He failed.
He promised Emilia he would protect her—swore it the day he became her knight. That oath was the reason he became one after all. And now, at the very first real test against the Witch Cult since his vow, she had already been taken from him.
Just do better.
He opened his eyes. Felix Argyle moved across his vision, fingers weaving water with practiced ease as the knight reattached Subaru's missing limb. Subaru didn't even blink at the sight—didn't let himself register the warmth of animation returning to his hand.
He failed.
So what, then? He had the one thing that erased failure. Return by Death: the cursed, blessed ability that let him try again and again until outcome bent to his will and perfection would be achieve.
Just do better.
Yes.
Gojo's words looped in his head like a commandment. They were true—brutally true. He was the only one who could fix things after failure. He was the only one who could keep trying until everyone was safe.
Slowly, mechanically, Subaru raised his off-hand. His index and middle finger hovered at the side of his head—cold and familiar as the thought of oblivion.
Just do better. Just do better. Just do better. Just do better. Just do better. Just do better. Just do better. Just do better. Just do better. Just do better. Just do better. Just do better. Just do better. Just do better. Just do better. Just do better. Just do better. Just do better. Just do better. Just do better.
The surge of pressure that always preceded the fall prickled beneath his skin—one heartbeat away from splintering the world around him—when a large, bare hand closed over his wrist and twisted his arm upward.
"—?"
The clamor inside his skull stuttered and, for the first time since Emilia had been taken, the white noise fell away. Subaru's gaze tracked up to see who'd gripped him with annoyance.
"...Al?"
Aldebaran's voice, metallic and muffled through the helm, sounded oddly gentle.
"I'm not too sure what you were about to do, brother, but—don't you think your lady, the little twin-drill blondie, and that scary white-haired kid would be a little sad if you did that?"
Confusion knotted Subaru's brow. He opened his mouth, but no words came. He looked like a man caught between whether or not his own thoughts were of importance.
Aldebaran didn't let go. He leaned in, the clean metal reflecting Subaru's tired gaze.
"Nothing good ever comes from self-harm, brother. People say it all the time—yeah? Always, no matter what, cherish yourself." The scarred hand shifted, and the tip of one rough finger touched Subaru's forehead, a clumsy, earnest benediction.
"You—are your own person, brother." Aldebaran said, voice ringing oddly hollow inside the helmet. "Just like the rest of us. You laugh, you wish, you cry. So remember that before you do whatever that was."
The mantra in Subaru's head—just do better—wavered, as fragile as a candle in wind. Aldebaran's touch pinned him to the present: not the endless loop, not the perfect outcome, but the ragged, painful truth that people—flawed, small, mortal—were still worth protecting because they were themselves.
Aldebaran's fingers fell away from his temple. The pressure loosened, and with it, light returned to Natsuki Subaru's eyes.
"…Ah."
"I'm stupid."
Subaru smacked both cheeks at once, the sting chasing away the haze in his head. He glanced down at the cat-boy who had just finished reconnecting his arm.
"Thanks Al, Ferris. Should've said that sooner, huh?"
Ferris flicked his tail and grinned, hands on his hips.
"Nya~ don't even worry about it, Subaru~ Just be grateful I stuck that arm back on, okay?"
Subaru gave him a weak smile, nodding—only to pause as the room finally registered.
Blood. Bandages. The groans of the wounded pressed in from all sides. Rough cots lined the space, each occupied by people waiting for treatment. The stench of sweat and iron clung to the air. This was no inn or noble estate—it was a battlefield made into a hospital.
His stomach twisted.
"…Shit."
"Seems like you really got yourself into a mess this time, brother." Al drawled.
"Yeah." Subaru grimaced. "I'm sure you both guessed already. Witch Cult. I knew they'd pop up eventually, but… two Archbishops again... That was insane. The mummy woman was bad enough, but Regulus—he's a whole different monster compared to the rest."
Neither Ferris nor Al offered an answer. They didn't need to. They hadn't seen what he had—only the aftermath: bodies, broken limbs, confused survivors.
"Right—" Subaru froze. "Where's Beako!?"
The panic in his voice cracked through the tent. He shot upright before Al lazily pointed across the way. Subaru's eyes followed—and softened.
Beatrice approached, tiny arms folded, face frowning as ever.
"Ahhh… you're safe. Thank god…"
Subaru exhaled, relief flooding his shoulders.
"Hmph. Of course Betty is fine, I suppose. Unlike your current mediocre mana pool, Betty has reserves built over centuries. This much is hardly an inconvenience, in fact."
Subaru let out a shaky laugh. Relief turned quickly to a wince when Ferris tapped his newly reattached arm.
"Ow—ow! What was that for!?"
Ferris flicked an ear.
"I'm only gonna say this once, nya. No heavy punching, no reckless thrashing, at least for a few hours. Push that arm too hard and you'll be beggin' me to stitch it back on again, and I don't feel like goin' through all that twice~"
"…Right, right. I'll take it easy."
Subaru nodded quickly.
Al crossed his arms, his tone turning curious—and cautious.
"Gotta admit though, brother. That square I wandered into after tailin' that little pipsqueak, Lusbel? Real ugly. People screamin', bleedin', clutchin' themselves—all with injuries just like yours. That wasn't somethin' I ever wanted to see."
"Yeah… one of their tricks." Subaru's voice dropped. "Wrath's ability—it spreads pain, emotions, everything. Everyone caught in it suffers the same wounds I guess. But…" His brow furrowed. "I don't remember you showing up, Al."
Al tilted his head with a shrug.
"Well, you looked half-dead on your feet, walkin' around like a puppet. You didn't answer a damn thing I asked, either! Left me stuck chattin' with that scary white-haired dude—who, by the way, is supposed to be a brat, what's that about?!"
Subaru let out a weak chuckle.
"Ahaha… yeah. That tracks."
Before any of them could speak again, a shrill interruption split the air.
"Yoohoo~ oh yoohooooo~!"
The timbre of that high-pitched voice carried like a physical thing through the tent and down the alleyways, bouncing off the walls and people and sending chills down the spines of them all. For a moment Subaru stared blankly—the sound did not have a source in the room. It came from everywhere and nowhere, like a ringing in the skull.
"A broadcast…" he muttered.
Al's helmet tilted; the movement was a small thing but loaded with immediate alarm.
"City's broadcast device."
The voice on the other end didn't pause to be polite. It pitched higher, and the sound was suddenly everywhere yet again:
"Hellooooo, meat scraps! Do you hear me? Do you love hearing me? Does my voice tickle your rotten little ears, hmm~? Gyaaaahahahahaha!"
The laugh was a serrated thing, and the intent behind it made the hair on Subaru's arms stand on end. There was something monstrous in the cruelty—every syllable designed to pierce nerves and unmoor their composure.
Subaru felt the world tilt a fraction. He did not have to see the speaker to know the truth of it.
"Another… Sin Archbishop."
The words crawled from his throat like something foreign. He grit his teeth even harder. Three. Three of them in the city.
The voice kept pouring poison:
"Now now, before you get too happy and hopeful~ I have a teeny-tiny announcement! We're all leaving—!"
A beat, the kind that makes a crowd hold its breath with disbelief and hope. Then:
"JUST KIDDING! Gyaaaahahaha! It's only gonna get worse from this point onward, meat scraps! Because that's all you are—caged, writhing, worthless insects! Not even beasts! At least beasts bite back. You lot just squirm!"
Every nerve in Subaru's body tightened. Around him,, the injured men and women froze mid-breathe; a boy inhaled and didn't exhale. The high-pitched melody curdled into menace; the message was monstrous, but the delivery was even worse. It chased the edges of sanity.
The voice went on, theatrical and sickly sweet:
"Ohhh, I know some of you filthy little masochists might enjoy being played with. Having a beautiful girl like me whisper in your ear, toy with you — oh how delightful. But don't you worry—I'll coddle you, like a mother with a baby… right before I chop off your legs and keep you crawling~!"
The rooms patients had started to stir in panic. Some were crying. Others had stopped moving entirely, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if something in the sound had taken hold.
Al's voice was low, controlled anger. "Three Sin Archbishops eh.." he repeated before then shooting a glance to Subaru, to Ferris, to the ragged faces pressed at the rooms edges.
Ferris's tail flicked like a whip, but his ears were flat. He took in a breath, forced his tone calm for the sake of those around them.
"Stay with me, nya. Don't let the voice pull ya."
He stepped forward and, carefully, began to hum under his breath—an old warding tune, something small and human that could keep someone's attention fixed. He touched a wounded woman's shoulder; the woman, for a breath, stopped staring and blinked in confusion.
The broadcast did not stop however. It snarled,
"And here's the best part, my little crawlers—don't try anything funny! Because we—your darling invaders—have already taken control of the four towers that keep this city's waterways flowing. You like to drink? You like to bathe? You like not choking on your own filth? Then stay in your cages! Gyaaaahahahahaha!"
Static followed. A brittle silence fell like a curtain.
For a long heart-beat no one moved. Then the tent exhaled as one: sobs, muttered curses, the scraping of a stool. The broadcast had done more than inform; it had reshaped the world in the span of a single monologue. The city's lifeblood—its water control—now belonged to the enemy, the very thing that could turn peaceful canals into flood or famine.
"…Well that's real bad, ain't it." Al muttered flatly.
Subaru rubbed his face, pulse pounding.
"Three Archbishops. All here. And if they're moving in sync, then yeah… it's those damn black books that Regulus and Sirius pulled out guiding them."
Ferris flicked his tail sharply, stepping between their bickering.
"Save it for later, nya. Lady Crusch and the others are upstairs right now. Strategy meeting. If you're serious about saving Miss Emilia, that's where you need to be."
————————————————————————
The meeting chamber was a hastily converted war room on the second floor of the field hospital. The smell of poultices, dried blood, and scorched stone clung to the air even here, a reminder of how fragile their defenses truly were.
Around the broad wooden table stood Anastasia, arms folded across her chest, her fox stole's button eyes glinting dully in the lamplight. Wilhelm loomed opposite her, a soldier carved from stone, his hands positioned calmly by their sides, the weight of decades of battle etched into every line of his posture. Crusch was opposite him, her bearing impeccable despite the strain tightening her jaw—noble composure shielding her fatigue.
And then there was Gojo.
He leaned lazily against the far edge of the table, one hip cocked, both hands shoved into his pockets, shades over the six eyes. His grin was small but crooked, the kind of grin that made people wonder whether he knew something they didn't or if he was just too detached to care.
The echo of the broadcast still lingered in the room, a phantom shriek bouncing in their heads.
Gojo was the first to speak.
"That broadcast from earlier—man. People really letting brats run the whole city now? What's next, daycare centers holding military control? Sounds like a nightmare. Bet the juice boxes are rationed, HAH!"
His voice was casual, even playful, but the silence that followed was stifling.
Crusch's gaze sharpened, Wilhelm didn't twitch, Anastasia just gave him the same patient stare one gives an unruly child.
Gojo tilted his head.
"..Tough crowd huh."
It was Crusch who broke the pause, her voice steady but edged.
"If the words of that Archbishop are to be believed, then the situation is not merely one of occupation. It is worse. Far worse. Do we all understand the implication?"
The weight of her tone settled over the table.
Anastasia's lashes lowered as she shut her eyes briefly, composure intact but lips pressed tight. Wilhelm's silence spoke for itself, his very presence a tacit agreement. Gojo… only gave the slightest nod, though whether in thought or mockery was unclear.
Anastasia opened her eyes again, the calculation in them cold as winter glass.
"There may be as many as six Sin Archbishops within the city."
She tapped a manicured finger against the wood.
"Already three gathered in one place—unprecedented, even in the long, ugly history of the Cult. 'n with four water-control towers holdin' this entire city hostage, one must imagine the worst: that an Archbishop has entrenched themselves into each of 'em as defense."
Wilhelm's gravel voice rumbled at last.
"They named themselves Lust. Most likely a declaration."
Gojo's grin thinned. He leaned forward just slightly, the lamplight catching the unnatural gleam of his Six Eyes. His voice softened, stripped of levity, though still irreverent in its cadence.
The Sin Archbishops seem to represent the Seven Deadly Sins, considering that Subaru has killed both Sloth and Gluttony I don't think it's possible for there to be six here. I think there are like sub-classes or whatever between the sins but I doubt that's the case, based off gut feeling alone.
"Hate to rain on the doomsday parade, but nah. There most likely aren't six in here. I'm calling their bluff. Feels like bait. Toss a big scary number at you, watch you panic, and then—boom—you do all their work for them or just let 'em sit still outta fear."
All eyes turned his way.
Anastasia's lips curved faintly downward, not quite a frown but close.
"An' here I thought y'd be the first to fall for it, what with how flashy y'are. If it's a bluff… how sure are ya, Mister Gojo? 'Cause if y'er wrong, the price is a city full o' corpses."
Her drawl sharpened like a blade at the end of the sentence.
Gojo's response was immediate. He pulled his hands from his pockets and clasped them neatly behind his back, rocking on his heels like a student being asked to recite in class.
"One hundred percent~"
He grinned, wide, brazen.
"Don't worry. Trust me."
Wilhelm's brow furrowed just slightly at the casual arrogance, though his voice remained level.
"Although it is hard to believe, Gojo is an man smarter than he looks, I am inclined to believe him."
Anastasia's gaze lingered, skeptical but thoughtful. Crusch, however, leaned forward, her composure unbroken but voice edged with steel.
"And if you are wrong, and it costs the lives of hundreds?"
Gojo's grin never faltered, but his tone sobered enough to carry weight.
"Well, I just won't be wrong. Hundred percent sure, remember?"
The silence stretched again.
Finally, Anastasia exhaled through her nose, as if releasing a thread of tension.
"…If yer that certain, then I suppose we'll take it. Hard t'argue with one of th' people who's walked outta the Pleiades Watchtower in one piece. But I'll say it plain—I don't gamble lives lightly. If you misstep, there's no patchin' over it."
Gojo's grin softened just a fraction, though whether it was in respect or merely amusement was impossible to tell.
"Fair enough."