[ ... She wants to listen, but life is not written like a storybook.
This repeats and it repeats, much like the trials she doesn't remember, and the question must be asked at trial's end. Death weighs heavy and the number she has been killed by Chang Geng is over three digits, four, maybe five. Her own death at his hands are almost equal. Slowly, she forgets that. Every time she kills Chang Geng becomes new.
There is an anomaly, somewhere in these cycles, he's able to tell her what he wanted to tell her. Chang Geng won the race against refraction, at least once in all of this madness.
"Meeting you, being with you—it is the Prism's only blessing. Jiuqing."
Such beautiful words and yet she's there, covered from head to toe in so much blood. It congeals, heavy like tar, and turns black in color. Her wounds, too, are too many to count. She barely feels that she's here and every movement hurts. How did she become this? She knew many cycles ago, but now she finds herself appalled as she's dressed in her forgotten sins. Yet, these words, maybe it is a light in this darkness. Maybe it can comfort her through this unending pain. But she would forget this moment, too.
With the number increasing, every cycle is new, until the question returns one last time. Like clockwork, all the memories of this hardship floods into her. Darkness consumes what she can see of her stained hands.
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This repeats and it repeats, much like the trials she doesn't remember, and the question must be asked at trial's end. Death weighs heavy and the number she has been killed by Chang Geng is over three digits, four, maybe five. Her own death at his hands are almost equal. Slowly, she forgets that. Every time she kills Chang Geng becomes new.
There is an anomaly, somewhere in these cycles, he's able to tell her what he wanted to tell her. Chang Geng won the race against refraction, at least once in all of this madness.
"Meeting you, being with you—it is the Prism's only blessing. Jiuqing."
Such beautiful words and yet she's there, covered from head to toe in so much blood. It congeals, heavy like tar, and turns black in color. Her wounds, too, are too many to count. She barely feels that she's here and every movement hurts. How did she become this? She knew many cycles ago, but now she finds herself appalled as she's dressed in her forgotten sins. Yet, these words, maybe it is a light in this darkness. Maybe it can comfort her through this unending pain. But she would forget this moment, too.
With the number increasing, every cycle is new, until the question returns one last time. Like clockwork, all the memories of this hardship floods into her. Darkness consumes what she can see of her stained hands.
Was it worth it...?
Why live to only suffer? ]