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Curled in a ball, Sekuhara Futaba lay on the shower floor like a helpless doll, staring blankly at the enamel, intricately washed by endless streams of hot water. Her gaze dimmed and narrowed to a single point, and her hearing, and subsequently her mind, were clouded by the rhythmic hum of the shower.
Having such a modern, high-tech bathroom was the only significant perk of the presidency—a tangible step forward compared to the standard dormitory toilet hole in the floor or a primitive washbasin. She could lie in the shower for an hour or two, and sometimes she did; the hot streams of water felt like the only source of warmth in this loathsome world, and the soothing noise smoothly pushed all thoughts from her head, allowing her to feel like a vegetable. In her position, this was a much calmer way of switching off consciousness than sleep, because sleep could turn into another nightmare at any moment.
Nevertheless, no matter how much time she spent under the water treatments, her body did not become any cleaner. Upon returning from the "election" ceremony, she felt so ill that she nearly vomited—but her organism coped and regained its balance. Then she helped it herself: two fingers in the mouth, and the memories of the old man's touches and whispers turned her insides out with such force that the stream nearly shattered the plumbing.
It was funny how the list of her ill-wishers had expanded over the last few months. First, it was the school principal, then the killer teacher, then a demonic spawn, and after that, an unknown organization that included half of the teaching staff. Now, it turned out that her enemy was none other than Sakuromoriya herself. In other words, the spiral of life had reached a new level of quality. Previously, the circle of enemies had been limited to Ikimasovo—her home village—and its surrounding territories, and it seemed the ceiling had been reached; there was nowhere left to scale it. But the current situation was far from the limit. Even excluding Levisia, Alidum, and other god-knows-who aggrieved heirs, Sakuromoriya herself had many enemies, each dreaming of biting off as fat a piece of her as possible, or better yet, crushing her to dust. The pointed-eared degenerate said that her assessment of the political situation in Lafrenia was excellent, despite the painted picture being extremely pessimistic. And if the old man, whose departure to the other world half the continent was waiting for, had indeed spawned another claimant offspring, then it boded nothing good for you. How many millions of people did she need to destroy to find peace? She had only struck down Carvia, and even then, only by accident. Had the difficulty curve spiked too sharply?
She wished she could solve all this more simply and quickly. But neither a blade to the belly nor a katana to the neck brought results. It wasn't a fear of pain that hindered her, nor a will to live, but it was as if the joint of the limb holding the weapon at that moment physically refused to bend.
The looks from her classmates—some obsequious, some hateful, some pitying—would have been a separate pleasure if she had any moral strength left for their perception. Lacking such, she left each of their opinions to their own conscience. The "payback" from the collective for Carvia's death, which she had expected back in the spring, was late, but it still made itself felt tenfold. The only way not to fall into despair was the same and only working scheme used over the last few years—to close her heart and soul from external influence. It was pointless anyway. You just wanted to do the minimum that was in your power to help this collective, which you, for the most part, didn't give a damn about. Just to make your modest contribution to saving everyone from a universal threat. Just to provide an impulse to some ideas that would prevent such things in the future. You hadn't even planned to win—it was enough to divert some votes away from the completely marginal candidates. At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do, but it turned out to be just another mistake.
It was surprising, funny, and ironic that of all the people, the only one who didn't evoke existential dread was probably the principal. Life had tried to show her through every possible circumstance that she was not a corrupt shapeshifter, but an incompetent little fool. Even in these expectations, life brought disappointment. But at least she behaved toward her student as if nothing had happened—and for that, she was grateful. It was unknown how much the principal knew; Fut herself never brought up the topic of what happened to her, believing it was for the best—it wasn't in her nature to rub salt in someone else's wound or demand gratitude for anything. And most likely, the principal hated her with all her soul for so brazenly intruding into her life, she just didn't show it externally. So be it.
At least these enemies were visible and understandable, but how many more could be hiding in the shadows? Behind the madness of the senile king, there were surely certain unknown figures, and if they could shift his mental state so easily, they were capable of anything. Was it highly probable that the old man possessed vast knowledge in the fields of witchcraft and theology, studied Carvia's theory thoroughly to a level matching her own, and reached a knowledge-backed conclusion that the migration of souls exists and that the theory is functional and worth implementing through torture and murder? Most likely not.
But if all of this suddenly turned out to be true, including his wailing about how their souls were now inseparable, then... it wouldn't be that bad. Because it would mean that it's enough for his wife to depart for hell to take him along with her.
Ment
Ple-Sen
