The next morning, Hellmouth is just another line on the notification log.
[RECENT CLEARS]
Hellmouth Station – Standard – 0 Deaths – Time: 12:47
Party MVP: Rin Shirosaki
My name doesn't show up where anyone can see it.
That's fine. That's the point.
At school, the Rank Board glows over the main courtyard like a shrine.
Big holographic slab, all blues and neon whites, constantly scrolling names and stats. People stand around staring up at it the way old religions used to stare at statues.
Rin's name is still high up in the B-rank cluster. There's a little golden crown icon next to her Hellmouth clear: new personal best, first-party no-death.
She pretends not to care, leaning against a pillar with her hands in her pockets, but her eyes keep flicking up.
Mine is lower, in the forgettable mid-ranks. C-something. Average stats, decent number of clears, nothing flashy.
If anyone tried to guess how many times I've died looking at that, they'd maybe say… twenty?
Thirty?
Not over a hundred.
"Yo, you see?" Kenta elbows me, pointing up. "Rin's gonna hit A-rank by winter if she keeps farming like this."
"Yeah," I say. "Nightmare."
He snorts. "You just mad 'cause you gotta keep up."
I look at my own name. I don't feel mad.
I feel… insulated.
The Rank Board is a lie everyone agrees to believe. You can lose half your lives to one stupid mistake, and as long as your HP bar and level look pretty, nobody knows how close you really are to disappearing.
"Hey, check this." Another guy waves his phone. "New stream clip. Some dude in District 3 jumped off the tower naked fifty times in a row. Chat's calling it an 'art piece'."
Kenta barks a laugh, leaning over the screen. "What rank did he end up?"
"Still C. Lives to burn, man."
"Lucky bastard."
I tune them out.
There's a smaller section of the board, down near the bottom, that doesn't get much attention. System Notices. Urban myth stuff. Nobody reads it unless they're bored.
Today, there's a new line:
[UNCONFIRMED REPORTS: ZERO COUNTER SIGHTINGS]
Please report suspected HUD malfunction to your local System Terminal.
Someone has doodled a smiley face over it with a laser pointer. Someone else has drawn a little ghost icon.
"Zero counter," Kenta reads aloud, snickering. "Bro, people still pushing that horror story?"
"Gotta scare the kids somehow," Mori says. He's here without his healer robes now, just in school uniform and heavy-lidded eyes. He looks like he hasn't slept. "Can't all be anime and loot boxes."
"Yeah but 'hit zero and you're gone for real'?" Kenta says. "Come on. If that was real, we'd have heard about it."
"We have heard about it," Mori points out. "That's literally what rumours are."
"Urban legends," Kenta says, dismissive. "Statistically, nobody hits zero. The System wouldn't let you get that low without a warning. Right, Kai?"
My chest feels tight.
"I don't know," I say. "I've never tried."
"Liar," he says, but it's friendly. "You're the one who used to treat your lives like coupons."
Past tense.
I can feel Rin watching us from her pillar. When I glance over, she looks away, like she wasn't.
Classes are background noise.
I sit through math, history, System Studies 101, all the while with ghost flashes of Hellmouth overlaying the teacher's face.
Third period, I catch myself timing his hand movements with the chalk, predicting the exact moment he drops a piece.
My focus stat must be ridiculous now.
By afternoon, my head is pounding.
I skip the cafeteria and head up to the roof, lie down on the warm concrete, and stare at the washed-out sky.
At some point, I fall asleep.
The dreams are teeth and fire and station clocks.
Dozens of versions of me die in quick succession: throat torn, back broken on the tracks, burning alive in the pit. Each time, just before the blue light takes me, I see the HUD flash:
Lives remaining: 12
Lives remaining: 7
Lives remaining: 3
They all roll down like my phone battery used to on bad days.
Then one more death. Same crunch, same burn.
The HUD appears.
Lives remaining: 0
Everything goes black.
I jerk awake with a strangled noise.
The sky hasn't changed much, but my shirt is damp with sweat. My heart is jackhammering against my ribs.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the lingering images away.
The System is supposed to blur death. Smear the trauma into a vague smear of "ouch, lesson learned" so people don't break. That's the entire point.
For me, the smear's gone. All the edges are back.
I drag a hand over my face and laugh once, a dry, humourless sound.
"Congrats, Kai," I mutter. "You finally unlocked the PTSD patch."
The door to the roof creaks. I don't move.
Footsteps cross the concrete.
Rin's voice: "You're skipping lunch? That's new."
I open one eye. She's standing over me, tie loose, blazer slung over one shoulder.
"What, you stalking my schedule now?" I ask.
She nudges my leg with her shoe. "Saw you bolt after second period. Thought you might've found a secret dungeon entrance up here without me."
"Sorry to disappoint," I say. "Just migraines and an existential crisis."
"Fun." She sits down beside me, not asking permission. "You alright?"
"No," I say. "But that's normal."
She huffs. "You've been off since Hellmouth. Not just 'I hate dying' off. 'I'm doing calculus in my sleep' off."
"Is that a complaint?" I ask. "We got a no-death clear."
"It's a question," she says. "If you're grinding somewhere without me, I'm gonna be offended."
"Relax," I say. "I'd never cheat on Hellmouth with another dungeon."
She snorts. For a second, her shoulder brushes mine. Warm. Solid.
Then the bell rings, shrill and stupid.
Rin gets to her feet in one easy motion. "Come on, corpse boy. System Studies is going to be insufferable if you're not there to make faces at the teacher behind his back."
"Truly, my most important role," I say.
As we head for the stairs, I glance at the sky.
For a flicker, pale text ghosts across my vision, too quick to read. A hint of brackets, the suggestion of a number.
Then it's gone.
My headache spikes.