Since descending into this world, Natsuki Subaru has experienced death upon death countless times.

Considering that most living beings only have one shot at life, Subaru, having earned his tenth chance, is a bit of a veteran when it comes to “death.”

And thus, a sharpened sense arises within him, one that can only be felt by Subaru, who has come to be forcibly acquainted with death, regardless of his intentions.

—A clear sense of impending “death” is sniffed out with great clarity.

“Look at them all, doing as they please.”

That voice, carrying a chill-inducing pressure, rains down from the sky.

Looking up, icicles float above, their sharp tips pointing downward, accompanied by a small shadow.

Straining to see, it first becomes apparent that it’s a cat-like creature with grey fur.

However, it walks on two legs, stretching its short arms and unusually long tail, featuring a pink nose—certainly an odd sight.

Faced with this creature capable of human speech, the Witch Cult, including Petelgeuse, falls silent. And Subaru, who collapses at the same time, is struck by a shock entirely different from theirs.

It’s the first time he’s seen a spirit openly display anger like this. He can tell the world is dying merely from the backlash of its rage.

“…Pack.”

The air around the spirit—Pack—grows hazy and white, the nearby forest warping with cracking sounds. Trees are dyed white, their leaves, branches, and trunks frozen at the surface, drained of mana, withering away.

The ground begins to show similar signs, first grass and trees dying, followed by the soil itself, reaching for Subaru and the Witch Cult resting upon it.

His skin prickles, a burn-like pain stimulating every part of his body. Gradually, a feeling of listlessness creeps in from deep within, making even breathing cumbersome as consciousness begins to fade.

Mana collection—that feeling familiar to Subaru—is the emptiness from the forced extraction of mana by the spirit. And now, Pack, in his fury, is executing this on a global scale.

Indeed, Subaru, struggling to hold back a groan, sees that Petelgeuse is backing away with a sheen of sweat on his brow, while the kneeling cultists gasp for air like fish out of water.

Pack looks down on their state, snorts through his adorable nose, and—

“Witch Cult, huh?—After four hundred years, you haven’t changed a bit. No matter the era, you persist in doing what makes me the saddest.”

He states, directing his black-eyed gaze to a single point in the forest.

Following his gaze, it becomes evident that there exists a space untouched by Pack’s mana drain.

Amidst the freezing and withering surroundings, a patch of green remains. —It’s the place where Emilia’s body leans against the thin tree roots.

“Oh, poor Rea… You died without knowing anything, didn’t you?”

His voice, previously devoid of inflection, now tinged with an unmistakable sorrow.

After looking forlornly at Emilia, Pack slowly shifts his eyes back to the living survivors present and declares,

“The sin of losing my daughter’s life is grave. No one shall return alive.”

“What’s a mere spirit like you talking about?! What, what, WHAT, WHAT, wHAT, WHAAT? A failed half-demon is just filth! You should be more concerned about your own ‘sloth’ since you couldn’t protect that idiot! Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahh! My brain’s shaking!!!”

As Pack threatens him, Petelgeuse looks up, arms outstretched towards the sky, spitting in a frenzy. His bloodshot eyes whirl in a chaotic dance, as his killing intent swells.

Understanding the power of the opposing spirit, Petelgeuse decides to resist—not out of bravery, but because to him, the strength difference is irrelevant.

Because,

“All phenomena that could occur are recorded in the gospel! The Witch loves me! Therefore, before my diligence to repay that love, you slothful ones have no means to oppose me!!”

—Love, die and leave.

For Petelgeuse, worshipping the Witches is nothing less than an act of repaying love, a belief that demonstrating love for the Witch through action is the only absolute in the world.

Acts showing love for the Witch take precedence over all else, and anyone who interrupts such deeds is bound to perish before love—because love for the Witch surpasses everything.

“Half-demons die! You too shall reap the rewards of sloth! Bow down to the Witch’s favor! To the love that shakes your heart! Meet your end!!”

Waving his arms, ranting, Petelgeuse stomps his feet.

As he stands there, the spirit looks down from above, his eyes cold as ice—void of pity or rage, gazing through Petelgeuse’s actions as if they held no value.

And while being subjected to that gaze, Petelgeuse reaches overhead, pretending to grab attention—motioning to the kneeling followers in black robes—

“Die.”

—Ice blades rain down mercilessly, piercing the backs of the black-robed followers, impaling them through the abdomen and nailing them to the ground.

Just like insects pinned for specimens, their bodies punctured and held to the ground, the black-robed followers die outright, unable to muster even a groan. Their impaled bodies succumb to an ice penetration, quickly frozen in place, forming a strange lineup of ice statues within the forest.

In an instant, without any preliminary action, nearly twenty lives snuffed out, Pack remains undisturbed, not even a flicker in his regard. Simultaneously, Petelgeuse, with hand to his head, remains unfazed.

He had commanded those discarded followers, mere pawns that would serve as stepping stones. Utilizing the brief instant when Pack’s awareness slipped from him, he mutters,

“My brain is shaking!”

In that fleeting moment, Subaru sees Pack’s shadow erupt like an explosion.

In his tilted, ninety-degree view, black hands burst forth from the shadow of Petelgeuse, rushing toward the floating Pack.

With Petelgeuse’s abilities, those black hands should be unavoidable. However, arms crossed, Pack shows no concern for the impending threat—he can’t even see it.

“Pack—!!”

“Be quiet, Subaru. —You alone are different.”

As Subaru tries to warn him of the danger, Pack speaks quietly, cutting through his words. Subaru’s caution fails to reach the spirit, and the approaching hands wrap around his small frame.

“Mu—!?”

Pack’s small frame can be covered by a single adult hand.

With seven black hands approaching, Subaru loses sight of him entirely. To make matters worse, each hand possesses enough strength to easily tear through human flesh.

Though he is a spirit, the impact of such physical force upon him—especially since the owner of those black hands is the fanatic Petelgeuse of the Witch Cult.

“Carelessness! Negligence! Hence sloth! You ought to have slain me at once! Though you had the power to do so, you didn’t act as you should have. That’s what led to this outcome! Death! Death! Deeeaaath!!!”

As Subaru writhes in pain, with his voice shaking, the gray beast coolly continues talking.

Now with a bloated mouth brimming with sharp fangs, its tone betrays no emotional shift, instilling fear in its very steadiness.

To distract himself from the pain, Subaru’s mind runs in circles, conjuring futile thoughts as Pack swings his long tail, knocking down frozen trees.

“First, you went against the pact with Rea. A promise made with a spirit mage weighs heavily; it seems you don’t understand. You broke the contract lightly, not realizing how much you wounded Rea’s heart… you probably wouldn’t know, would you?”

As the tail’s final word exits his lips, the tip of Subaru’s left foot is pierced this time.

An icy spike penetrates from the sole and protrudes from his knee. The ice pillar remains embedded in him, branching out to tussle his fibers and nerves, pinpointing and bursting his pink flesh from within.

—Pain takes over, controlling his mind.

Invisible, inaudible, incomprehensible, and unwanted. A flood of incessant cries emerges, swelling through his being.

“AHHHHHHHHHHH!”

“Secondly, you ignored Rea’s plea to come back. Had you not done that, the Witch Cult would have observed a little longer, and the fog could have been delayed. Perhaps then you might have made it in time for something.”

Just as the black-clad figures, Subaru lies flat, his arms pinned above him by icy poles. Unlike the others, he is not merely encased in ice—sharp edges of the spikes pierce through his hands, traveling toward his elbows—and his arm mid-section from the wrist to bicep is cleanly severed, flesh, bone, blood vessels, and nerves exposed to air.

“And the third, you let Rea die.”

All wounds freeze simultaneously, and the pain that had chipped away at Subaru’s soul now recedes in a rush.

The fervent pain, as if submerged in magma, vanishes suddenly, with Subaru gasping for breath, his lungs and throat spasming for desperately sought oxygen.

He gasps for a bit, before finally catching his breath.

As his lungs expand and oxygen flows through his body and mind, awareness begins to trickle back.

Having previously thought that pain and despair were lesser than “death,” that notion disappears entirely now.

Both “pain” and “death” and “fear”—those things humans shun, possess equal power to crush the weak being that is Natsuki Subaru.

In a world where tears glisten just before freezing, he comes to realize his limbs have already entered an irretrievable state.

Those frozen appendages are already fused with the ground, and if he were to attempt movement, his shoulders or thighs would likely tear off with ease.

He can clearly see that he is effectively rendered a living doll, stuck beyond reprieve.

“—In accordance with the pact, I will now bring ruin to this nation.”

With a sluggish consciousness beginning to grasp the concept of death, Pack speaks.

This is the first time the spirit, fueled by anger, distinctly showcases a different emotion from mere rage.

“Everything shall be buried beneath ice and snow, as a tribute to Rea.”

“…That’s…”

“It does not matter if that child would be happy or not. A decision made is a promise unbroken. Even if that exists with oneself as the contract.”

As Subaru’s inarticulate murmurs prompt Pack to continue, he adds, “However,”

“I know I won’t be able to fulfill it. Even if I try to expand a frozen world to cover the entire continent, with what I and Rea once lived, Reinhardt the Sword Saint will surely stand against me. I cannot overcome that.”

Speaking the name of the red-haired hero, Pack laments the disparity in power between them.

To Subaru, such words offer incredulity. Even this overwhelmingly powerful Pack states no chance against Reinhardt.

Understanding that but also knowing he will fall in battle, yet still stubbornly planning to carry forth.

“Why, do……?”

“—Rea and Emilia are the reasons for my existence.”

Pack responds to Subaru’s question.

He rubs his nose against the ground, almost as if to hide his large face from Subaru’s perspective, curling into a somber tone.

“There is no meaning in my existence in a world without that child. Therefore, I’ll vent my frustrations, and let the world disappear. —All I had ended the moment that child died.”

He shakes his head, concluding with those words as a sudden gust of wind launches.

That wind exacerbates its chilling frost, prickling skin and sealing eyelids, starting to freeze even the blood coursing through his veins. —The end approaches.

“From the tips of fingers and toes, I wonder how slowly death arrives. Would you like to find out, Subaru?”

“—”

“Silence is taken as affirmation. So, you may verify this yourself.”

Slowly, gradually, the freezing continues to invade his flesh.

First from his already frozen limbs, the ice penetrates at his shoulders and thighs, the same level of destruction as experienced in those limbs now approaches with excruciating agony and despair.

“—Is the fog rolling in? It seems you’ve called forth an annoying presence before you die.”

If he could go mad from the pain, he wishes to shatter the sanity that clings to him now.

Tear it apart, break it, and shred his heart into pieces. Lest—

“Gluttony… Ah, now referred to as the White Whale. Calling that creature to kill Rea and extinguishing your own life… It’s truly hopeless—”

He cannot hear it. Someone’s voice feels distant, only the echo of his own screams resounds forever.

Gradually, the screams fade, replaced by laughter—the cackling sound.

Heehee, heehee.

It’s a painfully familiar laugh. The voice of the man he hated so stridently.

Where it comes from, he feels an overwhelming need to confirm it, and thus begins to lose sense as he searches for the source of the laughter.

And then, he realizes.

The laughter, uncontrollable and relentless, originates from his own mouth.

Pain becomes numbed, delight begins to seize his brain.

The world of madness expands, stepping into the pleasure of a perfectly distorted scenery.

The laughter will not cease.

One that mocks him.

Having let Rea die, killed Emilia, and thrown away his own life.

Ah, truly, what an absolute, utter mess.

“—How slothful, Subaru.”

With a snap, consciousness cuts out.

And what was severed wasn’t merely awareness or life.

—Something, that had been tenuously held together, now shattered with a sound.

With a snap, it broke.