*Volume 1 Epilogue*
. . . . .
Taiheiyo Forest — two days later.
A broadleaf tree stood tall and majestic under the night sky, its branches reaching up towards the star-studded expanse above. Its trunk was thick and sturdy, its bark rough and textured, etched with deep grooves and scars from years of growth and weathering.
Looking closely, a girl wearing a thin, dark blue jacket was seated on top of one of its branches. Her back was leaning against the trunk and her legs were stretched out in front.
Squish, squish.
The sound of calm footsteps could be heard from her side. A young man came into her view, donned in a plain brown robe and a Japanese men-yoroi mask.
The girl glanced downward, her violet eyes beautifully shining in the moonlight.
“How was the trip to Kuisui Town?” Chekhov’s voice sounded from below.
Raynare jumped off the branch, elegantly landing 10 meters onto the grass without a problem.
“Nothing unexpected happened,” she announced, removing her hood and revealing her silky black hair.
“Including the clergy members, the total amount of humans that I’ve consumed falls at: 41 males, 23 females, 12 children, and 2 fetuses.”
“I can sense you’ve gotten substantially stronger,” Chekhov removed his mask, and his caramel eyes transitioned into a shade of abyssal black. “We’ll wrap up our last task and then amalgamate your soul.”
Raynare nodded, and abyssal black particles started to fill her violet iris. Her feathered wings smoothly unraveled, casting long shadows on the ground.
“I’ll start with the mid-class initial stage,” she declared, “and then gradually increase my strength.”
For a moment, everything was silent. The leaves swayed softly in the midnight breeze. The sounds of crickets chirping could be heard, along with the occasional hoot of an owl.
Whoosh!
Raynare quickly dashed forward, creating a large gust of wind as her figure split through the air. Approaching Chekhov, she sent out three punches in quick succession toward his face.
Without hesitation, Chekhov lifted his forearms up, blocking the first two punches and ducking underneath the third. This was done in a similar style as Koneko.
Raynare immediately followed up with a crescent kick, but before it could land, Chekhov’s figure had already retreated 10 meters back.
He held his arm out to the side. A massive amount of dark energy rushed into his palm, materializing into a black sword.
It had a similar design as Kiba’s Holy Eraser, but its semblance was blurry and void black. Flickers and wisps of dark energy could be visibly seen rising from it.
This sword was created using the same technique as Raynare’s regenerated pupil — but it was far more dense and powerful. It was apparent that Chekhov had gained a very plentiful increase in his soul strength after devouring Koneko and Kiba.
A metallic chime sharply reverberated as two bright pink spears manifested in Raynare’s hands. Without warning, she began to hurl a flurry of spears toward Chekhov.
Slash! Slash! Slash! Slash!
Chekhov imitated one of Kiba’s techniques to repeatedly slice through the incoming spears, though his movements were sloppier and less precise. Despite this, his speed and power surpassed Kiba’s significantly.
After the initial burst of spears, Raynare’s figure speedily appeared in front of Chekhov. Without a moment to rest, she launched a punch towards his abdomen. This was the same sequence of moves she had used to defeat Kiba.
Chekhov was quicker to react, however, and he countered her punch with one of his own.
Bam!
Both Chekhov and Raynare went flying backward from the large impact. Chekhov reoriented himself and landed on the grass. Raynare caught herself in the air with her feathered wings.
Dark red blood could be seen on both of their knuckles.
Without a moment to waste, they promptly went back to exchanging blows.
For a duration of 30 minutes, black flashes with occasional pink flares could be seen outside the field barrier.
Eventually, the lights died down, and Chekhov could be seen holding his sword up to Raynare’s neck. A small stream of blood trickled down the spot where it was touching.
“Are you still holding back? I know you're far stronger than this,” Chekhov’s steady voice sounded.
Raynare raised up a finger, gently nudging his sword to the side.
“Actually, I’m at my very limit. Maintaining the field barrier during an extended spar has placed heavy pressure on my soul.”
She retracted her wings and continued, “Coupled with my deterioration, it’s too unstable for me to continue.”
“I see,” Chekhov curtly stated.
Raynare stood quietly, her eyes slowly returning to their original violet hue from the abyssal black color they had been before.
“Promise me one thing,” she stated with a blank expression.
“You already know I don’t keep promises.”
Raynare ignored him, continuing to state her request. “Once we re-unify, you’d better not mess things up. Don't let me down.”
Chekhov didn't reply, and instead lightly laughed. He raised his arm out as a translucent sphere began to materialize around Raynare.
Both Chekhov and Raynare were two parts of the same entity. They had different cognition, but they were one existence. Hence, they shared the same characteristics, interests, opinions, and goals.
But what was it that they truly wanted?
Some people pursued eternal life for an eternal harem. Some people pursued an immortal journey to make friends and find love. Some people pursued infinite power to enforce their own ideals on others. Some people pursued bloodshed and chaos for purely the thrill.
In this regard, where would Chekhov be categorized?
Normally, sentient beings relied on the world around them to stimulate their emotions, which consequently gave reason to their existence. However, this rule was completely disregarded by Chekhov.
If he wanted to, he could instantly flood his soul with any emotion or any feeling. To invoke an intense surge of happiness, love, or empathy — all he needed was a single thought. Chekhov could sit in one place and drown himself in the positive emotions that humans were obsessed over, but why was he never interested in this?
This is because he had something else. He had found something that gave him innumerable times more satisfaction. If one were to try to analogize this, it was like he had eaten a food that made all other foods completely useless and pale in comparison. Well, what was this special food? What was it that he was longing for?
This “divine nourishment” that Chekhov had found was truly nothing special. It was just as ordinary as any other person, any other animal, any other rock. And it was right in front of him the entire time.
What Chekhov treasured so much... was his own ordinary existence.
Regardless of what would happen, the simple act of existing would feel like a state of perfect blessedness. Even if Chekhov was burning in a gruesome hell, if he was confined in the vast nothingness, or if he was experiencing his last seconds before a pitiful death, every moment of his existence would still feel identically perfect.
For this reason, all he wanted — was to exist! He wanted to exist beyond the destruction of the universe, beyond the collapse of the boundless void, beyond the depletion of the sea of fate, beyond the great lifespan of time itself!
Many humans would consider these ideals as aberrant, twisted, and fruitless — but to Chekhov, he was just walking his ordinary path along the ordinary road.
His reason to live was purely driven by his inner self, without any reliance or attachment to the world around him. This was one facet that humans could never relate to; let alone any other life form.
A complete detachment from all obsessions of the external world — this is precisely what had made Chekhov's ideals much more different than other lifeforms.
By this time, the black sphere had become completely opaque. There was no light or sound at all, like a complete vacuum of empty space.
Raynare smiled gently, looking at the pitch-black, starless surroundings. To many people, it would have been a desolate prison of death. But to her, it was a paragon of blessedness.
Her soft lips slowly moved, uttering a quiet, euphonious sound that no one else could hear.
“I used to fall in the vast darkness
Struggling and failing in helping myself
I used to be like you,
like him,
like wild flowers
Hopeless and helpless...”
The sphere instantly collapsed, snapping Raynare’s delicate bones and compressing her flesh.
In the blink of an eye, her once-gorgeous body disintegrated into nothingness. The patch of grass that she had once stood on had returned to its usual empty and lonely state.
Chekhov calmly turned around and strolled away. In the moonlight, his abyssal black eyes shimmered as he spoke softly.
“I used to feel blue
and lose all my hope and heart
Until I saw that this ordinary path
was my only choice on this ordinary road...”
