The Price Had Been Paid

Four fleeting words traced in dust. Together with the Black Spring's Tear that had mysteriously appeared and vanished, they had become that small, unnaturally clean circle on the desktop.

Like the silent confirmation of a transaction. The destruction of GRI and the worldwide panic had paid some sort of... "price." Was it to quell the backlash from the "focal point" spiraling out of control? Or to buy a temporary truce and regroup?

There was no way to know. But the other side's pattern of response had changed. No more impotent rage or brute interference. Instead, it had become... subtler, closer to a cold negotiation governed by rules.

Did that mean They had begun to see me as an equal, an existence that required "bargaining" rather than simple "erasure"?

A cold smile tugged at my lips. An equal? No. It only meant my blade was sharp enough to make Them consider the cost.

But bargaining? I never bargain. I only carry out judgment.

The fall of GRI and the brief exposure of the supernatural truth had blasted a massive breach in the dam of global public opinion. Panic, doubt, conspiracy theories, religious fervor... every emotion and faction surged wildly, accelerating the collapse of the old order.

Chaos was a ladder. But it was also a swamp. Unless that chaos could be guided toward complete purification, it would breed uglier, stronger monsters.

I needed another target. One that could stand like a lighthouse amid the chaos, clearly pointing the way toward "purification." A symbol that could soothe the terrified public, strike at the remnants of the old powers, and keep the pressure on Deep Nest.

A... "savior," or a "scapegoat"? That depended on the angle.

My gaze swept across the tsunami of public outrage on the screen, searching for a symbol that could bear all those meanings.

I found him.

Pope Alexander J. Winchester. Not a traditional Christian pope, but the "New Age Pontiff" of a movement that had risen rapidly in recent years, blending elements of multiple faiths with technological mysticism and boasting a vast following of young people. He proclaimed that humanity stood at a crossroads between "spiritual ascension" and "collective destruction," and that only by following his "Path of Light's Revelation" could they enter the new age. Investigations showed that his church had close ties to several purged tycoons and politicians and had accepted enormous donations of dirty money. He himself exploited his followers' worship to control their minds and abuse their bodies. He was a tumor born of chaos, a predator cloaked in splendor.

His death ought to be... a miracle turning against him.

I walked to the desk. The Death Note lay open. The clean circle on the desktop watched me like a silent eye.

The pen touched down. Writing still felt smooth, but that invisible "resistance" seemed to have grown... thicker? As though the air around me were faintly resisting this judgment.

[Alexander J. Winchester]

Cause of death: stripping of divinity. Time: noon tomorrow, at the climax of the "collective spiritual ascension" ceremony he will lead for a million believers in a vast open-air square. Cause of death: when countless believers enter collective meditation under his guidance and their emotions peak, a "dark holy light" formed purely from negative emotional energy-fear, greed, and obsession-will erupt around him, impossible to look directly at, and thoroughly purify (carbonize) his body from the inside out. Before his death, all his hidden bank accounts, sex scandal footage, and communications with the financial backers controlling him behind the scenes will be forcibly broadcast through every speaker and large screen at the venue. The entire process will be clearly captured by satellite and broadcast live worldwide.

Location: Faith Square. Cause of death: burned by his followers' "faith." Confession: crimes exposed worldwide. Outcome: public carbonization.

Let him burn to ashes from the vile energy he had drawn in, at the very moment he came closest to being "God." Let every believer watch their "god" become a charred, hollow shell.

The pen lifted from the page.

The thick resistance abruptly vanished, as though the pen had forcibly sliced through it.

The entry had taken effect.

But this time, Ryuk did not remain silent in the corner. He let out an extremely low laugh, like countless insects rustling as they crawled.

"Heh heh... heh heh heh... 'stripping of divinity'... interesting..." His crimson eyes rolled toward me, filled with malicious amusement. "You're starting to play their games... killing with faith... careful, kid... that stuff is easy to swallow... hard to spit back out..."

I ignored his mad rambling. I simply felt the faintest tremor lingering in the air after this judgment had been issued, like a string pulled taut.

Noon tomorrow.

Let the world bear witness.

The next day, at noon.

A vast square in a certain country, large enough to hold a million people. A sea of humanity filled it, fervent believers waving glowing wristbands and chanting in unison, their eyes fixed on the white-robed figure atop the platform, his arms spread as though to embrace the sun.

Pope Winchester's voice carried into every corner through the powerful sound system, rich and compelling, filled with unquestionable authority.

"...Feel this energy! Feel this pure light of the spirit! It will cleanse you! Elevate you! Take you..."

His voice cut off!

His body went rigid!

A thick, foul pillar of pitch-black light, seemingly condensed from every negative emotion in the world, erupted from within him without warning! It swallowed him in an instant!

That "light" was not dazzling. Instead, it evoked overwhelming nausea, oppression, and despair!

The speakers and giant screens on the platform suddenly blared to life! No longer with the pontiff's voice, but with bank transfer records, obscene videos, and recordings of him haggling with his financial backers!

"...Just ten percent more followers, and donations will double again..."

"...Get rid of that girl cleanly, just like last time..."

"...Don't worry. They'll only believe it's a miracle..."

It was as though all million believers below the platform had been seized by the throat at once. Their chanting fell instantly silent! The fervor froze on countless faces, then gave way to horror, bewilderment, betrayal, and rage!

Within the pitch-black "pillar of light," Pope Winchester's body twisted, shrank, and blackened like a wax figure thrown into a furnace... until he became a charred, carbonized statue, still standing with his arms outstretched.

The worldwide live broadcast faithfully recorded it all.

Fanatical faith collapsed before absolute truth, transforming into destructive collective fury.

In my room, the screen showed live footage of the square descending into utter chaos, followed by a worldwide crisis of trust and a wave of doubts directed at religious organizations and spiritual leaders of every kind.

I was waiting.

Waiting for the response after "the price had been paid."

This time,

the response came quickly.

But it did not come from outside.

There on my desk,

where it had been lying quietly all this time,

the Death Note itself,

suddenly,

moved without a breath of wind!

Its black cover flew open on its own!

The yellowed pages rustled as they flipped rapidly!

At last,

they stopped on one page.

On that page,

beside the names and causes of death I had written before,

in a blank space,

slowly,

a small patch seeped out,

identical to the drop that had appeared on the desk earlier,

thick,

pitch-black,

liquid.

Like a drop of...

flowing from within the notebook...

bloody tears.

That black tear trembled faintly on the page,

then,

as though absorbed by the paper,

slowly,

sank into it.

It vanished.

Leaving only,

on the page,

a small,

faint,

damp mark.

Like a wound,

just beginning to bleed.

I stared at that small damp mark,

my pupils contracting slightly.

The price had been paid...

So,

the ones paying the price

were not just Them.

But also...

this notebook itself?

Then,

was this the true price...

of wielding this power?

Had the pen

begun to turn against its master?