvas.”

“Theseus’s Ship.”

In short, one of philosophy’s classic paradoxes—the Ship of Theseus. If every component of an object is replaced, can we still claim it is the same object as before? That is the question.

My plan from my previous life—named with that exact metaphor—was an attempt to apply the paradox to Kivotos.

Break down the ruined parts and replace them. I don’t know what happened in that world, but apparently every last element of Kivotos had become literally “ruined,” and they tried to rebuild everything from the ground up.

What a ridiculous plan. Did I really think I was a god?

But precisely because fragments of that memory returned and I understand them now, I can assert one thing: it was possible. That world seems to have been interrupted and abandoned midway, but theoretically, rewriting the entire world was possible.

…Now then—this is where things get serious.

If that were all, we could close the book with a “wow, amazing.” But reality is cruel—it doesn’t end there.

The flying battleship we’re currently aboard—according to my memory, its name is the “Mastema”—is the Ark constructed to carry out the Theseus Ark Project. And the key required to activate that plan lies inside the General Student Council Headquarters—the Sanctum Tower, the very place we’re headed now.

…With that much alone, I trust my clever observers understand.

Why the ship that genius-me designed in another life—and its AI, capable of confirming a Master through biometric authentication—has tolerated the crimes of the former board and the PMC soldiers, and allowed its current flight to continue.

“They… intend… to execute… the plan…!”

What a catastrophic farewell gift from you—other-world version of me.

I don’t know how you died, but you could’ve at least ordered the ship’s AI to cancel the damn instruction.

“Ah—dammit—! This is the worst…!!”

If things continue, Kivotos—still somewhere in the middle of its story, not even at a bad ending—will be wiped out and overwritten into something entirely different. The people I’ve met, Sensei, everyone in Problem Solver 68—

—I absolutely have to stop this.

“…Huh? Why are yo—”

“Outta my way!!!”

My destination: the bridge, where the former board members are likely gathered.
I have to face them—convince them, threaten them—whatever it takes to stop this ship.

Now then, an inventory check. First, one piece of wire I used to pick the cell lock. A charm-bracelet against the supernatural. A bent iron pipe I picked up somewhere—warped now from smashing that PMC soldier I just knocked out. And the assault rifle and combat knife I confiscated from him.

Pathetically unreliable. The assault rifle has vicious recoil; I can’t use it for anything except clubbing someone with the stock. The knife? I only know how to slice fruit. The very idea that I’m expected to fight hand-to-hand is absurd. Unlike Imo—with her self-proclaimed combat skills—I’m the real thing: a genuine non-combatant.

“At least—I should’ve freed Sensei, if he was locked up too…!”

Too late to regret it. I don’t have time to go back. My escape has surely been discovered already, and returning would only get me captured again.

Thinking that, I turn a corner and step into a small open compartment—and that’s when it happens.

“Don’t move!!!”

What I see: Sensei—the exact person I had just been worrying about—bound tightly with rope, gagged, while a red-haired girl levels a gun straight at me.

The instant I see them, I lift the assault rifle—even knowing I can’t fire—gambling on the slim chance—

—and drop it.

A gunshot. Gun smoke curling from the barrel aimed at me. A sharp pain tears through my shoulder. My vision flashes white.

Sensei, gagged, strains to shout something.

And only then do I grasp the truth: I’ve been shot.

“Gh—aaagh…!!”

It hurts—hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts!!

The pain consumes everything; I can’t stay upright. I collapse. I’ve been shot before—countable on one hand—but even among those, this pain ranks near the top. Compared to a handgun, this is on another level. My fragile little mystery must be holding me together—there’s no bleeding—but the fact that I didn’t pass out is a miracle. Honestly, fainting would be kinder than enduring this.

Eyes filling with tears, I try to push myself up—but my body won’t obey. I flail pointlessly, pathetic.

If I manage to stand—and attempt resistance again—she’ll fire another round without hesitation. And next time, my mystery won’t hold. The bullet will go straight through me.

I’m scared. Terrified. As the initial shock dulls just enough for thought to return, fear rushes in to replace it. The dread of more pain spreads like ice through my veins; I can’t stop shaking.

“…I knew you’d do that.”

A metallic click—the gun being leveled above my head.

“Imo…!”

“It hurts, doesn’t it? You’re scared, aren’t you? But that’s because you came out. If you’d stayed in your cell—even if you refused my offer—I could’ve protected you. I could’ve kept you safe, as your friend.”

The pitch-black muzzle centers on my forehead.

“Gh…ah…”

“…I’ll make the offer again. Take our side. If you do, I guarantee the safety of everyone in Problem Solver 68, of Sensei—and your own freedom and security.”

“Haa… haa…”

“…Komori-san. If you just accept, I’ll protect you with everything I have. If you never want to go outside again, I’ll build you a comfortable space where you can live without leaving. I’ll pay for everything—money, food, anything you could need.”

“…”

“The outside world is scary. Isn’t it? But if you just say one word—‘fine’—I can do anything for you.”

—So please.

Hearing her plea, a thought slips through my mind:

Ah… that sounds nice.

A shut-in forever, living a lazy, stress-free life. Imo earns the money, does all the painful labor required to survive. Total parasite mode. No school, no dark errands as a cleaner.

That’s exactly the life I once dreamed of—if I worked hard, saved up, and someday escaped the underworld.

So maybe—just toss everything out—

“Don’t you dare lay a finger on my Sensei or my friends!”

“—gh… ah…”

“Why? Because I’m Sensei, that’s why.”

—No. I can’t.

“…Komori-san?”

“Imo! Step away from her!!”

Throwing everything away—that would mean betraying the people who saved me. Betraying Sensei and everyone in Problem Solver 68.

That can’t be right. It must never be right.

—Who am I?

Just shut-in Komori?

The weakling Komori who got bullied?

“…Wrong, isn’t it?”

I’m the reaper of the underworld. The cleaner of scum. Kivotos’s strongest problem-solver.

Return every grudge a hundredfold. And every kindness—ten thousandfold.

I am—

“—a cleaner.”

“H–huh…?”

fwip—

The knife in my hand slides in—shockingly smooth—parting muscle as it drives deep, deep inside.

“Imo!!”

From the edge of my vision I catch the red-haired girl—Homura. She has her gun up. But she doesn’t shoot. She can’t. Because she’s an elite mercenary—she understands how critical a Halo is. And while she may not know why Imo’s Halo disappeared, she knows what shooting someone without one could cause. That’s why she freezes—paralyzed by the fear of friendly fire.

“You rat!”

A PMC soldier behind Imo finally reacts and raises his rifle.
About 1.5 seconds—that’s more than enough to rush him.

I slap the barrel aside with my palm—one wild shot blasts harmlessly toward the ceiling.
Three seconds to cycle a new round. Plenty of time.

I jab the sharp, bent end of the ruined iron pipe—no longer useful as a club—straight at his throat, and with Kivotos-tier physical strength, I drive it in hard. It punches through clean.

“Guh… aa—Ko… mori-san…”

The PMC staggers back a step, while Imo—clutching her stabbed shoulder with one hand—keeps her pistol trained on me.

The moment I see her finger tightening on the trigger, I swing the stolen assault rifle sideways with everything I’ve got and smash both of them at once.

“Gh!”

A gunshot splits the air.

Homura finally fired at me.

Then I need a shield.

I seize the limp PMC by the neck and drag him in front of me. A blow slams into him immediately—round hits his chest armor.

I push forward.
Identify the weapon: MTs-255—revolver-style shotgun. Ammunition type: slug. Capacity: five. Fired three. Estimated remaining: two.

“—tch!”

Another hit. Chest plate compromised. Adjust angle to prevent penetration.
Remaining distance: four meters.

“Take this!”

Impact again—head armor clipped. Damaged.
Remaining distance: three meters.

Homura squeezes the trigger again—
but there’s no discharge. Just a dry click from the hammer.

“Tch! I’m out!”

My chance.

I drop what has become dead weight and burst from behind it. Three meters in a single rush—less than two seconds. She can’t chamber a fresh round in time. Sensei—my only potential hostage risk—is already positioned where she can’t reach him immediately.

I can’t waste this opening. I close in, time my swing for her reload gap, raise the assault rifle high—

—and that’s when I spot it. A black-gleaming muzzle at her waist.

—a handgun.

“Oh shi—ah!”

Gunshot.
A sledgehammer blow crashes into my forehead—pain beyond endurance.

My vision narrows. From experience: even if I survive a bullet, I can’t endure a direct hit to the head. I’m going down. This is where I black out.

Which means—Game Over—

“—like hell I’m letting it end HEREAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!”

“What!?”

Blood streams down my forehead, but I ignore it. I whip my head back from the impact and snap it forward again—using that same momentum to smash the rifle stock straight into Homura.

“Guh—!?”

One hit. She’s still conscious. Still resisting.

Fine.
Then I keep swinging—
until her will to fight is gone.

“Ahhh!! You! You! You!!!”

Two strikes, three strikes, four strikes, five—!

“This… you!!!”

“Komori-chan!!!”

Just as I raise it again—for who knows how many times—a familiar voice cuts through the frenzy from behind.

“That’s enough. Stop.”

I finally look down. The rifle stock is smeared red. Bright red liquid splattered across my feet. A glossy pool spreading along the floor. And—

“U…gh, aa…”

“Ah…”

I recoil a step.

“Komori-chan…”

“Ah—ah…”

My eyes dart helplessly, searching for escape. The instant I catch Sensei in the corner of my vision, I grab his hand and bolt.

Run, run, run.

“W–wait, Komori-chan!”

“Ah.”

Sensei’s breathless voice forces me to stop.

“Haa… g—give me… a second, I’m… sorry—”

He bends forward, hands braced on his knees, sucking in ragged breaths. I reach out instinctively—worried—and then I notice.

My hand is soaked. Completely red.

“Komori-chan… I’m sorry, okay? Sensei just… doesn’t have much stamina—”

“Don’t touch me!!!”

I slap away the hand Sensei tries to place on mine.