Perspective of "Sephiroth"
Beep...
Beep...
Beep...
Beep...
The heart monitor pulses rhythmically, synchronized with my beating heart. It's proof I'm still alive—sometimes reassuring, cutting through the white noise of the hospital ward. I have the option to turn it off, and on regular days, I usually do. But today isn't a regular day.
My favorite game, Yggdrasil, shuts down at midnight tonight. It's 10:00 PM now, and I haven't had the chance to play today—tests, physical therapy appointments, the usual hospital routine consumed my time. You might wonder why I'm sharing this. Well, I have Harlequin Ichthyosis, a rare genetic condition that causes my skin to form thick, diamond-shaped plates separated by deep cracks. My body is essentially wrapped in armor-like skin that splits and bleeds constantly, requiring me to spend hours each day in medicated baths and applying ointments.
But that's not the whole story. I also have Angelman Syndrome, which affects my speech, balance, and causes frequent seizures along with inappropriate laughter at the worst possible moments. And if that cocktail of misery wasn't enough, I was diagnosed with schizophrenia three years ago. The voices, the hallucinations, the paranoid episodes—they make distinguishing reality from delusion a daily battle.
So, all around? I'm completely and utterly fucked.
The Harlequin Ichthyosis is genetic—a one-in-300,000 lottery ticket to hell that I won at birth. The Angelman Syndrome? Another genetic jackpot. But the schizophrenia? That one just decided to crash the party uninvited. As I grew more isolated and bitter about my situation, no matter what treatments I tried or dreams I harbored, my body and mind remained hellbent on making existence a living nightmare.
At this point, they could tell me I have cancer and I'd probably just laugh—assuming it's not one of my episodes making me hear things. I live in Australia, where voluntary assisted dying is legal in most states. I'm twenty-six, my life expectancy significantly reduced, and I feel like my "life" was stolen before it even began. I don't see much left to live for.
My online friends are scattered worldwide—they have lives, families, jobs. Meeting them in person seems impossible when I can't even bathe myself without Katie Munro, the patient nurse, helping me through the agony. Even simple tasks risk tearing my skin further or triggering a seizure.
Yggdrasil was my only escape from this failing body and the constant chaos in my mind. Soon, it will be gone. In an hour and a half, the servers go offline, and my world will be stripped of everything I cherish most.
Earlier today, I requested voluntary assisted dying, scheduled for midnight. I can no longer endure the physical pain, the seizures, the voices telling me I'm worthless, the delusions that make me question every moment of perceived happiness. I finished the paperwork moments ago. When Katie left with my signed forms, sadness clouded her expression. We often exchanged small talk during my care routine, and I could tell she genuinely cared.
She never complained when helping me through the painful process of cleaning and treating my skin, seeming to find joy in our conversations despite my condition. I believe she doesn't want me to go through with this, but I hope she understands. She's witnessed my suffering firsthand—the screaming during skin treatments, the seizures, the times I've begged the voices to stop... Damn it, now I feel guilty.
"I hope your date goes well tonight, Katie. I hope Austin Long isn't a dickhead and treats you right—it's the least you deserve for having such a kind heart."
I grabbed my headset from the stand beside my hospital bed, pressed the power button, and carefully positioned it over my head, being mindful of the sensitive patches of skin. With trembling hands—whether from pain or anticipation, I couldn't tell—I initiated the boot sequence. The clock in the upper left corner read 11:45.
Come on, you piece of shit. Boot faster.
---
[Boot Sequence Initiated]
Booting up...
Boot up: Successful.
Loading Last Saved Location: Nazarick—9th Floor: Royal Suite.
START
---
Third Person POV
"Hey, it's been a really long time, huh, Momonga?" HeroHero says wearily to his friend. Exhaustion permeates his low, monotone voice, mirroring his avatar—a purple slime melting into his chair and pooling onto the table. Momonga, in contrast, appears as a seven-foot undead mage draped in magical robes with ornate shoulder guards.
"I didn't expect you to show up, HeroHero," Momonga replies, surprised to see his friend after such a long absence. "It's been about... two years, right?"
"Has it been that long?" HeroHero asks, genuinely surprised before sighing heavily. "This is bad... I've been working so much overtime lately that my sense of time is completely warped."
"Isn't that a pretty bad sign?" Momonga asks, concern evident in his voice. HeroHero doesn't acknowledge his friend's worry, instead leaning back and surveying their surroundings before speaking again.
"My body... it's completely worn out." The confession surprises the undead player, deepening his concerns about his friend's health. HeroHero seems to realize the somber mood he's created and sits up straighter. "I'm sorry... I didn't come here just to complain."
"Please don't worry about it. It's fine," Momonga says, flashing a close-eyed smile emote.
"Oh, I have to go soon. I'm way too sleepy," the melting slime player says tiredly, opening the menu to log off.
"Oh... okay. Rest well!" Momonga responds with a smiling emote.
"I'm really sorry about this," HeroHero says quickly, "but I'm surprised the Great Tomb of Nazarick is still here. You must have been maintaining it as guild leader, huh?"
"Well, Nazarick was the base we all built together. Of course I'd keep it maintained. But I wasn't alone—Sephiroth helped too."
"I haven't seen him in ages either... how's he been?"
"He's... well, he's Sephiroth. Still dramatic, still brilliant, still completely unhinged. He logs on late most nights, usually with some philosophical rant about the nature of existence or a detailed battle strategy that puts military generals to shame."
"Haha, that sounds like him. Well... thank you for all your hard work, and tell Sephiroth the same when you see him, eh?"
"Definitely... though knowing him, he'll probably launch into a monologue about the futility of gratitude in a dying world."
"See you IRL."
HEROHERO HAS LOGGED OFF
"...Hey... it's the last day the servers will run. Why don't you stay until the end?" Momonga says sadly to the empty space where his friend vanished. He turns in his seat with a heavy sigh. "No... I'm just happy he came at all today. 'See you IRL,' huh?"
BANG!
"YOU'VE GOTTA BE KIDDING ME!" Momonga yells, overwhelmed by sadness, hurt, and exhaustion.
He keeps his fist pressed against the desk, which takes no damage from his outburst.
"Such passionate despair, my skeletal friend. How beautifully tragic." A smooth, cultured voice cuts through his brooding like silk over steel.
SEPHIROTH HAS LOGGED ON
The skeletal mage jolts upright and looks toward the meeting room doorway to see an imposing figure—a tall, ethereal warrior with flowing silver hair that catches the light like liquid mercury. His avatar wears black leather and steel, a massive katana strapped across his back, and a single black wing extending from his left shoulder. But it's the piercing green eyes that seem to look right through Momonga's soul.
"Sephiroth?!"
"In all my glory," Sephiroth says with theatrical flair, performing an elaborate bow with one hand across his chest. "Did you miss me, old friend? Of course you did—who wouldn't miss perfection incarnate?"
"There's that ego I've been missing..." Momonga mutters, though his grin betrays his genuine happiness.
"Ego? No, no, Momonga. What I possess is simply an accurate assessment of my capabilities." Sephiroth straightens, his silver hair flowing dramatically as he moves. "Though I must say, your little tantrum just now was quite impressive. Very 'tragic hero contemplating mortality.' I give it an eight out of ten—points deducted for lack of proper soliloquy."
Momonga rolls his eyes, but he can't help smiling. Even after all this time, Sephiroth's pretentious theatricality never failed to amuse him. Standing, he walks toward the golden staff at the room's center while Sephiroth continues speaking.
"I was observing from the shadows—yes, I have that ability, don't look so surprised—and I couldn't help but notice the melancholy atmosphere. Quite fitting for our final act, wouldn't you say?"
"Do you still remember what this is, Sephiroth?" Momonga asks, gesturing to the bejeweled staff.
"The Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown," Sephiroth replies, his voice taking on a reverent tone. "Forged from the tears of angels and the dreams of mortals—or was it just rare materials and excessive grinding? Memory tends to romanticize, doesn't it?" He approaches the staff with fluid grace. "I recall Wish III's domestic warfare over gathering those materials. His wife threatened to delete his character herself if he spent one more night farming for reagents."
Momonga chuckles. "Yeah, those were simpler times..."
"Simpler? Perhaps. But simplicity is the enemy of greatness, my friend. We've transcended those humble beginnings." Sephiroth's expression grows contemplative. "Though I confess, there's something poetic about ending where we began—in the throne room of our digital kingdom, watching the clock count down to oblivion."
"Speaking of which... shall we head to the throne room?"
"Lead the way, noble skeleton. Let us walk these halls one final time before they become nothing but memory and regret."
As they leave the council room for the hallways, Sephiroth's presence seems to command the very air around them. His movements are precise, calculated, almost dance-like.
"You know, Momonga, I've been thinking—a dangerous pastime, I admit—about the nature of endings. Is it truly an ending if we carry the memories forward? Or perhaps we're simply transitioning from one form of existence to another, like butterflies emerging from digital cocoons."
"That's... surprisingly philosophical, even for you," Momonga observes.
"Ah, but philosophy is the domain of those who have glimpsed the abyss and chosen to stare back. I've made that abyss my home." Sephiroth's laugh is both beautiful and slightly unnerving. "Besides, what is madness but clarity seen from a different angle?"
They both laugh—Momonga's genuine and warm, Sephiroth's layered with dark amusement. Their friendship had always been an unlikely one. Momonga, pragmatic and straightforward, balanced by Sephiroth's theatrical brilliance and barely-contained chaos. Despite Sephiroth being nearly a decade younger, he possessed a strategic mind that bordered on prophetic and a flair for the dramatic that could inspire or terrify depending on his mood.
Momonga was a traditional mage, methodical and powerful. Sephiroth, however, was a Dark Knight—a hybrid class that combined swordsmanship with destructive magic. His build focused on overwhelming offense and psychological warfare, with abilities that could demoralize enemies before the first blow was struck. In many ways, Sephiroth was the more dangerous of the two, his unpredictability making him a wild card in any encounter.
Walking down the hallways, they encountered a group of six maids and a butler. As they approached, the NPCs began to bow. Sephiroth's eyes lit up with amusement.
"Ah, Sebas and the Pleiades. Such devoted servants, bowing before their betters." Sephiroth's voice takes on a mock-regal tone. "Tell me, Momonga, shall we parade them through the halls? A final procession before the curtain falls?"
"Sure, it is the last day after all. Why not... but what was the command again?"
"'Follow,' you magnificent fool. Though I prefer to think of it as 'bear witness to our glory.'"
"Right, yes. Follow."
Sebas and the six maids rose from their bowing positions and began following the two players. Momonga fell silent, lost in thought, while Sephiroth gestured dramatically as he walked, his silver hair flowing behind him like liquid starlight.
"You know, I've always appreciated the aesthetic of servitude," Sephiroth muses. "Not the concept itself—slavery is beneath contempt—but the visual poetry of absolute loyalty freely given. These NPCs follow us not from fear or compulsion, but from programming so perfect it transcends mere code to become art."
"Didn't we have them guard the throne room originally?" Momonga asks, drawn from his thoughts.
"Indeed we did. But what good are guards when no enemy ever proved worthy of reaching our sanctum? Perhaps their true purpose was always to serve as witnesses to our greatness." Sephiroth's tone grows more serious. "Every throne room needs an audience, after all."
Before entering the large, cathedral-like throne room with banners of the other forty-two guild members hanging from the ceiling, Momonga asks a peculiar question.
"Isn't today your birthday, Sephiroth?"
Sephiroth pauses mid-stride, his theatrical demeanor flickering for just a moment. "Ah, you remembered. Yes, twenty-six years ago today, the world was blessed with my presence. How fitting that my birthday should coincide with the apocalypse—poetic, really."
"Happy birthday, Sephiroth."
"Thank you, old friend. Though I suspect this will be both my last and most memorable birthday celebration." His smile is both grateful and tinged with melancholy. "At least I'll go out as the birthday boy—there's something deliciously dramatic about that."
Entering the throne room, the duo separates from the maids, who position themselves to the side awaiting orders. Momonga approaches the throne where Albedo, the succubus, stands ready. He's about to sit but instead looks to Sephiroth.
"Albedo..." Sephiroth says, approaching her with fluid grace. He takes her hand and brings it to his lips in a courtly gesture, though she remains motionless. "Beautiful as the morning star, terrible as an army with banners. If only you could appreciate the poetry of your own existence."
"You've always been fascinated by her, haven't you?" Momonga observes.
"Fascinated? No, my friend. I am... appreciative. She represents perfection frozen in time—beauty without corruption, loyalty without question, love without condition. She is what we all aspire to be, yet can never achieve." His green eyes study her perfect features. "In a world of chaos and decay, she is the still point around which everything else turns."
"Hmm... How about I give you a birthday present?"
"A birthday present?" Sephiroth turns, one elegant eyebrow raised. "From you to me? How delightfully unexpected. Though I must warn you, my standards are impeccably high."
"I don't think the other members would mind if I do this, so... what the hell. Sephiroth, what if I made you guild leader?"
For perhaps the first time since Momonga had known him, Sephiroth was genuinely speechless. His green eyes widened, and his usual theatrical composure cracked like a mask.
"Guild leader?" he whispers, the words seeming foreign on his tongue. "You would... you would entrust Nazarick to me? This tomb we built with our blood, sweat, and countless sleepless nights?"
"Yes. If you'll accept it."
Sephiroth closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, tears shimmer like diamonds. "I... I accept. With all the gravitas and responsibility such a position demands." His voice drops to barely above a whisper. "Thank you, Momonga. This is... this is the greatest gift anyone has ever given me."
Momonga opens a menu tab and transfers the title to Sephiroth, then presents him with the staff before stepping aside.
"It's done. You are now guild leader of the Great Tomb of Nazarick!"
Sephiroth takes the staff with trembling hands, cradling it like a sacred relic. The weight of responsibility, even in a dying game, seems to settle on his shoulders.
"Then let me be worthy of this trust, even if only for these final minutes." He looks up at Momonga with something approaching reverence. "Thank you for believing in the madman with delusions of grandeur."
"I'm glad... I'm going to log off now. Let you enjoy your reign!"
"What is a throne without subjects to rule? What is a king without a kingdom to govern?"
"I don't know, Your Majesty, but I'm retiring! Try not to let the power go to your head!"
Sephiroth laughs—a sound like silver bells mixed with distant thunder. "Too late for that, I'm afraid. Goodbye, dear friend."
"See you around, Seph."
MOMONGA HAS LOGGED OFF
Holding the staff, Sephiroth takes a deep breath and approaches the throne with the reverence of a pilgrim approaching a shrine. He examines every detail—the intricate carvings, the embedded gems, the weight of history it represents.
So this is what power feels like. Not the hollow satisfaction I expected, but... responsibility. Heavy, crushing responsibility.
He allows the staff to float beside the throne as he sits, the weight of leadership settling on him like a crown of thorns. Looking out over the throne room, he feels a strange peace descend.
"I should probably give my first order as guild leader," he murmurs to himself, then raises his voice with theatrical authority. "Kneel."
On cue, the battle maids, head butler, and even Albedo drop to one knee, heads bowed in submission. The sight fills Sephiroth with a complex mixture of satisfaction and melancholy.
So this is what absolute power looks like. Beautiful and terrible in equal measure.
Curiosity strikes him, and he reaches toward Albedo, opening her character script—the code defining her behavior and dialogue.
After reading through her programming for several minutes, he begins to chuckle—a sound both amused and slightly mad.
"'Bitch,' really, Tabula? Such crude programming for such exquisite beauty." His fingers hover over the keyboard. "No, no, this won't do at all. A goddess deserves better scripting than this pedestrian drivel."
He deletes the offensive code and pauses, considering his options.
"What should I replace it with... Ah, yes. Perfect." He begins typing with deliberate care: "She is utterly devoted to Sephiroth, seeing in him the perfect being she has always sought. Her love is absolute, transcendent, and eternal."
He steps back, admiring his handiwork with the satisfaction of an artist completing a masterpiece.
"There. Much better. Though I suppose it matters little now..." His voice grows soft, and melancholy. "In a few minutes, even this perfect love will be nothing but deleted data."
Then he feels it—the familiar pinch in his arm from the real world, the injection beginning its work.
"Ah, there's my cue. Exit stage left, as they say." He looks around the throne room one final time, committing every detail to memory. "Katie, you beautiful, patient angel. Momonga, you magnificent bastard. All of you... thank you for making this brief existence worth living."
The countdown timer appears, ticking toward zero.
00:00:07
00:00:06
00:00:05
00:00:04
00:00:03
"What a perfect ending. The mad king dies with his kingdom, alone on his throne, master of nothing and everything." His laugh is both tragic and triumphant. "See you in whatever comes after, you beautiful, doomed world..."
00:00:01
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00:00:01
00:00:02
00:00:03
"What is in the name of all the gods...?!"