Chapter Text
Prologue — “The World Without You”
Subaru Natsuki was dead.
Not “gone for now.”
Not “revivable by a cruel twist of fate.”
Dead.
His soul slipped from the grasp of Return by Death , and for the first time since entering this world, the unseen hands did not drag him screaming back to life.
Satella’s gift—curse—salvation—whatever it had been, was silent. Whether by her will or his own desperate wish in his final moments, it was gone.
And the world… cracked.
Emilia
The royal selection ended not with victory, not even with defeat—
but with the slow, quiet death of her will to fight.
When the news of Natsuki Subaru’s execution swept through Lugnica, the kingdom’s grief was quick and merciless. Grief, after all, often curdled into blame. And Emilia… Emilia was an easy target.
She was the half-elf he had sworn to protect. The one he had followed to the ends of the earth. The one who had failed to shield him when it mattered most.
The whispers started first. Monster. Witch’s kin. She let him die.
Then came the stones—small, at first. Pebbles that bounced harmlessly against her coat. Then heavier ones, sharp enough to cut the skin at her temple. She did not lift her hands to shield herself.
Once, in the marketplace, a woman twice her size stepped forward and slapped her so hard the sting lingered for hours.
“You smiled while he bled, didn’t you?” the woman spat, eyes bright with tears.
Emilia said nothing.
She never said anything.
The truth was, she didn’t hear most of the words. The world around her had dulled, voices muffled as if she were underwater. Every insult slid past her ears, not because it didn’t hurt—but because nothing could hurt more than the moment she saw him fall.
She walked out of the capital without ceremony, without goodbyes. No one stopped her.
The Elior Forest welcomed her with the cold arms of winter. Snow blanketed the pines in thick, suffocating silence, and Emilia let it. She didn’t light fires. She didn’t open her curtains. She didn’t brush her hair.
It grew as the weeks passed—silvery strands trailing past her waist, her bangs falling forward until they veiled her face entirely. She would not cut it. She would not even trim it.
That hair was the last thing Subaru had touched, the last soft thing his fingers had combed through in those quiet moments between battles.
Some nights, the forest spirits would find her kneeling in the snow, head bowed, lips moving soundlessly. On others, she would sit against the frozen trunk of a tree until her legs went numb, whispering his name like a prayer—slow, deliberate, each syllable an anchor keeping her from drifting away completely.
The villagers nearby learned quickly not to approach. When they did, she neither welcomed nor drove them off; she simply stared, violet eyes flat and unblinking, as if looking through them. Children said the silver-haired woman in the forest was cursed. Adults didn’t argue.
Days bled into nights without meaning. The seasons might have changed, but Emilia wouldn’t have noticed. The world had gone quiet the day Subaru’s heart stopped, and she saw no reason to wake it again.
Beatrice
The library door never opened for strangers anymore.
Beatrice moved into Subaru’s old room the day after his burial. The bed still smelled faintly of him—just enough for her to pretend he’d only stepped out for tea and would be back in a moment. She refused to dust, refused to move anything. Even the smallest shift in the air felt like erasing him.
Every surface she passed bore a faint, desperate carving of his pet name for her: Beako, Beako, Beako . On bad days, her fingers cramped from writing it so often. On worse days, she would lie on his bed for hours, facing the wall, as though expecting him to crawl in beside her.
She only stepped out for one reason—to visit his grave.
The walk there became her only journey into the outside world, her small legs carrying her through the manor grounds with mechanical precision. She would place his favorite flowers at the headstone—fresh every time—and set a cup of the tea he liked beside them, steam curling into the cold air. Then she would open one of his favorite novels, reading aloud until her voice turned hoarse.
Sometimes she stayed for hours. Sometimes until nightfall. And when the grief became too heavy to carry back, she would curl up in the snow beside the grave, clutching the stone as if she could hold onto him through it, crying his name over and over until sleep claimed her.
In the morning, she always returned to his room. Because if he ever came back, she wanted to be the first thing he saw.
Rem & Ram
The Mathers manor was too big without him.
Rooms that had once been filled with warmth and movement now felt cavernous and cold, as if the air itself had grown too heavy to breathe. The echo of footsteps no longer belonged to him. The silence pressed in from every wall.
Rem, once brimming with quiet warmth, now moved through the halls like a shadow. She still prepared tea, still tidied the rooms—but her hands trembled with every motion, as though afraid that touching anything too roughly would erase the last traces of him.
She no longer spoke to Ram. There was nothing to say. Instead, she spent hours leaning her head against the closed door of Subaru’s bedroom, listening for sounds that would never come. On the worst nights, she bit her own fingers until they bled, pressing the crimson into white fabric before sewing. She sewed tirelessly—Subaru’s old clothes, replicas of his favorite shirts, patterns he’d once admired, and, most often, embroidery of his face. Soon, every spare scrap of cloth in the manor bore his likeness.
Ram’s grief came sharper, uglier. She baked sweet potatoes every morning, the smell filling the empty kitchen—then threw them away without taking a bite. She would start again the next day, as if repeating the motion could force time backward. When not in the kitchen, she disappeared into the forest, hunting down harmless creatures. She would kill them quickly, efficiently, as if she could slaughter the gnawing ache in her chest the same way.
The wound on her forehead worsened without care, deepening into an angry scar. Yet she always smiled through it—small, bitter smiles—and under her breath, she would murmur the same two words over and over:
“Stupid Barusu.”
Neither sister left the manor for long. If Subaru’s ghost still wandered this world, they were certain it would find its way back here. And when it did, they would be waiting.
Roswaal
The paint came off first. Then the makeup. Then the theatrical lilt in his voice.
The change wasn’t sudden, but it was jarring. For years, Roswaal L. Mathers had been a figure of impossible elegance and control, every smile deliberate, every word dipped in honey and venom alike. After Subaru’s death, that mask began to peel away in slow, deliberate fragments—until there was nothing left to hide behind.
One morning, the manor staff found him sitting at his desk with Subaru’s tracksuit jacket folded neatly in his lap, his once long, silky hair hacked bluntly at his shoulders with no care for symmetry. He had not bothered to wash the dried streaks of makeup from his cheeks, as if removing them entirely would be admitting something permanent.
The “lord” of the manor stopped giving orders. Stopped smiling. Stopped looking at anyone for longer than a passing second. But if you watched closely, you’d see his eyes flick toward the doorway—again, and again, and again—each time with a flicker of expectation, as though waiting for a boy in a black tracksuit to saunter in with that careless grin and reckless charm.
In private, he buried himself in Subaru’s old jacket. At night, when the manor was quiet and the halls were still, he would press the fabric to his face, breathing in what little scent remained. He memorized it. He feared the day it would fade completely.
The jacket never left his chambers now. Sometimes he wore it draped loosely over his shoulders while sitting in the dark, the sleeves far too short for his frame, his head bowed as though in silent prayer. Other times, he folded it with careful precision and placed it on the bed beside him before sleeping, his hand resting atop it through the night.
Roswaal L. Mathers—the calculating schemer, the man with a century of plans—was gone. What remained was a silent figure haunted by a door that never opened, holding onto a piece of cloth as though it were the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
Otto & Garfiel
Otto left without ceremony, taking his merchant cart and vanishing down the road. To those who met him along the way, he was still the same friendly, quick-witted merchant—smiling when he haggled, telling colorful stories by campfires. But behind the smile was a hollow space, a gnawing absence that deepened with each mile.
In the quiet stretches between towns, Otto would speak to the animals around him—not for trade routes, not for safety, but out of some desperate hope. Had they seen him? Had they heard him? Did any of them know where he had gone?
The answers were never what he wanted. Sometimes a bird would mention a place that matched where Subaru had died, and Otto’s voice would tighten. Sometimes a fox would describe the smell of blood, and Otto’s knuckles would whiten on the reins. And when a creature’s words reminded him too much of that day—when it spoke of fear, of pain—he would snap. His blows were swift, brutal, and far harder than the one he had ever given Subaru in their first meeting.
Otto didn’t recognize himself anymore. Maybe he didn’t care to.
Garfiel tried to stay at the manor at first, but his temper became unmanageable. The smallest slight—a look, a muttered word—could set him off. He picked fights in taverns, flipped tables over card games, and threatened strangers who so much as glanced at him too long.
His hands were always scraped, his knuckles split and bruised. He took the hits without flinching, almost welcoming the pain. Only Frederica could pull him away before someone ended up dead, and even she couldn’t always stop him in time.
When he wasn’t fighting, Garfiel wandered the outskirts of the villages and forests Subaru had once walked through, sniffing the air like a predator trying to catch a fading scent. Sometimes he would sit for hours at a place they had once been together, crouched low with his head in his hands, muttering curses under his breath until his voice broke.
He swore that if he ever found the ones responsible for Subaru’s death, he’d tear them apart with his own hands—slowly.
Crusch & Felix
Crusch Karsten’s composure cracked—not with a single outburst, but in slow, quiet fractures that never healed. She stopped attending public gatherings, stopped responding to diplomatic letters, stopped even glancing at the piles of paperwork that once kept her occupied from dawn to dusk.
She had endured the loss of her memories once before, clawed her way back into herself with sheer discipline. But this was different. This wasn’t a wound she could push past. She no longer walked with the same upright confidence; her steps were careful now, like a woman made fragile. At night, she lingered by the balcony, staring out into the dark as if waiting for something—anything—to return from it.
Felix had always been her shadow, her shield, her voice of reason. Now he was little more than a ghost following her through the halls. His usual playfulness was gone, his words stripped of any teasing lilt.
The first time he begged for death, it was in the middle of the night. On his knees before her, hands clasped as if in prayer, his ears pressed flat against his head, his voice broke into a hoarse whisper. “Please, let me follow him. Please, let me go where he is.”
She refused—firmly at first, then with less conviction each time he asked. He didn’t know if he hated her for keeping him here or if he was grateful, and the uncertainty festered like rot.
Felix stopped tending to his appearance. His gloves frayed at the edges. His once immaculate uniform smelled faintly of stale liquor. On bad days, Crusch would find him in the stables, slumped against a stall, staring at the wall with unblinking eyes.
On worse days, she would hear him weeping behind closed doors, and she would stand there, hand hovering over the handle, unable to go in.
Because she knew—if she comforted him, she might ask for death herself.
Wilhelm
Wilhelm van Astrea was a man forged by loss and duty, but even the strongest steel can crack under enough pressure.
Subaru’s death tore open a wound he thought had long since healed—the familiar ache of losing Theresia, his beloved wife, returned with a vengeance. It was the same hollow pain, the same choking helplessness that had haunted him for years. Now, it gnawed at him anew, sharper and crueler than before.
He found himself growing restless, tense like a drawn bowstring. The slightest provocation—a careless word, a glance, even an innocent gesture—could send him spiraling into rage. When he encountered those he blamed for Subaru’s death—those who might have acted differently, who could have saved him—he lunged without hesitation.
His friends, worried by the intensity of his outbursts, were forced to restrain him more than once. Strong arms held him back as he struggled and cursed, eyes blazing with fury and grief.
And yet, beneath the storm, Wilhelm was broken. He wandered through the castle halls as if half a man, haunted by memories of those he had lost, haunted by the feeling that he had failed them all.
At night, when the world was silent, he would visit the small shrine he had made for Theresia—and now, for Subaru. There, he would kneel, hands trembling, speaking softly into the dark.
“I failed you both. Forgive me.”
Felt
She took the throne—not for glory, not for justice, but because no one else would hold it.
Felt ruled Lugnica in a coat of rage so thick it felt like armor, hard and impenetrable. Her sharp commands cut through court meetings like a blade, and her temper flared unpredictably. Those who crossed her—whether nobles, advisors, or old friends—soon found themselves on the receiving end of scathing words or worse, a sudden, ruthless punishment.
Her grin was sharp as broken glass when she summoned Reinhard to deal with those she deemed intolerable. The knight was her enforcer, her shield, and, sometimes, the only person able to temper her storm.
She claimed all this was for the good of the kingdom, for its safety and order. But those close enough to see behind the facade—like Reinhard—knew the truth. Felt’s fury was a shield, a blinding fire fueled by grief and guilt. She punished others not because they deserved it, but because Subaru would have hated them.
The boy who had the smile rivals the sun was gone, and the world felt cruelly empty without his antics.
At night, when the throne room emptied and her subjects had fled to their quarters, Felt would slip away to a small chamber decorated with relics and trinkets Subaru had once touched. She’d sit there for hours, tracing the worn edges of his favorite book or the fabric of a jacket he’d left behind.
Her eyes often glistened with unshed tears, but she never let them fall. To Felt, weakness was a luxury she could no longer afford.
Reinhard, ever at her side, would watch silently, knowing she carried a burden too heavy for words. Sometimes, when her anger boiled over, he would hold her close, grounding her in the cold reality that they had to survive—if only to remember Subaru the way he deserved.
And deep down, she knew that no throne, no kingdom, could ever fill the void his absence left behind.
Julius
Julius walked into the Knight’s Order barracks one morning, laid down his sword, and left.
The man who had once been the shining exemplar of knighthood was gone. In his place was someone unrecognizable—unshaven, tired, and weighed down by a crushing grief that twisted every breath he took. He no longer answered to orders or duty, and the tight bond he once shared with Reinhard became brittle and fragile, reduced to curt nods exchanged in silence. Felix no longer spoke to either of them, their small circle fractured beyond repair.
Julius did not wander the world freely, as some might expect. Instead, he isolated himself inside a cage—a prison barely large enough to sit in, certainly never enough to stand. A cruel, self-imposed punishment where he slowly withered away, cut off from the life he once lived.
If Subaru hadn’t been there, Julius would have rotted away in that dark cell, lost forever in memories of his beloved.
The cage was his sanctuary and his torment. Inside, the cold metal bars pressed into his skin as a constant reminder of his failure to protect the one he loved. With hands rough from battle but trembling with sorrow, Julius carved “Natsuki Subaru” into his arms, legs, and stomach using the thorns of roses he managed to smuggle in—a painful, bloody tribute that bound his love and his pain together.
Every night, he pressed kisses to the raw wounds, whispering promises and apologies to the name etched deep into his flesh. He wished to be with Subaru, to join him beyond the cruel boundaries of the living world.
His mind replayed their moments endlessly—the laughter, the shared struggles, the brief touches that had meant everything. But most haunting were the final, shattered moments: the pain, the helplessness, the silent farewell that Julius never got to give.
In the cold solitude of his cage, Julius was a man consumed by love and despair, a knight fallen from grace, forever imprisoned by his own sorrow.
Anastasia’s Camp
Gone. The remaining members abandoned the kingdom entirely, scattering to the winds. They left without saying where they were going.
Priscilla’s Camp
Now under Vollachian control, they vanished from Lugnica’s politics entirely.
Reinhard
Reinhard van Astrea was a warrior forged from honor, strength, and an unbreakable will. Yet beneath that unyielding exterior lay a heart shattered beyond repair.
He could save anyone—heal any wound, shield any life—but he had failed to save Subaru.
That failure gnawed at him like a relentless beast, clawing its way through his chest, tearing apart the pride and hope that had defined him for so long.
Every few days, drawn by a pull he could neither fight nor resist, Reinhard found himself walking the same worn cobblestone path. The city around him bustled with life, but in his mind, everything was silent.
His boots echoed sharply in the alley—the same alley where he had first met Subaru, where laughter and light had once bloomed between them.
He stood there in silence, eyes half-closed, as though shutting out the world could bring him closer to the boy who had vanished.
His breath came in ragged waves, chest tightening until he felt as if it might burst.
Reinhard’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening as rage and grief mingled into a storm that threatened to consume him whole.
If I could, I would hold you forever.
His voice was silent, but the words burned in his soul.
He wanted to cradle Subaru gently, to shield him from every pain the world could inflict—but he could not.
Instead, all that remained was a desperate, furious urge to burn the world down—every shadow, every cruel hand, every whisper of fate that had dared to tear them apart.
The fire inside him was both sorrow and wrath, a consuming blaze that left nothing but ashes in its wake.
Nothing else mattered.
Not the kingdom, not duty, not honor.
Only Subaru—only the boy whose absence left Reinhard hollow and broken.
And so he returned again and again to that alley, to the memory of the first time he saw the boy who had stolen his heart, seeking solace in the place where it all began.
Until one day, when the cold morning light caught something unexpected—something new—waiting for him there.
.
The world felt heavy.
Each breath weighed like stone, each heartbeat echoing in the endless silence that stretched between past and future.
For those left behind, the pain of Subaru’s death had fractured reality itself—until, suddenly, the impossible happened.
They opened their eyes.
Not in the cold present. Not in the bleak aftermath they had known.
But somewhere else.
For some, it was the past—a rewind of time, an eerie chance to change the course of events before tragedy struck. For others, it was a shadowed corner of the city, the alleyway where memories clung like mist.
Reinhard found himself there, as always, drawn like a moth to a dying flame.
And in that quiet, forgotten alley, beneath the flickering light of a lone lantern, he saw a small figure—fragile, alone, and so achingly familiar.
The boy’s eyes fluttered open, confusion clear as day.
Reinhard’s breath caught.
“Who are you?” the boy whispered, voice trembling like a fragile thread.
The question hung heavy in the cold night air.
Reinhard stared, heart pounding with a desperate hope he dared not speak aloud.
This was Subaru—yet not the Subaru he remembered.
Everything was about to begin again.
From Zero.