The corridors of Roswaal Manor were unusually quiet. The kind of quiet that didn't settle—it prowled, waiting.
Makoto stood there, caught in the stillness just outside the clown's study. His hands trembled faintly at his sides. His heart told him not to go in, that stepping through that door would mean facing something beyond words or reason. And yet—he stepped forward anyway.
Roswaal was already inside, standing behind a wide desk framed with golden trim, ornate drapes casting long shadows behind him. A gentle aroma of bergamot and cinnamon wafted from the teacups he had already poured.
"Welcome, Makoto-kun," Roswaal greeted him, voice silky and rich, "Please, sit. You must be tired."
Makoto didn't move. "Cut the act."
Roswaal blinked once, slowly.
"No need to play the fool. I'm not here to be strung along. You wanted to talk. So talk."
Roswaal tilted his head. "My, my… You've gotten so serious. Perhaps you've already lived through this conversation once before?" He chuckled, swirling his cup.
Makoto's voice was cold. "I hate people like you. I hate talking to people like you. But if there's even the tiniest chance that I can save them… then I'll listen."
The clown's grin stretched thin. The air shifted.
"Well then. Let's begin."
He reached into a drawer and produced an ornate insignia—nearly identical to Emilia's.
Makoto stared at it.
"That's—Emilia's—"
"It's not hers," Roswaal interrupted. "It's yours."
Makoto blinked. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Hold it."
Makoto hesitated, then reached out and closed his hand around the insignia.
A crimson light erupted from his palm.
Blazing. Alive. Roaring like fire and thunder all at once.
The light bathed the room in its glow, shadows dancing wildly. Makoto stumbled back, jaw slack, heart pounding.
Roswaal wrapped his arms around himself, his eyes sparkling with manic satisfaction.
"She was right," he muttered. "She was right!"
Makoto stared at him. "What the hell does this mean?"
Roswaal turned to face him fully now, his usual flamboyance discarded. His smile had teeth. "It means, dear Makoto Naegi, that you have been chosen by the Dragon. You are one of the royal candidates."
"No," Makoto said. "That's wrong. That has to be wrong. I'm no king. I didn't even want to be here."
"And yet you are." Roswaal lifted his teacup. "And with such a noble heart, too. I dare say… you'd make a wonderful king."
Makoto's stomach turned. Taking compliments from someone like Roswaal felt like swallowing poison.
"Why?" he asked, his voice sharper. "Why did you help Elsa? Why the village? Why the people who died? Because of you."
Roswaal sighed theatrically. "Ah… That. The blood, the chaos—it's all so distasteful, isn't it? But such is the price of progress."
Makoto's fists clenched. "You say that like it means something. But it doesn't. It's just empty cruelty."
Roswaal's smile faded.
"Tell me something, Makoto. Didn't my past self give you advice?"
Makoto froze.
"To befriend me," Roswaal said. "To work with me. That advice, I still stand by."
Makoto's skin crawled. "Don't compare me to you."
"But we are alike," Roswaal whispered. "Driven. Desperate. Willing to gamble our very souls for a better tomorrow."
Makoto felt a sickness rise in his chest.
"Enough. Just tell me what you want."
Roswaal chuckled again. "Always to the point. Very well. I want the same thing you want. I want to shape you, Makoto. Into the king this kingdom needs."
Makoto's breath caught.
"Why?"
"Because you've already begun changing fate. I know you've seen futures. I know you've lived them. I don't know how, but I know you're special."
Makoto's eyes widened. Sweat beaded on his brow. "I… I can't tell you."
Roswaal leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "But you will. Won't you?"
Makoto opened his mouth.
The temperature dropped.
A crushing weight pressed on his chest. He couldn't breathe. Cold fingers wrapped around his ribs. A hand—massive and cruel—pressed into his lungs, suffocating him.
He could taste bile in his throat. His vision swam.
DON'T.
That voice—no sound, no words. Just dread.
Makoto's body collapsed against the desk, heaving, gasping for air.
"Fascinating," Roswaal murmured.
Makoto lifted his eyes. "I… I can't…"
"I know," Roswaal said softly. "But I had to see how far you'd go."
Makoto was shaking. "You're… sick."
Roswaal ignored that. "This world won't wait for you to find courage at your own pace, Makoto-kun. That's why I test you. That's why I need you to suffer."
Makoto stood, trembling. "The Bowl Hunter. The village. Why?"
"Ah, yes. The question that truly matters."
Roswaal stood as well, pacing.
"You will face a choice in three days. One I faced once. Save the people closest to you—Rem, Ram, Beatrice, Emilia… Or save the innocents in the village."
Makoto's face drained of color.
"You planned that?"
Roswaal nodded. "I orchestrated it. Because I want to see what you will do."
"You're insane."
"No," Roswaal said, "I'm invested."
Makoto could barely think. "You want to see me choose?"
"I want to see what kind of king you will become."
Roswaal extended his hand toward the door.
"Three days, Makoto-sama. I suggest you use them well."
Makoto backed away from him, the insignia still pulsing faintly in his hand.
"I'm curious," Roswaal called after him, voice light. "How this story might turn out."
Makoto didn't answer. He just ran.
—