Chapter 189: Mattered Pains

Chapter 189: Mattered PainsThen she turned her head—not toward Elias, but upward.

Her neck moved slowly, the weight of it dragging across the blade’s edge without care. It didn’t cut her, but the shift forced him to follow her line of sight. She wasn’t looking at him anymore. She stared past him, toward the broken ceiling above the arena—gray and wide, lined with faded support rigs and the faint outlines of system-mounted lights. Nothing else. No sky. Just the suggestion of one.

Her breathing had shortened. Her back had stopped rising fully with each inhale. Blood trickled from her scalp in a single line, tracked across her temple, then curved beneath her jaw. It clung there at the base of her throat, just beneath the edge of his blade.

She blinked once.

Her lips moved, but it took a second for sound to catch.

"...Just do it," she said.

No pleading. No performance. Just a flat, cracked whisper that barely escaped her throat.

"If it’s going to happen," she muttered, "then stop standing there like it’s hard."

Her shoulders barely twitched, too drained for another shrug. Her arms hung off her knees. The mirror harness across her chest had dulled completely—no more pulses, no more resistance. The only thing still moving was the faint shimmer of her Ikona, just under the skin at her back. It fluttered like a dying bulb.

Elias didn’t look away. He hadn’t since he knelt.

The edge of the blade still hovered where it had before—half a finger’s width from her neck. A perfect kill position. Zero resistance. She’d stopped trying.



She was still breathing.

That’s what made it harder.

He adjusted his grip once. Not to press. Just to shift his balance. His palm trembled slightly from strain, not doubt.

That’s what made it harder.

He adjusted his grip once. Not to press. Just to shift his balance. His palm trembled slightly from strain, not doubt. Every tendon in his wrist ached from the tension. The mirrored blade hovered steady between them, a hand’s width from her throat.

Her eyes flicked toward it. Then toward him.

And for the first time, she actually spoke.

"You’ve got the angle," she said, voice hoarse but clear. "So what the hell are you waiting for?"

Elias didn’t answer.

Her lip cracked as it curled. Blood touched the edge of her teeth. "You want me to ask for it? Is that what this is?"

The blade didn’t move.

Her chest shifted once—small, shallow. Then again.

"I don’t need mercy," she said, louder now. Her body swayed slightly, but her eyes never dropped. "You want to pretend this wasn’t your fault? That I ended up like this by accident?"

Still, no reply.

She breathed in, and it rattled in her throat.

"Say something," she snapped. "You’re not a statue. You’re not a martyr. You’re a coward with a weapon, and you’re making me sit here and rot while you decide whether to use it."

Elias’s jaw clenched. The blade’s tip wavered for half a second. Not much. Enough.

"You think this means anything if you don’t finish it?" she hissed, throat tightening. "You chained us. You dragged us into your guilt and wrapped it in rules, and now you want me to crawl because you hesitate at the last step?"

Her arms gave slightly. Her elbows bent under their own weight.

The harness kept her upright—but barely.

Her tone dropped.

"If you’re going to kill me," she said, quieter now, "do it like you mean it."

Elias looked at her. Really looked.

Her hair was soaked to her face, half of it caked with dirt and blood. Her cheeks were bruised, jaw red where it had caught the edge of his last reversal. Her Ikona’s glow was flickering inside her like a dying sun. But her posture—what was left of it—still fought to stay level.

Elias let out a slow breath.

He looked at the blade—still hovering just above the ground, its mirrored edge catching the light of the torches above.

His shoulders dropped slightly.

"I really have nothing to fight for in this life," he said, voice low. "Other than a legacy I didn’t ask for... tied to someone who’s not even here anymore."

The blade trembled.

He closed his fingers loosely around the hilt—then exhaled again, slower this time.


And let go.

The construct unraveled instantly. Light peeled back from the steel in fine ribbons, flickering blue before disappearing into the air. The last echo of it faded in a low, static whine.

Silence followed.

Until footsteps crossed the sand.

Sharp, deliberate, almost cheerful.

The Announcer stepped into view at the edge of the light.

He clapped once—just once—and spread his arms like he was addressing a theater that only he could see.

"Well, well, well," he said, grinning. "It happened. The forbidden stalemate. The emotional climax. The slow fade to nothing."

He paced a slow circle around them, his polished shoes scraping against the glassy grit.

"Two star-crossed icons bleeding it out in a ring like the world’s oldest play," he continued. "Tragedy, silence, and all the right blood in all the right places."



He stopped directly in front of them.

"But let’s not forget the rules, shall we?"

He bent slightly, just enough to meet Elias’s eye.

"One of you still has to die. Or this whole show doesn’t go on."

Kikaru didn’t look at Elias right away. Her head rested half-turned, cheek pressed to the cooling sand. The pain in her voice was gone now—not because it didn’t exist, but because there wasn’t enough left in her to carry it.

She nodded once, slow and stiff.

"...Whatever fucked-up game this is," she muttered, "we don’t have options left. I get it."

Her breath caught on the exhale, chest barely shifting.

"I promise... the others won’t hold this against you, Elias. Not this time." Her lips twitched faintly—more fatigue than smile. "So just do it already. No need to pretend you’re the hero. That doesn’t survive in a world like this."

Elias didn’t move.

The Announcer’s head tilted, lenses glinting red and blue in the arena’s light.

"And if he does nothing?" Elias asked. "What happens then?"

"Oh, good question." The Announcer gave a breathy little laugh and lifted one hand, twirling a finger lazily in the air. A shimmer followed, gold at the edges. "Well... if you refuse to decide, I’ll just flip a coin."

A metallic ring followed as a silver disc manifested between his fingers—thin, precise, spinning fast despite how lightly it turned.

"One of you dies either way," the Announcer said. "She’s not wrong, really. Heroes don’t make it long. Especially not when they’re still wearing a host."

Elias narrowed his eyes. "A host?"

"Mm." The Announcer clicked his tongue. "I really should learn to bite it now and then. Never mind. Point is—we’re nearly out of time."

The coin spun once more around his finger, faster now, catching and warping the torchlight with every rotation.

Kikaru still hadn’t moved. Her arm twitched once, then fell limp again. She stared upward—not at the Announcer, not at Elias. Just into the dead gray.

"It’s okay," she said quietly. "A life like this... it was always going to end this way."

Her voice didn’t shake. It was just hollow.

"Failing my father... It makes sense. People like me were built to fall short."

Elias exhaled through his nose and shook his head.

"Oh, come on."

He sat down beside her, shoulder brushing her arm, both of them slouched now in the cooling grit. The mirror harness over her chest flickered once, weak but intact.

She turned her head slowly to look at him.

"You don’t have to mock it."

"I’m not," he said. "I’m just not letting you call it over yet."

Kikaru blinked. Her eyes were cracked red from heat and smoke, but still clear.

"You’ve got raw potential," Elias said, voice low. "Enough that half the military’s betting on you to fix whatever this world becomes."

She didn’t reply.

"And there’s still people left who look up to you. People like Junjio. Faye. Even Tidwell, once he gets over being Tidwell."

Kikaru’s face twitched. "You’re stalling."

"Maybe." Elias shrugged. "But I’m also right."

He let out a short breath, and then his expression shifted. His hand lifted again, and the mirrored blade shimmered back into his palm. Smaller this time. Steadier.

He looked at her one last time. "You’ll handle it just fine. Probably better than I would’ve. And for the record..."

He glanced over his shoulder at Dot, whose glow flickered nearby—dim and rattling.

"There’s very few people I’d trust with her. You’re one of them."

Dot stirred. "Elias—"

He stood.

Kikaru tried to move again, but her strength was gone.



Elias raised the blade.

Kikaru met his eyes, teeth pressing together.

Then he spun the hilt in his hand—turned the blade, flipped it toward himself, and drove it into his gut.

Dot screamed.

"No—!"

The impact didn’t echo. It thudded.

A clean punch of steel into flesh.

Blood spread instantly across his shirt, soaking the fabric before the weapon even stopped moving. Elias staggered, knees bending. The mirrored blade shimmered once, then began to dissolve into his own light.

Kikaru’s eyes widened. "You—"

He dropped to his knees.

Didn’t collapse. Didn’t cry out.

Just pressed one hand to the wound and smiled.