The Judgment Hall was silent but for the echo of footsteps.
Frisk stood at the far end, blade in hand, the light of countless deaths gleaming in his soulless gaze. Chara's voice, once torn with grief, was now a cold, steady presence.
"Let's finish this."
Sans appeared in his usual spot, hands in his pockets. But his grin was tight. Tired. Older than time itself.
"welp. here we are again."
He raised his gaze.
"kid, you've died 30 times now. figured you'd take the hint."
The room exploded into motion.
Bones. Blasters. Blue magic fields.
Frisk died.
Death 31. Death 32. Death 33.
Each time Sans spoke.
"60 times, huh. you're persistent, i'll give you that."
Another death.
"90. guess pain don't stick like it used to."
The fights blurred. Frisk's bones shattered. Blood painted the floor.
150. 180.
Chara's voice grew colder, sharper. She counted along.
"Two hundred, Frisk. Two hundred!"
But Frisk kept moving.
Deaths 210 to 270.
Sans staggered.
"…three hundred, kid. you're breaking records."
Frisk's body cracked, broke, was torn apart, atomized by blasters, snapped by bones. Reset. Again.
Chara stopped flinching.
She started smiling.
Deaths 330. 360. 390.
Sans' attacks blurred together. His eyelights flickered.
"four twenty. i gotta admit. never thought you'd get this far."
Frisk coughed blood. Reset.
"four fifty."
Sans' stance faltered.
Frisk lunged.
Death.
At Death 500, the Judgment Hall was a graveyard of silence. Sans lowered his hood.
"…five hundred, huh? man. that's a new one."
He coughed, swayed.
"no more shortcuts. guess it's time i see this through."
One final gauntlet.
Frisk danced through death.
Sans grew slower.
Bones cracked.
Blasters missed.
Final blow.
Frisk's knife pierced Sans' chest.
He gasped.
"…welp. guess that's it."
A weak chuckle.
"heh. you'll have a bad time. you always do."
His form turned to dust.
Frisk stepped forward.
The room emptied.
Chara was quiet.
For a long, long time.
Then:
"Good job."
The save point shimmered.
The world waited.
—
The rain had never let up.
Dark clouds clung to the sky like bruises, and the steady drum of water on stone filled the quiet space atop Mt. Ebott. The girl sat across from the man, her small figure hunched near the flickering fire. Her book lay in her lap, soaked pages clinging together where her trembling hands held it tight.
The man's voice, worn and heavy, had finally gone quiet after recounting what Frisk had done.
Five hundred deaths.
Five hundred desperate, stubborn returns.
And a single, final fall.
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
The girl's face was pale, her hair clinging to her skin. Her wide eyes stared into the fire, reflecting the flickering embers. She didn't cry—but something worse weighed in her gaze. An emptiness. A horror too deep for tears.
Slowly, she raised her hands.
A single, shaking gesture.
Why?
The man sighed. A long, tired sound that disappeared into the rain.
"Because some stories... refuse to end."
His voice was barely a whisper.
"And sometimes... mercy dies before the body does."
The girl clutched her book tighter, her shoulders rising. Another gesture.
Did it hurt?
Her fingers tapped against her chest, a sign they'd shared.
The man's gaze dropped to the fire.
"Every time."
Another long pause.
She flipped open her book, finding a page ruined by water. Her thumb moved in small, broken circles over a faded drawing. Then, slowly, she raised her hands again.
Is there any hope?
Her eyes didn't meet his. She didn't seem to expect an answer.
The man watched her carefully. Something in his expression cracked. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"Even in stories like these... there's always a spark left. Somewhere."
She blinked. Her hand twitched as if wanting to ask more, but faltered halfway. The silence spoke for her.
The rain whispered against the mountain.
After a while, the girl closed her book, holding it tight to her chest. Her hands no longer trembled. She wasn't okay—but she understood now. The depth of this tale. The weight of it. The fire's light softened against the gloom, and the girl gave a slow, deliberate nod.
It wasn't over.
And she would listen to the rest.
"Come on, kid… Let's finish this."
The fire cracked.
The rain fell.
The story moved on.