"So shoot me. Shoot me like how you used to do to your enemies. Like how you did to me countless time before. Go on, pull the trigger. End this."
The hands on the arquebus trembled. Yona knew all too well that the next shot was definitely a live round, effectively killing off the Hell's Dealer.
Had it been himself seven thousand eight hundred and fifty-one matches ago, he would have pulled the trigger without any hesitation.
But he was not himself of seven thousand eight hundred and fifty-one matches ago anymore.
And so, with filthy hands still trembling, he dropped the gun on the table. "I can't."
He watched as the face of the Dealer twisted in silent anger, waiting for whatever that might come next. It could not possibly get any worse; after all, he had been killed, shot, blasted into a writhing puddle of blood, and revived, just to repeat it all. He watched as the Dealer grabbed the arquebus, hastily raised it up, and pointed it,
directly at his chin.
Yona was not a stranger to his own death, in fact, it should be put as "too familiar", even. He saw the Murakamis, those who despite sharing the same blood with him, shot him and stabbed him to death while laughing at his corpse. He saw himself reflected in the building's windows, plunging down from the highest floor. He saw himself reflected on his gun's shiny barrel, moments before it fired. He saw himself reflected in the Dealer's emerald eyes.
But not with the death of others.
He did not live to see the death of his mother nor his father, nor Rin nor Goemon, nor any of the Hell Prisoners. In that aspect, to him, Death was distant, and scary.
He did not want to see any more of that.
