Lev's voice slithered out of the ceiling speakers with an artificial steadiness that made Yūto's skin crawl before the actual words even reached him.
"All able-bodied personnel, proceed to immediate rescue operations. Multiple explosions detected within the Rayshift Control Room and Other Halls in three intersections nearby the Power Supply Area. Medical staff, mobilize to triage points. Estimated Clock Tower assistance: eighteen hours."
Romani stiffened mid-stride. The half-eaten cream puff rolled off the table and hit the floor with a soft thud. For one suspended heartbeat, the room felt utterly still.
Then Romani moved.
He shot upright with an urgency that dissolved his usual floppy, good-natured demeanor. The doctor surged toward the door—coat half-on, hair still messy, the faint glow of the tablet screen behind him showing Magi☆Mari frozen mid-pose.
"Damn it—an explosion? No, more than one…!" he muttered, fingers trembling as he fumbled for his comms badge. "I need to check the control chamber—The Director, The Director should be—!"
But he stopped.
Not because of the alarm.
Not because of duty.
But because Yūto had not followed.
Yūto Kido stood rooted where he had been a second ago—shoulders locked, hands clenched, eyes wide but unfocused. His face had drained to a pallid shade that Romani recognized only from patients in the middle of panic attacks.
"Yūto?" Romani softened immediately, stepping toward him. "Hey—hey, look at me. Are you hurt? Dizzy? What's wrong?"
Yūto blinked. Once.
Twice.
The announcement kept looping in his mind, but it wasn't the content—it was the voice.
Lev Lainur.
That gentle, polished tone.
Behind it, the thing Yūto had felt earlier.
And again, just hearing it, the memory returned:
A heat that wasn't heat.
The sensation of a body burning from the inside out.
Scorching temperature.
Skin blistering.
Bone cracking.
A hatred so deep it felt like molten iron poured directly onto his soul.
His stomach lurched. His fingers trembled violently enough that Romani reached forward, afraid he might actually collapse.
"Doctor…" Yūto finally whispered—breath caught halfway in his throat, voice fragile as thin glass. "Please… be careful around the Head of HR Department."
Romani frowned. Not in dismissal—never that. But in the wary, perceptive way of a man who understood far more than he ever admitted.
"Yūto," he said softly, "why would you—"
"I can't explain it," Yūto cut him off, voice still shaking. "I just… I just know. Something about him… it's wrong. It feels—"Words died in his throat, because none of them could capture the sensation of standing before a smiling man whose soul felt like a smoldering execution pit.
Romani's eyes deepened—not alarm, but recognition.
He didn't understand the reason, but he understood the fear.
"Alright," Romani said, gripping Yūto's shoulder reassuringly. "I'll be careful. I promise."
Yūto exhaled shakily.
Romani stepped back. The emergency calls for his immediate response as a leader.
"I need to go. But listen—head to the Rayshift Room. There may be survivors. Mash might still be—"
He didn't finish.
He didn't need to.
Yūto nodded, steeling himself as much as he could.
"You too, Doctor," he said quietly. "Please stay safe."
They dashed in opposite directions.
Romani sprinted down the corridor toward the main facility wing.
Yūto turned toward the other way—and ran.
---------
The closer he drew to the Rayshift Room`s nearest wing, the thicker the air became.
Not smoke.
Not dust.
Not heat.
'Emotion.'
An Overwhelming and crushing waves of it—raw and unfiltered. The world seemed to tilt under his feet as the first screams rippled through his senses. Not audible ones; these sounds came from somewhere deeper, somewhere that pressed against the inside of his ribs like hands clawing for escape.
Like a tune of a discordant choir, singing the etude of death to his ears loudly, blaring their unholy profanities to shake his soul.
[Fear] hit him first.
A choking rope tightening around his throat.
Then, another, one that tightly bound his limbs to immobility, with weight that are dragging him down—down—down—As though someone had tied cinder blocks to his ankles and pushed him into a bottomless ocean trench. His breath stuttered. His hands clawed instinctively at his neck, as if removing something physically there. But, the struggle was useless.
He stumbled into the ruined hall, knees weak, gasping for air.
The blast had torn through the facility like a merciless blade. The door was blasted open, barely hanging on. Panels were shredded. Glass lay in glittering heaps. Debris and the stench of burning flesh. Blood smeared the white floor like strokes on a broken canvas.
And everywhere—on the ground, under debris, against the walls—were Master candidates.
Some unconscious.
Some moaning weakly.
Some… not moving at all.
But their emotions—those who still lived—crashed over him violently like an unseen tidal wave.
[Despair].
Cold.
So bitterly cold it seeped into his bones.
His lungs felt waterlogged, every inhale like swallowing freezing, liquid ice. His chest burned—not from heat, but from the suffocating, numbing chill of drowning.
A weight pressed on him, like invisible arms dragging him into the dark. The desperation. The grim acceptance. The helpless agony of people who knew they were dying and could do nothing to stop it.
Yūto staggered, catching himself on the upright debris.
Focus.
Focus.
Focus.
He desperately dragged air back into his lungs, fighting the tide of emotions crushing him under their collective misery. But the fumes and the smoke made him cough, feeling the burning sensation on his lungs.
He forced his gaze forward, looking for someone he couldn`t forget—because something pale, something familiar, caught his eye.
Pink.
A small patch of pastel hair lying amid the rubble.
"Mash…?"
He moved.
He didn't remember deciding to.
His legs simply carried him forward, breath shallow, heart pounding.
And then he saw her.
Mash Kyrielight lay beneath a collapsed ring, the massive steel debris pinning her lower body. Dust coated her uniform. Blood seeped near her torso, lower body crushed beneath the huge chunk of fallen metal. Her face—pale, unfocused—turned slightly at the sound of his footsteps.
"Sen…pai…?" Her voice was weak, frayed at the edges.
Yūto dropped beside her.
Fear and despair weren't just flowing through the room—they poured directly from her.
Not frantic.
Not panicked.
But a cold, quiet resignation.
Hopelessness.
Acceptance.
As though she had already accepted that her life ended here.
"No—no, no, no, don't close your eyes." Yūto's voice cracked. His hands pressed against the debris, instinctively trying to lift it. The metal burned him immediately—searing heat biting into his palms as though the rubble itself rejected the attempt to move it.
"Don't," Mash whispered, forcing a fragile breath. "Senpai, you need… to run. This place isn't safe. You should… save yourself…"
Save himself.
Leave her.
---------
There was a time—long before Chaldea, long before the idea of magic and supernatural, long before the idea of being a "Master" ever clawed at the edge of his world—when Yūto Kido made himself a promise.
A promise carved out of shame. A promise sculpted by self-disgust. A promise born the day he learned what it truly meant to be helpless.
Back then, he had been a boy trying to believe in himself. Trying to be kind. Trying to be good.
Back then, he had trusted people he shouldn't have. Loved people who didn't look back. Confided in those who shattered him for the thrill of it.
His brothers. His friend. The girl he liked—who had smiled at him like he mattered, only to be driven away later, because he "had nothing to do with her", and "just lived in the same house".
All of those things happened to him, and broke his heart bit by bit.
The envy towards his brothers.
The shame over the scrutiny of others.
The cold words from someone he thought he knew.
He should`ve spoken his thoughts, clarified his words, and expressed his feelings more.
Yet he had done nothing. He had said nothing. He... watched himself bend until he cracked.
What remained afterward was not a boy.
It was a creature built from self-reproach.
You should have foughtback. You should have spokenup. You should have defendedher. You should have beenstronger. You should have been someone worthliking back.
And because he didn't—because he failed— He decided something:
'I won't feel this again.' 'I won't want anything.' 'If I never expect to be saved, I can't be disappointed.' 'If I hate myself first, no one else can hurt me.' 'If I shrink myself down to nothing, I can't break.'
'If I stopped thinking about love, then I won`t feel bad that I am the only one who can`t get laid on this house.'
So he built a cage around his heart. He carved rules into his skin like commandments.
Don't hope. Don't ask. Don't burden. Don't let them see you want anything.
Become small. Become harmless. Become invisible.
If he could disappear into the corners of every room— If he could swallow every word before it left his throat— If he could just stay silent long enough—
Then no one would have the chance to betray him again, he wouldn`t have the chance to get betrayed again.
He made peace with being a shadow. With being overlooked. With being the last one picked, the last one considered, the last one believed in.
He convinced himself this was safety.
Cowardice disguised as self-preservation. Acquiescence masquerading as peace. Self-hatred masquerading as maturity.
So when Mash told him to leave her— To save himself— To run—
Something in him snapped.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't panic. It was rage.
Not at Mash. Never at Mash.
But at himself.
At the part of him that whispered, You should listen. You should run. You should let her die so you can keep breathing.
The part of him that had survived by discarding 'connection'. The part that flinched from conflict, the one who never fought back. The part that believed he was worthless, that he couldn`t find someone who will care for him as himself.
The part of him that looked at Mash's quiet, resigned expression— her acceptance of death— and said, You can't help her anyway.
That voice… That voice, he wanted to strangle with his bare hands.
Because looking at Mash—
At the girl who tried to defend him earlier, even at expense of angering the Director. At the girl who smiled at him with genuine warmth, giving him explanations whenever he asked a question. At the girl who deserved more than a lonely, quiet death beneath a collapsing ceiling—
He felt something he hadn't felt in years:
I don't want to be a coward anymore.
Not again. Not here. Not when someone kind was within his reach.
His hatred twisted inward, turning sharp and molten.
He hated himself for being ignorant.
For being slow. For being someone who chased attention yet recoiled from it. For being a contradictory mess of fear and yearning. For being a person who could never reconcile what he wanted with what he thought he deserved.
For being a creature who would flee to save his own skin.
He remembered burying that part of him once before. He remembered swearing he would rather die than let himself become the kind of person who abandons someone who needs help.
Mash's hopelessness was a knife in his lungs. Her acceptance was a cold hand closing around his heart, tightening, pressuring it to burst.
And the voice inside him—the one built from years of shame, fear, and resignation—whispered:
You can still run. No one will blame you. You've always been good at leaving things behind.
Yūto`s hand moved, it reached and clenched Mash's trembling hand.
"No."
The word wasn't spoken aloud. It didn't need to be.
No. I'm not running. Not this time. Not from her. Not from myself.
He felt anger burn through the layers of numbness he had lived in. An anger deeper than anything he held for his brothers, deeper than the bitterness of lost friendship, deeper than the scars of abandonment.
Rage at the idea of repeating the same mistakes. Rage at the thought of letting someone kind die while he watched, of stooping lower than he thought he could be. Rage at the thought of being powerless again.
If he fled— If he turned his back—
He would lose whatever humanity he had clawed together after years of self-destruction.
Mash deserved more. Mash deserved warmth. Mash deserved someone who would not run.
As her 'senpai'.
The call made him realize what he should do, and choice he must pick.
If the world demanded he burn for it— Then he would burn. Gladly.
This time— He would fight his fear.
This time— He would reach out.
This time— He would save someone.
Even if it killed him.
-------
"You call me your senpai," he whispered, raw emotion leaking into every word. "Even though you've been here longer. Even though you know more than me, a random bum who accidentally came to this world. You still chose to call me that."
Mash blinked slowly, eyes dim.
"So why," Yūto's voice broke, "do you think I'd leave you?"
Her breath hitched—not from pain, but from surprise.
"I don't care how hopeless this looks," he said, voice cracking. "So… please. Let me try. Let me help you. Even if I'm weak. Even if I'm terrified. Don't ask me to run away."
Mash's eyes widened—just slightly.
Her emotions shifted.
Not acceptance.
Not despair.
But something warmer.
A spark.
A fragile, trembling pulse of determination.
And beneath it—trust.
"…Senpai…" she breathed.
Yūto exhaled shakily, relief mingling with dread.
But neither of them saw it.
Neither of them can move against it.
The ceiling groaned.
Something heavy shifted above them.
Mash's eyes widened in alarm.
Yūto looked up—
—and the world collapsed.
A deafening crash.
Shattered light.
Dust exploding outward like a dying star.
He felt weight slam into him. He felt the ground rip away. He felt—
Nothing.
-------
When he awoke, it was not to metal.
Not to alarms.
Not to the sterile coldness of Chaldea.
But heat.
A suffocating, blistering heat that pressed against his face like an open furnace.
Yūto groaned weakly, pushing himself up with trembling arms.
His vision blurred, then steadied.
Where the white halls of Chaldea should have been was a street—cracked asphalt, burning wooden beams, charred structures collapsing under orange flames. The sky was painted with smoke. The scent of sulfur and scorched earth stung his throat.
The sound of distant roars and screaming echoed faintly in the distance.
Fuyuki.
He didn't understand how he knew the name—only that Mash had mentioned it during orientation. But there was no confusion.
Only disorientation.
Only the heavy, lingering echo of emotions that no longer matched the world in front of him.
This place, it feels more suffocating than the Rayshift Room.
It was overflowing, with madness, of negative emotions, it felt painful, to feel everything like this, his ability of sensing emotions as tangible experience going haywire due to the intensity of the raw emotions here.
He wanted it to stop, but, somehow, he remembered something other than the nightmares he had from the past.
It urged him to stand, to walk, to search.
He slowly rose to his feet, heat wavering in mirage-like ripples across his field of view.
Mash.
Romani.
Chaldea.
Where—Where were they?
Yūto swallowed, staring at the burning horizon.
His heart hammered painfully against his ribs.
But beneath the fear, beneath the shock, beneath the lingering choke of empathic agony—
Something else stirred.
A thin, fragile thread of resolve.
Because someone had trusted him.
Someone had called him senpai.
Someone had believed he could help.
Yūto Kido tightened his trembling fists.
"I'm still alive," he murmured, voice hoarse. "So I… I won't waste it."
The flames crackled around him, painting his shadow long against the ruined street.
Whatever had happened—whatever this place was—He would keep moving.
Even if the world itself had turned to fire.