The crackling fire of the fireplace, candles, soft armchairs, emptiness outside the window, as if the world outside the room simply did not exist... yes, is the true comfort. Necronomicon, having jumped over the back of the last empty chair, lay down imposingly across the seat, throwing his legs over the armrest.
–What did you just do? – Oliver asked, looking around the newly created room.
–I wrote it, you know, – The Necronomicon looked at the Clains in bewilderment. – I control the text! You understand what kind of power this gives within the logical framework of the fiction, don't you?
Oliver and Cirael looked at each other, puzzled, and then looked back at the paper-clothed teenager. He raised his eyebrows, scratched the back of his head, let out a long "oh," and then laughed.
–So you don't know?! Ha! Ahahaha! You're Clains! And you don't know the essence of the world! Oh, I can't take it, I'll die of laughter! – having laughed and wiped a tear he shed from laughing, Necronomicon continued. – Well, then here's the most basic truth for ya: the whole world is just a book, a fiction! Reality is an illusion, the universe is a hologram, buy gold, bye!... or whatever that illuminati triangle said. Okay it does not matter. It was a joke. Well, at least about the hologram, everything else is quite on point.
"Huh?" the Clains said in unison. How can this be? What is it even supposed to mean? The whole world is just...
–And you are just characters in the book that Gerda writes!... well, okay, not just ordinary characters. You are the Clains, which means you are the main characters of this iteration! – Necronomicon continued with enthusiasm.
– This... this is just some kind of nonsense! You are lying! This is just some kind of lame conspiracy theory! – Cirael shouted.
–You... you all talk about Clains and iterations... but what does all this mean?! – Oliver asked, shouting as loudly as his wife did.
–Oh, everything is pretty simple. The book was rewritten from scratch. Each such version of the book is usually called "iteration"... well, that's how Kai started to call it, the rest of us just copied his terminology, – Necronomicon looked up somewhere and scratched his chin. – Okay, that's not the point. Each iteration has different characters and plot, but some things remain the same. For example, the main character is always a part of Clain family, and main character always has a tragic backstory. Well, you know, such a backstory as...
The teenager in the paper pulled out the vowel in the word "as" very strongly, clearly hinting that he wanted Oliver to continue. And Oliver sure did continue:
–You don't want to say that...
–Bingo! We have a winner! The events of "that night" were just a backstory that the writer wrote to you, Gerda! Now that's a plot twist, isn't it?
–Then Shabby... – Oliver began, but the restless interlocutor interrupted him here too.
–Yeah! Shabby is a Clain from an iteration of about 200 resets ago! You could say that she is a version of Cirael from past iterations.
–But Ciel... – Cirael wanted to say something, but the Necronomicon answered an unasked question.
–In every iteration, the main character's friends die quite quickly! By the way, if Sean had not betrayed you, he would also be guaranteed to die, just like Ciel, because he, too, is a friend of the main character. A sad fate for those who do not bear your fatal last name, huh?
–And your power...
–Yes, Oliver, it comes from the fact that the whole world is just the text of a book! I can change it, thereby changing objective reality!... well, changing what you call "reality". I call it "fiction," – Necronomicon stuttered a couple of times, as he constantly began to laugh. – Or did you really think that in reality it could happen that you came to a random city, began to interview random people in it, and they turned out to be exactly the ones you were looking for? Don't you find it funny yourself? I just changed this fictional reality by putting Shabby and Nyarla in those places!
This meant that, in the end, Necronomicon was indeed most responsible for Ciel's death and Sean's madness... but given what he said, can anyone blame him? Ciel and Sean would have died anyway, and besides, none of this matters. This whole world is but a story, a book, a fiction. Clains' whole life is controlled by some writer. Then what's the point? The Clains didn't want to believe it, but for some reason, deep down in their souls they already knew it, and such they did not blindly deny it. They humbly accepted it... or maybe this humility was also written by Gerda? However, aren't these questions rhetorical, if she also writes them?... or, maybe, someone else?
The gloomy, sad and depressive silence was broken by the ringing voice of Necronomicon:
–Oh, I gotta go! Who would have thought that this would happen so soon? Well, bye everyone, enjoy the reset!
–No, wait, wait! – Oliver shouted.
But the boy dressed in paper was no longer there. He just disappeared. There was no one else in the room except Oliver and Cirael. They sat in a daze, unable to move. The Clains did not want to accept the truth told by the Necronomicon, however, on a subconscious level, they accepted that it was, indeed, so. Left alone with each other and with the fire in the fireplace, they could not even muster the strength to look at each other. At the same time, through the ceiling, no, through space itself, from somewhere above, a broken dark blue curve, as if made of ink, stretched towards Cirael's head. It had no width, as if it were two-dimensional, or rather even one-dimensional, despite the fact that it curved. Oliver's eyes were glued to the chair where Necronomicon had just sat, so he didn't see it. And as soon that line touched Cirael's head..
A flaming blade pierced from Oliver's chest. Cirael, with a smile on her face, held a sword, which, through the back of the chair, pierced her husband right through. She spoke in a soft and calm voice:
–Be not afraid. We will meet again in the next iteration. Maybe I will no longer be Cirael, and you will no longer be Oliver, but we will definitely meet and love each other. After all, this is exactly what is prewritten for us. So don't be in fear or denial... just relax.
Such a wound wouldn't kill Oliver on its own. Even if you split him into atoms, he will still be able to regenerate; his life is protected by Hate. He feels that emotion all the time, even when it doesn't seem so, and lives via that energy. But now he felt so... calm. He sees the sword of Cirael in his chest, and he is calm. Complete peace. The world around seems to be crumbling, ceasing to exist. But all this is no longer important. Everything will be fine. Next time. In the next world. In the next version. In the next iteration... in the next one, everything will work out, this time for sure.
Nothingness.
~*~
Oliver, his mother and their "friends" celebrated for a long time from that day. And then, towards evening, there was a loud knock on the door. "Dad", Oliver thought. His mother went to open the door and greeted her husband with a joyful smile. He did not look very good, since, with a gloomy look he only nodded to her and the servants. The servants came up and offered him their shoulders and led him upstairs. Oliver, despite his father's condition, pranced around happily, with his worried mother following behind.
Finally, they came to the father's office. There he told the servants to leave him alone with his family. Charles, that was his name, did not look very healthy, to put it mildly – huge bags under his eyes, pale skin color, and in general he swayed while standing. Hilda, Oliver's mother, walked up to Charles and took his hand. In an anxious, trembling voice, she asked:
–Darling, are you feeling unwell?
Oliver noticed something strange – a thin dark line, as if made of ink, was stretching towards his dad through the ceiling. Hilda didn't seem to see this. There was something else that drew teenager's attention, except that dark like – the sword on the belt of his father; it was a combat sword, not a ceremonial one.
Hilda held Charles's right hand, looking at him with pitiful eyes... and he, in response to this, grabbed her by the hair with his left hand, and masterfully pulled the sword out of its sheath and pierced his wife through the stomach, plunging the blade right to the guard. The blade went through, a lot of blood poured out of the woman's back. But even more red liquid poured out when Charles swiftly pulled the weapon from his wife's body, whose face was filled with shock, pain and horror. She died instantly.
"D... daddy?" This was the only thing the birthday boy could squeeze out of himself, taking a few steps back. His heart began to beat like crazy, tears flowed from his eyes, and his breathing became ragged. After taking a couple of steps, he froze – fear paralyzed him. Why did this happen? Did dad go crazy during the war? And then he killed Oliver's mom? And now he will kill Oliver too? Why? "Why?!" Oliver shouted. Hatred boiled in the teenager. But... what could he do against an adult experienced combatant? Oliver was barely a novice in fencing. Maybe he can teleport from here... Yes, he could... if fear and anger had not clouded his mind.
While his son's legs were trembling and he stood looking at his dad in horror, Charles, with a lightning-quick movement, overtook the child and, without a word, plunged the sword into the unfortunate boy's chest. The blade did not go in all the way, but even so, it, long and narrow, appeared half a meter from the back. Oliver's legs gave way, and as the light left his eyes, he fell onto his back. The father released the hilt from his hand and the sword remained in his son. Hitting the floor loudly, the blade pierced the floorboard, and the child never touched the floor – he hung right above the floor, held by the blade.
Charles took three steps back. It looked like, the period of madness ended, but it was too late. He grabbed his head and screamed. But Oliver no longer noticed this – he was dying. The last thing he heard before life finally left his body was the sound of broken glass, children's laughter and some words.
Oliver didn't know how much time had passed, but suddenly he felt... hatred. And life. It was strange, because he knew for sure that his death, complete and irreversible, already happened. However, he opened his eyes. His father's sword, which was sticking out of his chest, became completely black, as did Oliver's eyes. He stood up abruptly, still with the sword inside. With unnatural movements, the dead man grabbed the handle of the weapon and pulled it out of himself. He lost a lot of blood, but that didn't matter. The birthday boy no longer felt pain, and the wound on his chest instantly healed. All he felt was hatred and the desire to kill.
–My son?... what's going on?... – asked Charles, who had come to his senses.
But there was no answer. Most likely, Oliver didn't even hear his father. The young man raised his sword. Dad was now in his son's place: shaking in fear, he fell on the floor and began to crawl back. But even this pitiful appearance of the poor madman did not stop the creature of hatred. The words "mercy!" and "I didn't mean to!" also flew past Oliver's mind, if he had any mind at all at that time. All that was on his mind was "I must kill him"... no, there were also some thoughts: "I must survive to protect Cirael... to save Martha and Ludwig..."
"Cirael"? "Martha and Ludwig"? In a normal situation, such thoughts would have caused internal questions and misunderstandings in Oliver's mind, but now he did not have the opportunity to think reasonably, or even think at all. How did he know these names? It was a question to which the answer never came to him. Unable to think properly, Oliver approached Charles and, already holding the sword above his head, made one blow.
Then everything was like a fog. The earliest thing Oliver remembered after swinging his sword was that he, with the blade red from his father's blood, was running somewhere through the forest. It was late at night, and it was still raining. Everything was dark, he couldn't even see the animals... no, beasts of the forest simply were absent at that night. All that is visible is the path along which Oliver ran headlong. And along the edges of the paths there story, no, rather, there simply were shapeless figures made of black liquid. They appeared from the ground and approached each other, closing the road behind him, but never blocking the path. Wherever Clain turned, these things parted, letting him run. Wherever Oliver ran, they were still to his sides and looked at him reproachfully, despite their lack of eyes.
But soon he came running into the clearing. It was dark, and the sky was overcast with rain clouds. However, a beam of light, as if it was directed, broke through the clouds and fell into the center of the clearing... and Oliver was sure that he heard a church choir. The figures made of black liquid, all as one, disappeared, and from the heaven, in that ray of light, a winged knight in plate armor slowly descended from the heavens. The flaming sword was in his hand.
–Creature from darkness! I came down from the sky, – after the very first words, from the voice alone, it became clear that the knight was female, – in order to destroy...
The knight began to speak more slowly, and then abruptly removed her helmet, allowing Oliver to see her face and long white hair. She looked, if not "stared" at Oliver with a surprised look, and then, blushing, started to babble:
–Actually, this is not really necessary! I can only make sure that you don't do anything bad... by the way, um, I'm Cirael, I'll see you later, but for now I need to talk to the authorities... bye!
Oliver didn't even have time to answer when Cirael took off the ground the ground by flapping her wings, and with lightning speed she disappeared somewhere in the sky. Clain stared in surprise at where the maiden was standing a moment ago. "What just happened? Some angel girl flew in, wanted to fight and kill me, and then she blushed and left, after saying something indistinguishable?" Oliver certainly wasn't someone who could inspire love at first sight, especially given that he was 14 years old at that time. However, he felt a little lighter after that, and the creatures from the black liquid never appeared again. His breathing returned to normal and his heart stopped beating like crazy...
Wait a second... ""Cirael"? That name again! What's going on here?... okay, I'll believe that it is just a coincidence, otherwise I'll go completely crazy. I should probably go back. I'll deal with the guards somehow. They should have a proper burial and funeral," Oliver said to himself and after a couple of seconds added: "I mean my parents, not guards!"
When he came back, he saw that no one was around yet. Guards that came just a bit later, found Oliver on the threshold of the mansion, exhausted and covered in blood. The official version was that the father of the family went crazy and slaughtered almost everyone in his house, and then killed himself. The only survivors were his son and one single maid named Ciel. As the only remaining Clain, Oliver inherited Charles Clain's title, estate and money.
A lot of time passed after that. After Oliver became the head of the family, he, along with his only maid, lived quite calmly in a large mansion, earning money from the forge ran by Clain – after that night, Oliver began to feel a certain connection with bladed weapons, especially swords. After a few years, Cirael began to visit them once a week, and then, when she, in her own words, was "fired from heaven," she moved to live in the Clain's mansion, and, surprisingly, she and Oliver soon got married. Moreover, it was due to mutual love – Oliver also developed deep feelings for her over several years of living together. So the black-haired guy "lived" for 162 years. From time to time, due to certain events, the energy of Hate sometimes got the better of him, but with the help of his wife and servant, these "mental breakdowns" were prevented... and not in a way you all just thought about, perverts.
~*~
Sean, whose jaw has just grown back after the blow, was spitting out black liquid as he walked somewhere through the forest, stumbling every now and then. It was daytime, but that didn't make the situation any less grim.
–What is this feeling?... what was I even doing? – the surgeon said to himself, and then realization came to him. – I... killed Ciel! But... but... why did I... what's going on?! And my abilities... I can't stop time anymore?!
He looked at the bird flying and chirping. At that moment, everything around froze, time stood still. The sounds disappeared, and Sean himself sighed with relief... only then realizing that he no longer needed to inhale to stop time and now he could do it at will. Time started to move again.
–No, that's not it... but then why that time...
He abruptly stopped moving. One more step and the black scythe that was at his neck would have cut off the doctor's head. The scythe was held by someone standing behind Sean. Sean tried to stop time, but it didn't work. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and he swallowed.
–Two creatures of Hate at the same place is already quite fascinating, but an artificial creature of hatred is utter bullshit, which is even more interesting. Although you are not perfect, unlike that Clain cunt.
Sean carefully turned around and saw a child of about 12 years old. If it weren't for the black scythe in his hands, serious words and inappropriate vocabulary, everyone would mistake him for an ordinary child – short brown hair, a white shirt with a green unbuttoned vest over it, brown pants and high black boots. The cute eyes-closed face and sweet smile didn't go well with the fact that he was ready to kill Sean.
–Who the hell are you?!
–Ha! I am Gehessikait, the Uncreature of Hate! For morons, I am the living concept of this emotion. And I'm also the one who, 162 years ago, tied Olivier's soul back to his body with the help of hatred, after his crazy dad cut the kid down, – the sweet smile distorted into a grin; in addition, Gehessikait opened his eyes, and it became clear that they were completely black. – What a thrill it was to watch a child kill his own daddy! I knew I wouldn't fu**ing regret choosing him!
Sean winced. Was he as crazy as this guy is, when he injected Hate into himself?... no, it seems, at least Sean wasn't swearing so much. Gehessikait continued:
–But you... you're a fu**ing weakling!
The "child" with black eyes put his scythe aside and punched Sean in the gut. The surgeon fell, but the Uncreature did not stop; he began to kick the doctor in the stomach while he was lying, continuing:
–Did you really think that by forcibly injecting Hate into yourself, you could become like my creation?! You're bat-shit insane! Oh, believe me, I can continue hitting you until the end of time – thanks to my Hate, your broken bones will heal very quickly... but it will sure hurt a lot! Do you know why you couldn't stop time then? Oh, I'll tell you! Hate allows you to nullify everything that is considered magic, except for the magic of the owner, and you, you see, are such a moron, touched Oliver, who was, like, radiating the Hate! Do you know why you vomited in the end and lost the strength to fight? It's because you tried to take control of my gift! Olivier, during his Emotional Turb-whatever, completely surrenders to the Hate, and you, stupid bastard, tried to control my power!
Suddenly, Gehessikait stopped and picked Sean up by the collar.
–Come on, get up! I will teach you the right way to be a creature of Hate, and then you will go and kill Oliver! Well, or he will kill you, it depends. What? No, of course you don't have a choice! Oh, I'm gonna have one hell of a time!
~*~
Oliver opened his eyes in fear, raised his head and looked around. Thanks God, another memory of that night is over. Clain was alone. Around him were bluish translucent walls, as if made of crystal... the dead man touched one of them and immediately pulled his hand away – the surface was scalding cold. It was ice. It did not melt, although the air was warm.
The creature of Hate walked through the only archway from the room and began to look around with shock on his face. He found himself on a huge ice bridge that stretched over an abyss... in which, down below, a starry sky could be seen. Shaking his head, Oliver looked up. The starry sky was up there, too. But most of all, Clain's gaze was naturally drawn to what was on the other end of the bridge – Oliver looked forward in raptures, slowly walking towards the huge ice palace. The outer walls of the structure with many towers and fancy roofs shimmered with all the colors of the aurora.
When the man approached the palace, a huge gate made of ice, although there were semblances of crossbars nailed to it – of course, nails were made of ice, too – opened. Behind the gate there was a vast hall with furniture, paintings – but since they were also ice, "paintings" were simply rectangles without a picture in the frames –, an unlit fireplace and several crystal chandeliers on the ceiling. There were candles on the chandeliers that were not lit. However, their wicks emitted light that was enough to illuminate the entire room. But this was not the strangest thing – as soon as Oliver stepped into the hall, he heard a melody, as if a music box was playing. Considering that even when he covered his ears with his hands, the music did not become quieter, it became clear that the sound was in his head.
Using telekinesis, which he usually uses to "shoot" his swords, Clain opened the door at the far end of the hall and walked through it. Behind the door was a spiral staircase made of ice leading up. As if spellbound, Oliver began to rise. Steps, made of the thinnest ice seemed like they were about to crack, like crust on puddles in late autumn, but they supported the weight of Clain without even shacking. There was only one sad thing – they were still made of ice, which means they were very slippery. Because of that, Oliver fell 2 times before getting up the stairs.
Having opened the next door, using the power of thought, as he had no desire to touch this cold ice with his hands, the young man closed his eyes. The bright light of the sun illuminated him, although it was not so light on the bridge before. Oliver stepped into the doorway and looked around – he was on some kind of passage on the wall of the palace. Looking up, Clain noticed that that the Sun was strange. It was too big... or rather, too close to Earth... "Wait a minute, am I even on Earth? Or is this some kind of pocket dimension, like Schrödinger's world?" Oliver thought. Despite such proximity to the star, the ice did not melt and it was not hot in the air.
Taking a few more steps forward, Oliver noticed the first living being here... or so it seemed at first. The butterfly, flapping its thin crystal plates instead of wings, flew up to the creature of Hate. The man stopped. The "insect" landed on Clain's shoulder... and, flashing with a black flame, it instantly melted. Oliver winced. Did he do this himself? It was definitely unintentional. The young man firmly decided not to touch "living" objects in this place anymore and only now noticed how many ice butterflies and crystal birds were flying above the castle. Despite it, there were no sounds at all, except for the sounds of Oliver's steps and music in his head. Clain decided to get out quickly and moved on.
He passed through countless rooms, halls, corridors, balconies, staircases and passages. Although the palace looked like a fairy tale castle, there were no talking animals or living furniture... and, indeed, there was nothing living, except for the icy imitation of butterflies and birds. From loneliness, time and the incessant nostalgic melody, it seemed that Oliver would soon go crazy. Finally, having descended (or rather, fallen) from the next spiral staircase and opened the hundredth-plus door, Clain went out into the inner garden. Before that, walking along the light blue translucent balconies and galleries, he had not seen that this garden existed at all. However, here he is.
At the edges of the garden, along the walls, ornate crystal ivy with glass flowers "grew". On the far wall, at the top, there was a clock. Or rather, a circle with Roman numerals carved on ice, without clock hands. Under the clock, in a frame of ice, there was a word made of tiny pieces of ice, the size of the entire wall. It was the word "Eternity".
But what was most surprising is that in the middle of this lifeless garden the ice turned into thin snow, and the snow all around in the very center disappeared, exposing the grass, bluish from the frost. And in the middle of this island of greenery, there was a large bush of red roses. Without realizing it, Oliver ran up to the bush, knelt down on one knee and touched the flower with his hand. It was cold, but not as cold as everything else in this place. There was life in these petals. The only life in this entire palace, even including Oliver himself... or so it seemed.
–Well, do you like it?
The voice came from behind Oliver. Clain quickly stood up and turned around. In the doorway, from where the dead man himself had emerged seconds ago, stood Kai, leaning his back against the wall. His face retained a slight smile, but his gaze was cold, just like this entire palace. This time the broken sword wasn't hanging near his belt, he was unarmed... although he probably didn't need a weapon.
–Is this castle... yours? Did you create it? – asked Oliver.
–Well, you could say that. At the very least, I created this universe.
–Why did you bring me here?
–I dived into your memory... no, it would be more accurate to say, in your backstory. And yes, I was specifically looking through events of 162 years ago.
Oliver frowned and tensed, seemingly preparing to take off and attack. But this was not destined to happen – he was pressed to the ground by pressure, as if gravity for Clain had been increased by thousands of times. His entire body lay on the cold grass, unable to move from such a pressing force.
–I do not advise you to fight me. I don't even have to snap my fingers to kill you. Literally. Moreover, I don't want do it. I understand that after yesterday... actually, time itself is quite subjective here, so... hmm... after the events with Necronomicon, you don't trust anyone and consider everyone your enemies, but believe me: I'm not your enemy. On the contrary, our goals are quite similar. You can help me, and I can help you.
The magician canceled this pressure without moving a muscle, and Oliver slowly rose to his feet, still looking at Kai with distrust and hostility.
–And how... can a weakling like me be useful to such an oh-so-strong you? – said Clain with a lot of sarcasm in his voice.
–I have read your backstory. And I found it quite... intriguing. Let's ignore the moment of transformation itself; something else is important, although it was quite edgy. The names "Martha" and "Ludwig"... you already knew them. And that's okay, it's only natural, but then, when you suddenly saw these names again in the prologue, they worked like a trigger for you. This, I believe, makes it clear that your connection to Gerda's layer is greater than that of any Clain before you. And perhaps, with your help, we can reach the true, final ending to this story. I will take revenge on Gerda, and you will give this world true freedom from the writer. Now isn't that a happy ending?
–Prologue, story... how can you say that all this is fictional so easily?!
–Well, I simply can. What else can I say about all of it? I was the protagonist of the very first iterations. I saw how my friends died by the will of the writer, and then the world began again. This happened over and over and over again. Of all the characters, only I retained my memory between resets. Besides, I know Gerda, the writer, personally, so I frankly believed that she would atone and repent for her mistakes, but... I was "Clain" for a whopping 27 iterations in a row before I decided to rebel on my own. I left this role of main character and... well, you don't need to know about these events. Just know that she is not capable of writing my actions. I lived over a thousand iterations, several hundred thousands years... so I had a lot of time to accept the true reality of this world... or unreality, rather, – Oliver even felt a little sorry for Kai when he heard it, but the magician continued, – but this does not mean that I have gave up and accepted my life as a freedomless puppet. I will kill Gerda and free this universe from the influence of writers.
–You... said that you lived through more than a thousand iterations... how many were there in total?
–Current iteration is number 1078. 1078 times the world was rewritten from scratch.
–Can you answer a few more questions, please?
Oliver spoke almost calmly, without anger. Of course, he still didn't trust Kai, but Kai seemed more trustworthy than that incomprehensible child in clothes created from sheets of paper called Necronomicon is.
–For example... protagonists... no, Clains of previous iterations? What becomes of them? I know that Shabby is Clain from the previous versions, now you are also...
–Hm... all the Clains, if they did not die in the story, are transferred to the new world when reset happens. After that, they become just some background characters, and after it, they continue to live throughout all the iterations to come. But they can appear in the main story, as minor characters, or even antagonists. Former Clains lose their true names, and, usually, take names from world famous literature. That is why you know Margarita, Schrödinger, who, by the way, did not tell you his literary name, Shabby, Nyarla... and subsequently there will be others. All the Clains felt that this iteration would be special, and many of them are ready to interfere with the course of your story.
–Then your name is taken from the Snow Queen fairy tale, because the name of the writer is Gerda?
–No. My name is quite real. My name has always been Kai.
ؘ–And what are you going to do now?
–What I am going to do is to ask you for help. Don't get me wrong, I won't force you. You have the right to refuse. Unlike Gerda, I never force anyone to do anything... like, for example, she forced your wife to kill you.
Oliver, as if some realization had come to him, took a deep breath and asked:
–Speaking of which, what happens to the world outside of this dimension?!
–No dimension, it is a whole universe! Ahem... Gerda rewrites it. I am keeping your iteration from falling apart, but if you refuse to help me, there will be no point in this, and I will allow her to restart that iteration.
–Yeah, and you say you don't force me to do something? It sure seems like blackmailing.
–Gerda wouldn't give you a choice. I give you the right to die alongside your world.
–Well... I have to agree. I will help you. But I still don't like you.
–You don't have to like me. What you have to do is improve your skills. I will help with it, a bit.
–I "have I improve my skills"? Like, I will, as a protagonist of a second-rate anime, train with a legendary warrior in his pocket dimension? Isn't that a cliché?
–It is, so what? You know, you love swords... but you're a total noob at fencing!