Chapter 11

"Oh-it's Fedya! Look, Fedya, it's you!" Nikolai Gogol leaned closer, shaking Fyodor excitedly.

"I see him, I see him." Fyodor felt nothing in particular at seeing himself, though he was a little surprised. His counterpart in that world was in a truly miserable state.

One glance was enough for him to roughly guess what had happened to the Fyodor in that world. He felt no sympathy, only surprise. Had that Fyodor already given up?

Given up on sinful humanity, given up on ugly humanity.

And given up on his ideals, given up on his aspirations.

Crime and Punishment... Had humanity become so steeped in sin that it deserved nothing but divine punishment?

Fyodor looked thoughtful.

The others, however, were utterly incredulous. Surely they knew what sort of person the Demon was? With all his cunning, how could he have ended up like this?

Still, even Osamu Dazai made no sarcastic remarks this time. After all, the Fyodor in that world looked barely into his teens and might not yet be the Demon. He had suffered so terribly that saying anything more would have been going too far.

Even if Fyodor himself didn't care, hadn't even Teruko Okura of the Hunting Dogs kept quiet?

As for the Jujutsu Kaisen group, the miserable state of the Fyodor on-screen had long since stirred their sympathy. After all, they had no idea how terrifying the Demon was. Meanwhile, the pitying looks they thought they were hiding so well successfully sickened Fyodor.

Osamu Dazai was secretly laughing himself half to death.

So even you have your day.

In the end, An Xinyi took off his coat and draped it over Fyodor.

Fyodor was utterly compliant. From that moment on, An Xinyi had another person accompanying him on his journey.

Before, An Xinyi had wandered wherever he pleased as long as he didn't starve. With only himself to feed, he had no one else to worry about. Now that Fyodor was with him, he could no longer alternate between going hungry and eating his fill.

Fortunately, long before the onset of the apocalypse, he had stockpiled vast quantities of supplies and established numerous bases. Replacing bodies was a hassle, after all.

An Xinyi could more or less guess what had happened to Fyodor, but he felt nothing like pity. Perhaps he simply couldn't imagine applying that word to Fyodor.

He just couldn't leave him alone.

An Xinyi had to admit that he still wasn't a god. Had it been someone else, he might have left some food and walked away, but he couldn't do that to Fyodor.

Whether it was displaced affection or something else, he couldn't watch this person be humiliated and trampled on, left to quietly rot in this hopeless world.

Even if Fyodor himself no longer cared.

Fyodor had almost lost the ability to care for himself and barely reacted to anything happening around him. That was probably one reason why, despite his extraordinary beauty, he had ultimately been thrown into a cooking pot.

An Xinyi dressed him, and he obediently cooperated. Once he was done, An Xinyi carefully straightened his collar.

Something still felt a little off.

An Xinyi searched the surrounding area for a long time before finally finding a white felt hat, which he placed on Fyodor's head.

Good. Perfect.

After all, the hat was his true form.

Mm, he really does look like a rice ball.

"Pfft-hahaha, a rice ball... Hahaha, why didn't I think of that before? It's so fitting!" Osamu Dazai laughed so hard he could barely breathe.

"Yeah, yeah, you can say something sensible after all, mackerel." That was Chūya Nakahara, who had long been sick of the Demon. After all, his target was the Demon of their own world, so sympathy didn't enter into it.

Ranpo Edogawa even took out a rice ball to rub it in and bit down hard, mumbling around the mouthful, "Tastes pretty good. Want a bite?"

Fyodor: "..." Don't get angry. They're just meaningless words.

Nikolai Gogol laughed with unbridled glee. "Wonderful, my friend! Let's have rice balls next time!"

Fyodor: "..." Heh. Just as I'd expect of you, Gogol. Always stabbing me in the back, never stopping.

An Xinyi planned to take Fyodor to the nearest underground base.

Fyodor had no objections and meekly followed beside An Xinyi, but he couldn't keep up with his pace at all and walked with a limp.

An Xinyi suddenly remembered something. He crouched down, took hold of Fyodor's ankle, and examined the sole of his foot. Sure enough, it was covered in wounds. Fyodor didn't even have shoes, after all.

He had overlooked that. A little annoyed with himself, An Xinyi crouched down and turned his back to Fyodor. "Get on. I'll carry you."

The exquisitely handsome boy hesitated, then clumsily climbed onto An Xinyi's back.

The boy wasn't heavy; he was practically skin and bones. All of An Xinyi's post-apocalypse clones in this batch had been genetically modified. Though their lifespans were shortened, their physiques surpassed even those of the Hunting Dogs. Carrying a small, skinny Fyodor was child's play.

Fyodor lay against An Xinyi's back, staring absently at his exposed nape.

He reached out, wanting to touch that patch of skin.

Nothing beautiful should exist in this filthy world.

"Are you going to kill me?" An Xinyi suddenly asked without turning around.

Fyodor froze. He knew about my ability? Then why would he leave his vulnerable spot in my hands?

"If you want to do it, go ahead." After all, he was merely expendable. If Fyodor wanted to kill him, there was no harm in switching to another body.

Ultimately, rapidly grown clones like them had lifespans of no more than two years.

Fyodor withdrew his hand. After a moment's thought, he wrapped both arms around An Xinyi's neck, pressed his face against his back, and closed his eyes.