Chapter 162 — THE INSTINCT TO REJECT WEAKNESS

—The fight peaked with unimaginable severity.

The two men face each other, trading fists from straight on.

Hard bones batter into flesh, muscles bursting, blood dripping. There come the wails, the unpleasant heaving of frothy respiration, the wretchedness of the sloppy fistfight as it burns into the eyes of the observer.

Emilia: “...Subaru.”

Standing before the tomb's entrance, the onlooking Emilia puts her hand to her chest.

Her eyes host confusion, her fingers waver in search of something to cling to. The perpetually reliable presence at her chest and their warmth, aware as she is of its absence, still binds her heart.

Subaru had said things to her inside the tomb.

Subaru asserted that he loved her, cherished her, and so he believed in her.

Indeed, a part of her did feel saved by these words. But it also came with compounding anxiety.

Her true memories were being resurrected alongside the ticking of the seconds.

She had believed that false memories were where she began, and with that belief, reached this point. Once her beginnings, her trigger for getting this far, changed, just how would it change her?

Her truest feelings conflict with each other in argument, unease rooted deep within Emilia. Subaru had shouted that even if Emilia changes, his love for her will remain unchanged.

This boy who had hurt and suffered for her, and attempted to fight to the end for her—she had not a speck of doubt about his feelings. He had proved them continuously.

—What she can't trust is her own self.

She walked along a path which had its foundations set in an incorrect beginning, and although she thought she had the end of this road in sight, she stopped. She wondered whether she might be walking in the wrong direction, hesitating despite seeing the end.

Her feet have stopped moving.

Would she be permitted to start walking again?

Would the path she walks be a new road, or the same road she walks now?

Emilia: “—”

She wanders within the labyrinth of unanswerable, impenetrable questions.

Even now, unable to speak up, and aware that she lacks any right to stop them, Emilia watches the two men fight.

A scream, and to great heights, the blood spatters.

※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※

Cutting through the air, the swing of a fist.

Knuckles come looming for his face—at depressingly slow velocity.

“Tch!”

No need for an overblown dodge.

He tilts his head in the barest minimum, evading the fist without sustaining even a graze. His opponent's stance disintegrates due to that big swing, and there into the adversary's undefended stomach, he jabs his knee to gouge their bowels.

His knee feels their rib-bones and flimsy muscles, the attack transmitting to the depths of their gut. Their mouth, already multiple times subject to expelling fluids, vomits up blood unrelenting.

“Ggauh, aug,”

They hold their stomach, their movements faltering, their visage atrocious. He pounds his uplifted arms into their slouched back, following from his frontal attack to now scramble their innards from behind.

They had managed to withstand the kick, but they fail to endure the strike from behind and easily collapse. He kicks them to rotate their fallen body upwards, then follows up his attack by driving his toes into their left flank.

Their screams peal.

Their breathing heaves with vomit and blood.

His fists, his knee, his toes. With every strike the sensation of their skin, of their flesh paring away, rebounds to him.

Usually that would jubilate him, but presently he only felt incredible discomfort.

These actions repeated over and over and over and over—and what in the world was the point of it?

“Enough's goddamn 'nough, fuckin' give up already.”

He casts jeers on his coughing, unsightly opponent as they spit up blood.

He is failing to take their consciousness. He can strike their head, kick their stomach, but they quite detestably will not concede it.

Especially detestable, when is attempting to make them understand the disparity in strength between them.

Garfiel: “Yer sure a fuckin' brainless bastard, oi! Yer ain't got a hint ovv'er a chance'ev winnin'! Yer back's slouched! Yer swings're pointl'ssly big! Yer balance's wobblin' everywhere, 's a goddamn tragedy!”

Subaru: “...My bad.”

Garfiel: “Aaaugh, yer fuckin' shitpile! Do yer know what it fuckin' feels like t'have t'entertain this pointless, pighead'd game of yers? Fuckin' fuck off, fuck off.”

Garfiel spits his insults at Subaru, who attempts with laborious breaths to upright himself.

Subaru's hands contact the ground as he struggles to push himself up. Recipient to punches, his face is swollen, and his nosebleed coats the lower portion of his visage with red. Some of his teeth surely must be broken or missing. His guts, his ribs, wouldn't be strange for some of them to be busted.

With the violent pain ravaging his body, he should not be able to even remain conscious. And yet.

Garfiel: “What's th'damn point! Didn't yer challenge me 'cause yer thought yer had hopes'v winnin'! All yer fuckin' doin' is showin' off how goddamn ragged n' beaten yer are I can't even watch it! … Take a fuckin' nap!”

Subaru: “—Ghguh!”

Obstinacy, stubbornness, those words cannot describe the tenacity Garfiel senses as he once again brutalizes Subaru.

He sweeps Subaru's legs out from under him, drives his foot into Subaru's flank when he collapses. Blood spews from Subaru's mouth as Garfiel kicks his tumbling form skyward, then drives his elbow into his suspended frame to shunt him back to the ground.

He ricochets off the earth, the hard ground beating his body before he comes to lie spread-out on the floor.

His eyes peel wide, he exhales an airy breath, and this time for sure lies motionless—finally knocked him unconscious. Garfiel gives a long sigh.

Subaru: “Fuck're you, looking like it's, over...”

Garfiel: “—hk!”

Garfiel's shoulders heave with his ragged breaths, when the voice he hears from below prompts his eyes to shoot open in shock.

The man he surely had knocked unconscious somehow, wavering, manages to stand.

Garfiel: “Don't, goddamn joke...”

Subaru: “Yeah... this's, no joke here. With how beaten, up I am I... can't think of a... single, funny anecdote...”

Garfiel: “That ain't what I m—”

Subaru: “—Hhhah!”

Exhibiting a nightmarish doggedness, Subaru spits a sharp breath and swings his fist.

Naturally, no matter how desperate the punch is, from Garfiel's perspective it's equivalent to being assaulted by a child. His hand easily catches and diverts the oncoming fist, and as compensation he drives the heel of his palm into Subaru's guts.

The strike drills into a space between his organs, rippling to impact his internal fluids—his already- vacant stomach constricts, and up flows blood and yellowy bile.

Subaru: “Gugh, bhubh...”

Garfiel: “'S th'same thing no matter how many times yer try, how many fuckin' times do—”

Subaru holds his stomach and crumbles on the spot as Garfiel once again urges him to surrender. He cannot bear to watch the disgusting atrocity of it. Garfiel averts his gaze, clicking his tongue.

Garfiel: “—!”

And past his face roars Subaru's fist.

Garfiel: “Wh!?”

Subaru: “Garfiel, you fuck. Who gave you permission to just ditch me?”

Left arm forward, right arm back.

Seeing Subaru readied in combat stance, his will to fight not abolished in the least, Garfiel feels something near a shiver.

He doesn't consider Subaru a threat for even a moment.

Anyone could tell that Subaru was making empty threats, the strength gap between him and Garfiel too great for any amount of struggling to compensate.

He could keep sending Garfiel these reckless punches, but be it a thousand times or a million times, the ironclad strength gap meant Garfiel would simply dodge every attempt.

All of Subaru's struggling, every single moment of it, was futile.

No matter how many times Garfiel punched, kicked, threw him, no matter how much pain he sustained, his overstressed body would never touch Garfiel.

Garfiel: “Y'fucker, stop shittin' around!”

Subaru: “Haah?”

He was facing an opponent who could not win, but nevertheless lofted stubbornness alone as his weapon.

His spirit alone would not fold, his feelings alone would not falter. Perhaps that mentality ought to be called strength, a strength unbound by the flesh.

Seeing him stand up after falling again and again perhaps did jolt Garfiel's heart to some degree.

But, if he was hoping that this display would make Garfiel change his mind, that constituted an insult beyond parallel.

His spirit alone would not fold, would not bend. These concepts possessed what point, exactly?

Garfiel: “Do yer really fuckin' think that 'f yer keep bein' bullhead'd, even knowin' yer won't win, my amazin' self's eventually gonn'er stay my fists? Really fuckin' think that my amazin' self's gonn'er get sick'v punchin' n' kickin' yer, acknowledge yer spirit n' stand down... that I'm gonn'er lose by ceding to emotions, is that what yer trying t'fucking say!?”

Subaru: “—”

Garfiel: “Don't fuckin' joke. This fight between me and you ain't any fuckin' game! Yer beat them down, er yer get beat down. There ain't any other endings t'this!”

He stomps the ground.

The power of his EARTHSOUL BLESSING fills him, the earth supplying his body with overflowing vitality.

Compared to when he had finished fighting Ram and Otto in the forest, and so pushed his ruined body to venture here, his flesh is in better condition. This not-even-a-fistfight with Subaru was not exacerbating his fatigue, in fact he may as well be sitting in treeshade and having a pleasant reprieve.

And this minuscule influence of Subaru's is meant to sway Garfiel's heart just goddamn how?

Garfiel: “Yer goddamn said it, didn't you! That yer gonna teach my amazin' self that I'm weak, that's what yer goddamn said! Well th'fuck is this, then! The fuck is weak! The fuck're you teachin'! The one who ain't got th'strength and 's gettin' forced into surrender, the brainl'ss idiot here is goddamn you!”

Garfiel remembers every syllable of Subaru's pre-battle declaration.

It was utter buffoonery. Entirely farcical. Every inch of this man defined the word fraudulent.

Garfiel: “N' that guy n' Ram too! Both've them who battled me at least had th'guts t'try 'n win! N' that's why I fought them back with everythin' I had. They worked their brains comin' up with plans, compensatin' for where they lacked by usin' their smarts... those two had th'guts enough for me t'acknowledge them. But what about you!”

While he did not know the exact details of how it worked, Otto had used his blessing to get the forest on his side, and cornered Garfiel. His methods of herding Garfiel into that final blast of incredible magic illustrated that he had utilized all his vitality and intellect, his fighting spirit so great that Garfiel would gladly commend it as the apex of what the weak could do.

Ram's offensive which began with her surprise attack, although conferring him with an agony equivalent to betrayal, was indeed a fight perfectly befitting of Ram.

Merciless, no punches pulled, a battle between persons of genuine strength.

Both had made their most desperate efforts while fighting Garfiel, and fully intended to steal victory.

Their methods deserved esteem. So much so that Garfiel had to recognize them as foes and yet glorious.

Garfiel: “Compared t'them... there ain't any way t'be more obscene. Y'get done in 'n done in 'n yer still stand up... n' so fuckin' what? No matter how much yer beaten, yer spirit won't yield... n' fuckin' what does that say? Even sayin' yer hopes'v winnin' er zilch, yer ain't ever fleein' the fight... what's so fuckin' commendable!?”

Subaru: “—”

Garfiel: “Yer think I'm impressed? That yer bloodsoaked, wobbly legged, can't even open yer fuckin' eyes right, n' yer still standin' up thing, 's gonna stir my feelin's n' I'm gonn'er stand down? I'm gonna churn you t'goddamn mincemeat... What fuckin' idiots do yer want t'make of me, n' of th'people who acted for yer sake?”

The greatest indignation Garfiel has ever felt in his life blazes within his chest.

The fight has been defiled. He has been insulted. And not only that, but this man's methods were attempting to pollute the nobility, the resolute will, of those whose fights Garfiel had acknowledged.

Garfiel: “Take a fuckin' nap. Pull the fuck out. You fucking disgusting, miserable pile of pile of pile of shit. Yer best answer 's to accept yer've lost n' curl up t'nap in yer cot, you halfwit.”

Subaru: “...”

Still in his fighting stance, Subaru bathes in Garfiel's lines and lines of curses.

His head wavers unsteadily, his eyes near swollen shut but somehow managing to capture Garfiel. His will to fight was not waning, which precisely made his filthiness an eyesore.

If all these words, these blows, these punches were not leading his spirit to bend, then what did he have to do to break him?

If pain will not achieve it, then only one solution remains.

Garfiel: “How 'bout you try goddamn tellin' him, huh!?”

Turning around, Garfiel calls out to Emilia, observing the fight from the tomb's entrance. Her shoulders tremble minutely as the conversation is suddenly aimed at her. The display of weakness makes Garfiel click his tongue in irritation.

Garfiel: “Yer can't bear t'fuckin' watch, now you goddamn tell him that! He ain't fuckin' listenin' when I say it. Have th'girl he loves tell him he looks disgustin' n'lame, that his efforts ain't achievin' nothin', that he's benign shit!”

Emilia: “...I-I,”

Garfiel: “What!? Yer sayin' y'can't fuckin' do it? Does it look t'you he still has any hope'v winnin'? Or do yer like watchin' this? Yer watch the guy who loves you get torn up n' broken down for yer sake, n' does that delude you into feelin' yer loved, fuckin' really, oi!?”

Emilia: “—hk!”

Emilia freezes rigid, her eyes wide open, as the spite showers upon her.

Garfiel's merciless statements thrust daggers into onlooking Emilia.

If Garfiel's fists will not stop Subaru, then Emilia's words are the only option.

His body would be broken by Garfiel, his heart would be broken by Emilia, and so being even Subaru would surely yield.

Over the course of watching the fight, Emilia's face twisted multiple times in pain as she witnessed Subaru be beaten.

Unlike Subaru with his mysterious resolve, Emilia's heart has not steeled itself for anything yet. She is still the same girl who lost the TRIAL and sobbed wailing afterwards.

Garfiel had no great intention to lambaste her for that.

To be overwhelmed by the TRIAL, by your past, was natural. Who on earth could negate the memory of their greatest regret?

The concept that you could overcome your past, your regrets, was utter bullshit.

Subaru had mixed up what were realistic ideals and what were unattainable fantasies, a madman. This boy persistently standing before him chased entirely after fantasies, and demanded that others do the same thing. He was legitimately insane.

He was the same breed as Roswaal, an imbecile whose vision encompassed one thing and nothing more.

Garfiel: “Fuckin' stop him, n' end this! Both me, n' you! We're dancin' to th'tune of that witch's bullshit. N' that's all that's goddamn happenin'.”

Emilia: “I—”

Emilia's back straightens as if struck by lightning, her eyes shooting open.

Her captivating eyes are damp with tears as she looks at Subaru. Her lips quiver, Garfiel's gaze still fixed on her, as she moves to call Subaru to stop.

Everything will be over then. But—

Subaru: “Emilia.”

Emilia: “—”

Before she can speak, Subaru is the one to call.

She closes her mouth as she listens intently to Subaru's faint voice. Frantic, so as not to miss whatever he may say to her.

To her, Subaru states merely one, single thing.

Subaru: “...Watch me.”

Nothing more.

Spoken in frail voice, practically whispered to himself.

But Emilia hears it, looks up in astonishment, and after several seconds of hesitation—

Emilia: “—Mm.”

—Puts her hand to her chest and nods.

Garfiel: “...Hah!?”

Faced with their exchange and entirely uncomprehending, Garfiel shouts in confusion. His eyes widen in fury, only for Subaru to jab at him his finger.

Subaru: “...So you've been going on griping for a while now, but you got it wrong, Garfiel.”

Garfiel: “Th'fuck?”

Subaru: “Maybe to you, I look like an idiot putting in their all despite having no chance of winning... but I'm not joking around. I've learned crazy goddamn well when it comes to knowingly getting into fights I can't win after suffering pain thanks to you. Never doing it again.”

Subaru's face is a swollen mess, yet it still manages to twist into a scowl.

This event that Subaru is referring to is nothing that Garfiel could know, but apparently it relates to some overwhelmingly detested memory of his.

But even pitted against that sentiment, there is something he said which Garfiel must not overlook.

Garfiel: “Fuckin' ridiculous. It ain't even ideals or fantasy anymore, yer straight out not seein' what's there. F' y'stopped challengin' opponents y'can't beat... then th'hell's this situation, oi. Th' fuck is this situation!?”

Subaru: “Isn't it obvious, stupid? I still... haven't abandoned the fight for even a moment.”

Perhaps his consciousness compounds in clarity as his speaks, for strength begins to return to Subaru's voice as he makes his assertion.

This baseless vitality of his seals Garfiel's throat mute with how it enrages him.

Subaru: “Long as I can still stand, I haven't abandoned the fight. ...And the point where I stop standing back up only happens once I'm dead.”

Garfiel: “...”

Subaru: “And with how you chicken out during the decisive moments, you can't kill me. ...Meaning you can't stop me. It might only be bit by bit, but I'm inching toward my win. My victory is definite.”

Garfiel: “Y'fuckin' imbecile! This ain't a thing 'f me bein' able er not able t'kill you. How the fuck! With what struggle! Are you fuckin' possibly goin't'beat me!?”

When wounded head to toe and as ragged as an old dishrag, any amount of words ring hollow. Subaru's statements equate to nothing more than extravagant prate. 'You can't stop me unless you kill me' was merely him expressing his volition. And assuming the claim was legitimate, he was then meaning to state that unless killed he could keep fighting, and eventually manage to land a fatal blow on Garfiel?

That would not occur, and would need incredible quantities of time and miracles to ever happen.

Garfiel: “My amazin' self breaks yer limbs, n'then yer can't do nothin' n' it's over! Whether yer conscious, er whether yer wann'er win! 'D have nothin't'do with it!”

Garfiel roars in furious rage.

His feet siphon vitality from the ground, his once-fatigued body regaining strength halfway to his usual. This constituted more than enough power for mutilating Natsuki Subaru.

He stomps off the earth, goes flying for Subaru.

Faced with Garfiel's approach, Subaru jabs out his fist as if happy about this turn of events. It's moronic. Slow. Unequivocally insufficient. He easily dodges it, strikes him in the abdomen. Pistons his knee into his chin, grabs him as he recoils and throws him hurtling to the ground. He drives his heel into his fallen form, wresting out two, three screams of agony.

A merciless series of attacks. And with this—

Subaru: “...It's over, you think?”

Garfiel: “—!! Pisshead, what the fuck IS THIS!?”

Supposedly sustaining even more grievous bodily wounds, Subaru stands up. Witnessing it, an unknown, arcane feeling begins to mantle Garfiel's heart.

He couldn't defeat him? He couldn't win? No, those were not where his anxiety lie.

It was in the suspicion that maybe, truly, exactly as this man stated, merely accumulation of physical damage would not manage to stop him.

Garfiel: “What th'fuck is th'point in riskin' yer life for this! Say you somehow manage t'beat my amazin' self, do yer really think that half-witch can beat the TRIAL! You seriously think that's th'case here, huh!?”

Subaru: “...”

Garfiel: “Like those miracles could happen! Like that convenient shit could happen! Million to one, billion to one chance, sayin' yer beat my amazin' self, doing that ain't gonna change anythin' 'bout that woman! N' it's th'same for anyone! When yer have a messed up, hopeless past... when yer see how yer regrets've stewed, you can't do goddamn anything about it! Why ain't you understandin' this!”

Subaru: “You're the one who should be hearing that question!!”

Garfiel: “—!?”

It lacks in enough momentum to be a burst of outrage, possesses to much emotion to be an appeal. The cracks skirting though Garfiel's logic-devoid words fracture further beneath Natsuki Subaru's yell.

Subaru: “Stop goddamn going off deciding everything on your own, Garfiel!”

Garfiel: “Fuck're you...”

Subaru: “Stop goddamn going off deciding what Emilia's limits are. She isn't that weak.”

Distant, standing before the tomb, Emilia swallows her breath.

Subaru: “Stop goddamn going off, deciding what my limits are. No one tells me to fold, or to abandon everything and cower. My surrender is never happening.”

Spitting blood, the glint in Subaru's eyes grows stronger.

And,

Subaru: “Fucker, don't goddamn go off giving up on yourself. You can do goddamn more. More's out there for you. ...You were a damn kid, you weren't even fully grown yet. Fucking clinging to an intractable idea you came up with when you didn't even have pubic hair!”

Subaru straight-out informs Garfiel that the belief he stubbornly held, the creed which had kept his heart bound to SANCTUARY, is imbecilic.

Garfiel: “—”

Garfiel immediately opens his mouth to reply.

But something feels to have stabbed into his chest, keeping any speech from exiting his throat.

He cannot say anything. Nothing is coming out.

His head blazes white. It isn't that he thinks Subaru correct. There is no possible way Garfiel could be wrong. The self he started being after he realised he was wrong was not wrong.

He must not be wrong.

And so this man claiming that Garfiel was wrong, must not be permitted to be here.

Garfiel: “Hah... hahhh... got it...”

Subaru: “...”

Garfiel: “I need to stop you. I ain't got any idea'v any'v what yer sayin'. But it's makin' me feel sick. N' so, I'm stoppin' you.”

He must stop him.

And the way to stop him is surely, the exact way the man had previously stated.

—So long as he still breathes, this man cannot be stopped.

Garfiel: “Then... I'll, kill you...”

Subaru: “Can you?”

Garfiel: “Fuck off. —The method t'do it was always right here.”

If he will not stop unless killed, Garfiel would now kill and stop him assuredly. Now, here, he would make the choice.

—Make the choice to entrust himself to the abhorrent, vile blood of the beast sleeping inside him.

Garfiel: “—σσσσσ”

He holds himself, all the blood in his body seething with incendiary heat.

The inferno feels to superheat his every exhale with red. His cells squirm, his muscles swell, his mass explodes in size.

His limbs grow thick as logs, his abdomen bloating to snap off his loincloth. Golden fur sprouts across his whole as his sharp fangs mature instantly into elongate sabres.

His face protrudes into a snout, the world changing colour alongside the slitting of his pupils. His thoughts solder. The mind of the once-present Garfiel Tinzel drowns.

The exhileration of transformation, and the feeling of his bestial instincts driving out his rationality. Once everything's done and he returns, what remains before him will be ravaged chunks of scattered gore. The final visage of Natsuki Subaru.

He had not been able to stop him short of doing this.

He had neither intent to lament, nor to repent for that.

People who lacked strength were bad.

The weak could proffer nothing. All there was to it.

His consciousness was fading.

His bestial instincts screech in jubilation, jaws opening to devour their miserable prey—

—The dimwitted animal's vision drowns beneath an eruption of ink-black fog.