Neither light nor darkness existed here. There was no horizon to promise distance, no shadow to prove form. The world around Yu was a silent, endless expanse of white static—an unfinished canvas where sound itself seemed forbidden. Even the idea of “air” felt like a memory his body was trying to recall but couldn't quite grasp.

  Only a faint, white fluctuation drifted in the nothingness, like the afterimage you saw when you stared at a bright screen too long and then looked away. And inside that pale shimmer, the reverberation of his existence hovered alone—thin, fraying at the edges.

  Rustle. A sound reached his ears. Not loud. Not even certain. But it scratched at the inside of his skull like a distant wind threading through trees that weren't there. The absurdity of it made his chest seize.

  Wind? Here? Yu opened his eyelids. He didn’t know how much time had passed. A second? An eon? He couldn’t even tell whether time existed in a place where “before” and “after” had nowhere to stand. There was no sky to measure, no ground to anchor him. He felt his body and didn’t—like he was both present and absent, like someone had reduced him to a concept and forgotten to put the flesh back.

  Yet a faint trace of pain lingered. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t fresh. It was a thin, persistent ache—proof that something had happened to him, that he had once been a person with skin that could be opened.

  “…Where… am I…?” His voice came out rough, then vanished immediately, swallowed by the vacuum. The silence didn’t echo. It didn’t respond. It simply erased him.

  Memory arrived in fragments, violently bright against the colorless void. The schoolyard. The roar of applause. Concrete underfoot, the smell of dust and sweat, the harsh daylight. Rize’s smile. Claval’s wave. And then— The shadow. The glint of steel. Screams splintering the air. “Not you! ME!” The coldness of a knife sliding between his ribs. The warmth of his own blood.

  “Back then… I was stabbed… What happened…? Did I die?” Yu sucked in a breath that didn’t feel like it should exist here, and the ache in his chest thickened into dread.

  As he exhaled, the space creaked. Not with sound, but with pressure, like reality flexing under a heavy weight.

  A thin line of light drew itself along the edge of his vision—straight, deliberate—then split open like a crack in glass. Something peeked through.

  “Yah-ho?” A shadow with a voice that did not belong in a solemn place. The tone was bright enough to be offensive. “For me—an existence outside of time—picking up the moment of death before it solidifies is a piece of cake☆”

  The crack widened as the voice continued, cheerful as a jingle from an ad you couldn’t skip. Color bled into Yu’s surroundings. Pale blue seeped into the transparent world, spreading like ink in water, and with it came definition—edges, contours, a faint sense of depth. Yu’s own hands became visible in front of him, trembling slightly as if his body was remembering fear before his mind could catch up.

  And there he was. The smile was the same one Yu had seen on battlefields, in glitches, in moments where reality seemed to stutter. Frivolous at first glance, yet unfathomable beneath the surface, like the surface of a pond hiding something bottomless. Time Patrol. TP.

  “TP…?” Yu whispered.

  “Correct?” TP raised his index finger and snapped it lightly. The sound rang like a bell—clean, bright, and impossibly loud in a world that had refused sound until now. The vibration didn’t just hit Yu’s ears. It ran through his bones, through the faint pain inside him, through the very idea of “here.”

  The world began to rotate. Slowly at first, then with a steady, inevitable pull, as if gravity had finally decided to exist. Countless particles of light flowed through the air, drifting around Yu like a sea of stars. They swirled and braided, forming fleeting patterns that dissolved before he could name them.

  “You are an existence that has transcended providence and crossed over to the other world,” TP said, his voice softening just enough to pretend this was normal conversation.

  “It would be a waste to just throw you away into the cycle of reincarnation, wouldn’t it☆” TP walked through the floating lights as though they were mist. He wasn’t tall, yet he seemed to fill the space. Not with size, but with presence.

  “…Where is this place?” Yu’s voice trembled despite his effort to steady it. “What did you do to me? Am I a ghost?” He swallowed. The motion felt strange, like his throat was learning function again.

  “Hmm. Simply put, it’s like the starting point of an Isekai Reincarnation,” TP said, tapping his chin. “The place where they do that thing. You know, the white room with the goddess? Except it’s me?”

  “…You’re not a Time Patrol,” Yu said. The words came out with a bitterness he didn’t fully understand until he heard it. “You’re a god, aren’t you? You always were.”

  “Names don’t matter,” TP laughed. It wasn’t the sharp, taunting laugh from the battlefield. This one was gentler, almost tender, and that made it worse. That softness felt like a hand placed on the back of Yu’s neck.

  “I am not an individual. I am a higher concept itself. The Administrator of everything, if you will.” TP said. The nothingness of the space around them deepened, as if the world agreed—everything here was empty so that TP could be the only thing that mattered.

  “Now,” TP said, his tone shifting to business. “Let me explain the rules. You cannot return to your original world. Your body there is dead. Nor can you go to the other world where they are. That door is closed.” TP’s eyes narrowed, not with malice, but with something like inevitability.

  The sentence hit Yu like a blade. For a second, Yu couldn’t breathe. Regret spilled inside him like rough sand, filling every hollow place, scraping raw as it settled.

  Rize. Claval. Harukawa. Mamiya-sensei. His parents. The last time he had heard his own name shouted, it had been wrapped in fear and obsession and a crowd’s roar. And now, in this silent expanse, the idea that he would never go back made that roar feel like a final, cruel joke.

  “If you desire that,” TP continued, voice almost conversational, “we will have to fight again. And this time, there will be no miracles.”

  Yu’s teeth clenched. The battle was supposed to be over. Must he choose again? Must he bleed again?

  “Will the two worlds never be in danger again?” Yu asked. He forced his gaze up, the pain in his chest sharpening into a thin thread of anger.

  “It's okay now. I can guarantee it,” TP said. “The link is severed. They will drift apart safely.”

  “I won’t allow you to cross worlds, but as a reward for your hard work…” TP’s smile turned slightly gentler, like he was rewarding Yu for asking the “correct” question.

  “—I’ll allow you to peek into the worlds☆” He swept his hand through the air.

  Frames of light rotated into existence. They were neither mirrors nor screens. They hovered, suspended in the void, their edges shimmering with a texture that reminded Yu of an app interface—clean lines, faint glow, the subtle hum of something powered. Yet the images inside them weren’t recordings. They were alive. They were Now.

  Realities permitted to be observed. Yu stepped toward the nearest frame, his body moving before his mind could decide.

  Inside was his Classroom. Sunlight came in at an angle, dust drifting through it like tiny ghosts. The chalkboard was half-wiped, leaving pale smears. Harukawa sat by the window, shoulders slumped, staring at the desk beside him. Yu’s desk. Empty. On the wood remained a doodle Yu had once drawn—a stupid little sketch of a cat, half a joke, something meaningless that had somehow survived him.

  “Why… you…?” Harukawa’s lips moved. But no voice came out. The frame did not carry sound. Or perhaps sound had simply been stripped away as punishment. Yu’s throat tightened anyway, as if his body could hear what his ears could not.

  He moved to the next frame. The Other World. Claval and Rize. They were seated somewhere quiet—a garden in the city. Their heads were bowed like people at a wake. Rize’s fists were clenched on her knees, knuckles white, her shoulders pulled tight as if she were holding herself together by force. She wasn't crying. She looked hollow. Claval sat near her, silver hair dim without the stage-light sheen. She watched Rize with a complicated stillness, then exhaled a small breath—barely visible, yet heavy. Even trying to be strong, their hearts were aching to the point of breaking.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Yu reached out on instinct. His fingers met nothing. The frame’s surface resisted him without any tactile feedback—no glass, no warmth, just a boundary that refused to be crossed.

  The next frame showed Yu’s Living Room. His mother was collapsed on the floor, hands covering her face, shoulders shaking in silent sobs. His father held her shoulders, his jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. He was staring at the wall, eyes red and dry. The television displayed a title card: [The Glory and Shadow of EWS: A Memorial] Below it, commentary scrolled—international reactions, speculation, condolences, conspiracy theories. Words moving too fast to fully read, yet he could feel their weight. He could imagine his name pulsing in the threads like an infection.

  Yu’s throat trembled on its own. His chest tightened until it hurt to exist.

  “…If I hadn’t met Rize and Claval,” Yu whispered, “would this not have happened…? Would my mother be crying?” His voice rasped. Breath leaked out instead of tears. Even here, he couldn’t afford to cry properly. It felt like the universe would steal that from him too.

  TP was still smiling. But deep in his eyes, for a moment, loneliness floated—small and quick, like the shadow of something human trying to exist inside an inhuman concept.

  “Maybe so, maybe not,” TP said. “Causality is a messy web. But you made a choice.”

  Yu looked up. The pale blue light illuminated his face, and in the depths of his eyes, a faint resolve returned—not heroic, not triumphant, just stubborn.

  “…Choice,” Yu repeated.

  “That choice was wonderful,” TP said, voice resonating like a bell. “Be proud, Yu Shiro. You saved them.” The words left a single streak of warm light in the space, like a blessing—or a brand.

  Yu let out a shaky breath and, to his own surprise, smiled faintly.

  “…I’m done fighting,” he said. The declaration felt small, but it was his. “I’ll ask one more time. The worlds won’t be in danger, right? My parents… Rize…Claval… they’ll be safe?”

  “I, myself, guarantee it☆”

  ?

  “One. You disappear as you are. Total cessation of existence. Peace.” TP’s voice echoed again, slightly louder now, as if reading terms and conditions. The stars around Yu trembled. The phrase was too clean, too simple—vanishing as if he had never existed. No pain. No memory.

  “Two. You observe the two worlds here for eternity. You become a ghost in the shell, watching them live and die without you.”

  Yu’s eyes flicked to the frames, the living realities he could watch but never touch. Eternity as a spectator. Eternity as pain without release.

  “Three. You live in a completely different other world.” TP’s grin widened. It was the grin of a showman revealing the grand prize. “There’s one that suits you perfectly? A quiet place. No gods. No cameras.”

  “I see… I will…” Yu slowly raised his face. The panic that had been gnawing at him was gone, replaced by a quiet clarity.

  “You don’t have to decide right away,” TP crossed his arms and shrugged with theatrical ease. “Do you want to see the aftermath of the two worlds? The funerals? The statues?”

  Yu shook his head.

  “No.” The word came out with a softness that surprised him. He looked at the frames one last time—the broken classroom, the grieving home, the two girls with their bowed heads.

  “I’ve decided, TP. I choose—” His chest tightened, but the resolve held. The light intensified. Brighter, swallowing the blue, swallowing the stars, swallowing the edges of TP’s smile. Yu’s voice was sucked into the brilliance, stolen mid-sentence, as if even his choice belonged to someone else.

  ?

  Six Months Later.

  Evening light shone in at a slant. Yu stood in a field that smelled of rich soil and grass warmed by the sun. The air was clean, carrying the distant scent of water—a lake, perhaps, or a river—and the faint sweetness of wildflowers blooming nearby.

  At his waist was a wooden sword. He drew it, the motion practiced, and watched the shadow of a magical beast retreat into the trees. It wasn't a dramatic chase. It wasn't a battle for the fate of a city. It was a creature spooked away from his crops, a job done, an ordinary result.

  His hands were no longer those of an adventure. They were the hands of a person living life—callused in the wrong places now, from hoes and shovels instead of weapons. Dirt was lodged beneath his nails, stubborn and honest.

  “…That’s about it for today’s hunt,” Yu said aloud. The sound of his own voice in open air felt like a gift. “I need to get back and water the fields before sunset.” The words came naturally. Half a year since coming here.

  He spent more time tilling than fighting. Sowing seeds, carrying water, pulling weeds. Waking with the sun. Eating when hungry. Sleeping when tired. There were no notifications. No viewer count. No comment flood. No destiny.

  A village child waved from afar, laughing as they ran along a path. Yu smiled and waved back, the motion easy. The noise, the fires of war, were no longer here. Rumors drifted through the village like harmless smoke—talk of an elf princess in a neighboring kingdom developing the lakeside where some subjugation had ended, turning it into a resort area. People spoke of it with the kind of excitement that belonged to festivals, not funerals.

  Yu looked up. The clouds were translucent white, drifting slowly. The sky felt vast without being threatening. It was much quieter and calmer than the place he once called “Another World.”

  He felt no flow of mana. No hum in the air, no pressure, no voice like a companion whispering inside his skull. He couldn’t hear Mana-chan.

  Still— Yu raised his right arm to the sky and opened his palm, as if expecting the universe to respond.

  “…[Bind,]” he said. Then he let a small, self-mocking laugh escape. “…Just kidding.”

  No light came out. No circle. No skill effect. No miracle.

  But in that hand, the memory of connection remained—warm, stubborn, impossible to erase. Rize’s smile. Claval’s profile. Mana-chan’s voice. Harukawa’s laughter. The taste of ramen broth. The smell of school corridors. Everything breathed quietly inside him, like embers that refused to go out.

  “I’ll live in this world tomorrow too, huh,” Yu murmured. He laughed softly, dissolving the words into the wind. Birds sang. Trees rustled in the distance.

  The world continued as if nothing had happened.

  —End.

  BOOM.

  An explosion sounded overhead, close enough that the air trembled. The ground beneath Yu’s boots shuddered, and birds erupted from the trees in a screaming cloud.

  Yu snapped his head up. The sky was torn open. Not metaphorically. Not poetically. It looked like reality itself had been ripped—clouds split apart, light bending strangely around a widening scar. A giant shadow descended.

  “…What is that?” Yu’s mouth went dry.

  It came through the clouds like a judgment. A Ship. Not a wooden vessel, not a merchant craft. This thing was armored. Black plating covered the outer hull, reflecting the sunlight in harsh, broken angles. Around it, countless magic circles emitted light—rotating, layered, overlapping like a mechanical ritual.

  “…No way.” His heart stopped.

  The ship landed. CRASH. Dust rose in a thick wave, swallowing the field. The impact sent a gust of hot air over Yu’s face, carrying the smell of scorched earth and something metallic.

  Through the rolling dust, shapes appeared—silhouettes moving with purpose. A man stood on the deck, looking down through the smoke. Clad in full black armor that drank the light instead of reflecting it. Behind him, the faint afterglow of magic still stretched vertically into the sky like a wound. Yu’s breath caught so hard it hurt.

  “Kept you waiting, you piece of shit!” The man’s mouth moved. Yu’s eyes widened. That voice. That arrogance. Naz.

  The dust began to clear. Familiar silhouettes emerged one by one, sharpening into people Yu had thought he’d lost forever. Roa. Hanara. Agama— Claval and Rize.

  For a heartbeat, Yu couldn’t move. His legs forgot how to function. His chest felt too tight to contain the heat suddenly rushing back into him.

  Then he took one step. Two. And the restraint snapped like a brittle rope. Yu broke into a run. His boots pounded the earth, faster than he had moved in months. The wind tore at his hair. Tears blurred his vision before he could decide whether he was allowed to cry.

  “Yu-kun!” In the distance, mixed with the wind, a voice cut through everything. Mana-chan’s nostalgic voice.

  Yu laughed. The sound was raw and bright and alive. Heat returned to the depths of his body after a long time. He ran with all his might. Toward them.

  ?

  Somewhere else. In the light of a screen, TP leaned back in a chair and laughed. The background defied the architecture of any known world—resembling instead a stage built out of darkness and UI glow. A place where the concept of “channel” existed without needing a server.

  “So—how was the project ‘Let’s Watch Another world on [the Higher Being Channel]’?” TP said, voice pleased with itself. His words resonated in the silent universe, and the framing around him shimmered like a broadcast overlay.

  TP had been streaming. Not the old world. Not Earth. He had been streaming that other world using EWS. Across countless screens, across nations and languages, the news of Yu’s survival spread explosively—breaking through grief like sunlight through storm clouds.

  Yu’s parents collapsed in tears, clutching their smartphones so tightly their knuckles whitened. His mother’s sobs shook her whole body, while his father’s face crumpled in a way no one outside the family had ever seen.

  Somewhere, a CEO toasted while watching the stream, glass raised with a trembling smile as if the miracle justified every investment and every sleepless night.

  A club manager hugged someone in relief, laughing and crying at once, while Harukawa cried openly, head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut as if he were trying to keep the sky from falling again.

  In the EWS control room, Kaori Mamiya broke down in tears, shoulders shaking as she pressed her hand over her mouth, unable to hold the composure she had worn like armor for so long.

  Self-Defense Force members pumped their fists, hard expressions cracking into something like hope.

  The stream approached its ending.

  “Well, it’s an irregular event, but?” TP said. “Look forward to the next stream~☆” TP winked and waved a hand, the gesture playful, almost obscene in its casualness. The overlay pulsed. The universe remained silent, yet filled with unseen eyes.

  Their story continues.

  —Isekai Streaming Service / END—

  He saw two girl’s faces. He forgot every word he had ever known.