"Why am I still alive…?"
Reol walked on without a destination, sliding his left foot out of his habit. His eyes remained vacant, fixated on nothing, as if the world ahead had already been decided unworthy of notice.
This is the 3rd day he has been walking aimlessly.
Rain clung to his raven-black hair, weighing it down against his face. His cloak slowly bled red, soaked through from all the injuries he received.
People who passed him averted their eyes. Some recoiled, mistaking him for a murderer on the loose, while others dismissed him as a madman and hurried on.
To them, he was something best left unacknowledged.
Isn't it ironic? Because he remembered back then, in the novel, he was well-liked and treated as a saviour. If one ever dares to avert their gaze, that's mainly because of his overwhelming presence.
And now, here... He was treated as almost nothing.
But Reol did not bother to react.
How could he, when his thoughts were already in ruin and collapsing inward without order or meaning? It appears as though his purpose was a luxury he no longer possessed.
So continued to move on.
Because even emptiness, it seemed his body insisted on continuing.
"Who am I…?"
He was certain the book had been erased. By every rule he understood, he should have vanished with it too.
That was how it had always worked... In theory, characters should not outlive their stories.
Yet pain lingered, telling him all of this is real still.
His body remembered what the world no longer should: the agony of being torn apart by glitches, by coming undone piece by piece. Every wound still burned as it was a stubborn proof that he had not been properly erased.
If that's so... What is he right now? Especially he, who was just the puppet of a script, was now roaming around without any orders from the system.
The system was gone.
There was no more hovering text, no commands, no cold reassurance that his suffering served a narrative purpose.
No matter how many times he called out, no matter how desperately he searched the empty air, nothing answered his call.
And no matter how long he prayed, his God never returned from his dreams.
Perhaps there was no need for him anymore.
In a world without a script, relevance itself had rotted away.
When Reol finally understood where and when he stood, the truth hollowed him out.
Five hundred years had passed.
But for him, it's only been the third day since he left Chapter 102.
Empires he had bled for were completely turned into dust. Names he had carried like vows were forgotten. And every sacrifice, every triumph demanded of him as a main character, had dissolved into nothing more than an unremembered preface.
All of it became vain.
Once, he had wished for freedom. For a day when he could choose his own fate, and when the script would loosen its grip and every word from his mouth would truly belong to him.
And now… that wish had been granted.
He should feel liberated.
But what he feels right now, we're nothing like that...
"Am I... Abandoned?" He asked himself.
He reached for his neck and found that the feeling of a collar tightened around his neck had gone missing.
So it is true.
He is finally free, away from all that script bullshit and all from those responsibilities.
Reol slowly crouched as his gaze sank into a shallow puddle at his feet.
Rain struck the surface again and again, warping his reflection until it could no longer settle. The face that stared back was unfamiliar... a face of supposed to be the 'protagonist', showed no trace of heroism.
It was just a man.
A man with empty eyes detached from any light. An expression that showed witherness. A pale complexion akin to a corpse.
An existence he found abhorrent.
For the first time, the truth settled into his bones:
This might be it.
His role might have simply ended here.
What could a protagonist do when there's no longer a story? If his main purpose is done, then why is he still lingering here?
He clenched his fists with his hands trembling as the silence closed in, as if the world itself had stopped its time.
And then, quietly, almost politely— the thought surfaced.
"Should I end everything here…?"
The rain intensified and smearing the world into shades of gray and silver.
Each drop pierced his skin like a reminder that he could still feel, though he no longer knew why.
He stood at the edge of the riverbank.
Below him, the river writhed, slamming against jagged stones in a ceaseless roar. It sounded almost resentful, as if it was mocking his hesitation. Then, mud swallowed his shoes as he stepped closer.
The current churned beneath him, whispering an invitation it did not need to repeat.
Before he could take one more step and fling himself away, his courage tripped over its own feet.
"No… I can't die yet—"
And right on cue... a tiny, far-too-cheerful voice chirped behind him.
"HIII~! This is Super Happy Forever Sleepy Box Company speaking! Are you maybe looking for a comfortable way to die today?"