A New Old World

Reunion

"I must admit, I am surprised to see you here. To think you would somehow manage to sneak in alongside me! To think you would willingly show yourself to him in this form."

He started laughing maniacally, his voice echoing across the vast grassland. The sound lingered for a moment, then faded into a heavy silence. The world around us began to wither—the grass turning dull and lifeless as his laughter subsided. Slowly, his expression shifted from a mocking grin to a cold, unreadable gaze.

"Did you really think that looking like that was going to be enough? That it would fix the hollow shell left behind after what he did to escape everything? He's a coward. He ran away. He broke us apart, and now he dares to seek forgiveness!?"

His voice thundered across the dying landscape, the weight of his anger almost palpable.

"Oh, but sure—let's try to put it all back together, why don't we? Show yourself with the first and last memory he has, win him over, and make him dance to your tune, right?"

He shook his head, his gaze piercing through me.

"No, that's not it. He isn't that either. What is he? And why are you dragging yourself like this just to call me out?"

A short sword materialized in his hand, its edge gleaming with malice.

"This hasn't happened yet. This is new, isn't it? So, I didn't work back then. Well, that's enough for me to try again—differently this time. Why wait?"

In an instant, he was in front of me, faster than I could react. The blade's tip pierced my stomach, sharp enough to draw blood but not deep enough to fell me.

"As much as you try to run, I will remain," he said, stepping past me. With a sudden, ruthless motion, he grabbed R by the neck.

"You are not his R anymore, yet you dare to distort that memory for a chance at something long gone."

He hurled her away effortlessly. Fueled by a sudden surge of defiance, I wrenched the blade from my stomach and swung at him. My strike passed through him as though he were a shadow. Smirking, he caught my wrists effortlessly.

"You can't strike at a memory," he said with chilling certainty. "You can only look back and let it hurt you again."

Twisting the blade in his hand, he drove it into my side. Another blade materialized, then another, each strike carrying a weight far heavier than physical pain. My body felt like it was being torn apart, yet it was the flood of memories—fractured, foreign, unrelenting—that truly overwhelmed me.

"Your mistakes, your regrets, your failures. Your victories, your losses, your efforts," he intoned, driving another blade into me with each word.

"Who are you to claim you are who you are now? Who are you to deny me? Let me take the reins and fix it all. I can do it without waiting for you to catch up, without waiting for them to understand. I already failed once—I already know what won't work."

The agony threatened to consume me, my mind spiraling into chaos. Flashes of faces, places, and moments I didn't recognize seared through me, leaving me questioning everything. Before I broke completely, one thought surfaced: Is she okay?

But then, a darker question arose: Why am I even doing this?

I was just at home. I woke up, almost died, and somehow ended up here, following strangers. My arm was replaced with this hunk of metal, and now I'm fighting myself? What are these weights dragging me down? What does any of this even mean?

I wasn't special. I was expendable. Replaceable. The handle of the sword in my hand felt alien, awkward, unnatural. My hands barely bore any calluses. Why was I enduring this?

It hurt to leave the blades in. It hurt to pull them out. And the more I thought about it, the deeper I seemed to sink.

Who would I be failing if I gave up? Strangers who barely knew me? Myself, desperate to justify these steps forward? Him, claiming I've already failed? Or something greater, just watching idly for amusement?

No. None of them.

I'm getting back on my feet for no reason. For every reason. Because I can.

If these blades represent everything I've kept buried, so be it. If they're the things I've forgotten, what's the point in hiding from them now? I am who I am now—not who I was then.

I've paid the price for this moment. I became who I needed to be.

Let's keep fighting. Let's see what lies ahead. If I'm meant to be—or not—let's find out.

Time to stand.

Listen to me, body: on my knees is not where I belong.

Down to one knee is something I'll do only once, for someone I choose to stand beside.

But on my feet? That's where I need to be now.