"Where am I?"
An endless sea of flowers bloomed under a radiant sky, a place gathering all the world's beauty.
Yet a filthy worm stood upon this land, its presence clashing with the scenery, yet oddly harmonious.
"Truly pathetic." An ethereal voice rang out, heavenly yet like the whisper of a reaper.
"What?"
Zouken's gaze lifted.
In his wavering vision, a woman appeared.
Silver hair, pure and untainted, ruby-red eyes, a face too exquisite for humanity, and a pristine white gown.
Makiri Zolgen stared, entranced, at this figure from distant memories—a goddess-like presence, unfading despite the centuries.
Two hundred years ago, she was his comrade, sacrificing herself for their grand ideal.
From that day, she never aged, her eyes holding the eternity he craved.
"Justeaze Lizrich von Einzbern… it's you…"
"Two hundred years have passed. Nagato Tohsaka is dead, I'm but a remnant, yet you refuse to die. You let yourself fall into monstrosity, betraying our original wish, just to cling to life." Her nostalgic voice sounded again. "Answer me, Makiri Zolgen."
Why?
Why?
Why?
Why refuse death?
Enduring daily torment, unable to bask in sunlight, living as something inhuman—more painful than death.
Ending it would free him from suffering, yet he clung to life, embracing all agony. Why?
He remembered.
It began with a noble purpose.
To grasp all things, to understand every truth, to reach uncharted realms. To transcend the finite body and touch the infinite soul.
The species called "human" was bound by predetermined limits, trapped in an endless spiral of the mind. All hatred, all pain, was to heal and erase those bounds.
—He recalled.
After lamenting the absence of paradise, if this world was empty, if even crafting a body was forbidden, then they'd strive for a place where it was allowed.
Not to create a new world, but to transform themselves, to reshape human life into something new.
Yes.
By looking up, they could reach that cosmos, that horizon, reborn anew in an unimagined utopia.
—For that.
For that, they sought the Holy Grail.
A miracle beyond human reach.
Until it was achieved, there was no reason to vanish.
No matter how many defeats, no matter how often he realized the flesh couldn't reach it, as long as he lived, he'd never give up.
—Yes, there was only one dream.
To save humanity with the Third Magic, to realize that dreamed paradise.
They staked their lives on an unattainable ideal.
So he had to survive.
Even after all enemies vanished, knowing it was futile, he kept seeking.
Believing it had meaning, that one day, someone might inherit his will.
So he persisted.
Even knowing the pain, there was no reason to die.
Even if he had to change himself, he'd overturn the immature laments of youth.
This was his way of living, the answer he couldn't voice.
Yes.
Even if the future held no reward.
This was his original wish.
This suffering, compared to the endless pursuit of an impossible dream, made the desire to avoid death seem trivial.
"Yes, that's it, Einzbern."
Zouken murmured, more to himself than to the golden saint.
"You remember, don't you?"
Much went unsaid, but Justeaze understood. They were comrades, sacrificing themselves for humanity's salvation. Yet—
"Too much time has eroded your soul, even forgetting your original wish. It's time to end this."
"Yes, it's time. Our wish, our pain, Makiri's mission—all ends here."
Under her gaze, Zouken grew serene. This endless journey, begun because of her, was fittingly ended by her.
"Will you carry on our wish?"
"I will." Justeaze nodded solemnly.
"Then I wish you success, Einzbern." His worm-like eyes closed, awaiting his end.
"Of course, my old ally. I will succeed… in saving humanity!"
A smile graced Justeaze's face, her words resolute.
The world shifted. Flowers turned to black mud, the sky cloaked in dark fog.
A black ocean, a red sky, polluted rain, and a pitch-black sun.
Cursed winds carried moans and whispers.
This place was a mythological hell.
Justeaze stood within it, a stark contrast.
Black mud surged toward her, engulfing Zouken in its path, tainting her pristine gown, enveloping her.
The mud merged with her body, blood-red patterns tracing across her alabaster skin, a bewitching blend of crimson and white.
"You're not Justeaze… Who are you?!"
Zouken's roar echoed from the mud. A man rose—Zouken as he was two hundred years ago.
He glared at the "saint," gripped by unease.
"I am Justeaze… You should know that, Makiri Zolgen."
"You…"
Blue mystic light flared from Zouken, the Matou—or rather, Makiri—family's water magecraft.
But…
The black earth opened its maw, swallowing him whole.
***
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