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ArabicHonkai Star Rail: My Death Feeds Their Madness — Chapter 7
Chapter 7: Why Forget
With everything prepared, Kagashi officially initiated the clinical trial.
While verifying the structural integrity of his own cognitive pathways and executing a routine digital backup, he uncovered a startling anomaly.
‘My memories… are actually partially incomplete?’
Viewed through the precise lens of a digital matrix, the artificial fractures and sealed residual cross-sections were glaringly obvious. Someone had surgically tampered with his mind, leaving behind clean, deliberate cuts in his consciousness.
Who possessed the capability to alter his memories so flawlessly?
Kagashi paused his work, his brow furrowing as he stared at the diagnostic readouts. Could it be a Memokeeper from the Garden of Recollection, or perhaps a Cremator erasing what they deemed worthless?
Unable to find any lingering traces or immediate clues, he decided not to waste time agonizing over the culprit. Instead, he seized the opportunity to bypass the artificial seals and force a restoration of the hidden fragments.
The decryption process was unexpectedly smooth, offering almost no resistance.
As the sealed data flooded back into his conscious mind, a heavy, dark shadow fell over Kagashi’s face.
The next morning.
Kagashi slowly opened his eyes.
A vicious, throbbing pain radiated from the deepest recesses of his brain, instantly shattering any lingering traces of sleep. He pressed the heels of his hands against his temples, waiting for the piercing ache to subside before scanning his surroundings. A deep sense of disorientation washed over him.
‘What exactly happened yesterday…’he thought, forcing his sluggish mind to reconstruct the timeline.’I went to the back mountain for cultivation. It rained suddenly. Clarice arrived with an umbrella, and then… Ms. Durand’s treatment session ended. After leaving the necessary medical instructions for her, I returned here to conduct the clinical trial on myself.’
Yes, that was the sequence of events.
But why did his subconscious feel so hollow, as if a vital piece of his very existence had been scooped out overnight?
What were the final results of the experiment, and why did his head feel like it had been split open?
More, when did he end up slumped against the window?
Looking down at the wooden floor boards, he noticed several ceramic jars normally used for storing aged Plum Blossom Wine. The heavy seals were broken, and the empty vessels were scattered haphazardly around his legs.
His familiar ruan lay discarded by his side, its strings cold to the touch. The instrument was supposed to be hanging securely on its designated wall mount.
Kagashi picked up the empty jars one by one, bringing them to his nose. The rich, intoxicating aroma confirmed they were all of the highest vintage from his private reserve. Consuming this much potent alcohol in a single sitting would guarantee a blackout for anyone.
Something was terribly wrong.
He had always maintained strict, unwavering self-discipline. Even if the clinical trial had ended in complete failure, it was entirely against his nature to drown his sorrows in alcohol. He simply did not cope with setbacks by losing control.
As Kagashi shifted his weight to stand, he felt a stiffness in his right wrist. He raised his hand, only then realizing his fingers were tightly clutching a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out against his knee, his eyes narrowing at the incredibly familiar handwriting.
It was penned by his own hand.
“The clinical trial was successfully completed. Ms. Durand’s amnesia can be completely cured.”
Kagashi stared at the ink. He was absolutely certain he had written this, yet he possessed zero recollection of putting the pen to paper. Why had he felt the need to document this, and why was his memory of the act entirely erased?
He understood even less why he would resort to such a primitive method to leave a message for himself.
While scrutinizing the single line of text, he noticed faint ink bleeding through from the other side. He turned the paper over, his gaze sweeping across the dense lines of characters.
“This is…”
The handwriting remained his own, but the content was entirely unexpected. It read like a set of unfinished lyrics.
He stared at the poetic verses in a prolonged daze. Driven by an instinct he could not quite explain, he reached down and picked up the ruan. His fingers found their positions on the frets, plucking a melancholic melody he had composed long ago, his voice dropping into a soft, resonant hum.
The written lyrics and the ancient music blended together perfectly, matching note for syllable.
“As expected, I wrote this too…”
As Kagashi tried to force his mind to recall the exact moment this melody was born, another sharp, blinding pain shot through his skull. The specific date and the surrounding context remained frustratingly blurred, hidden behind an impenetrable fog.
‘It was a long time ago. Was I not yet finished with my apprenticeship under her back then…?’
Ignoring the ache in his head, Kagashi continued to play and sing. The rich timbre of the ruan filled the quiet room, and his body and mind gradually sank into the lingering, suffocating sorrow woven into the song.
He played until he reached the missing portion of the chorus. Without a single conscious thought, a line slipped past his lips, causing his fingers to freeze and the melody to come to an abrupt, jarring halt.
He sat there, utterly stunned.
He had not spent a single second contemplating the rhyme or the meter, so how had his mouth naturally filled in the missing verse with such flawless precision?
Looking down at the last few lines of the lyrics on the paper, Kagashi realized there were still three lines left blank.
He took a slow breath. Try again.
The mournful melody of the ruan rose once more, filling the cold morning air.
“Drunkenly guarding the world, I dare ask if you know?”
The written lyrics ended there. Yet, Kagashi did not hesitate for a fraction of a second, his voice carrying the remaining fragments into the quiet room in one continuous, unbroken breath.
“In this life, looking back suddenly, waiting through life and death, are you willing to stay together…”
“Sighing that the depth of feeling is known, love finally ends in hand-in-hand…”
The song faded into silence.
Kagashi stared blankly at the round body of the instrument resting in his lap, silently savoring the heavy, lingering emotions for a long time.
His teacher was a master of countless instruments—the flute, the zither, the harp, the lute—but she had always harbored a special, obvious fondness for the ruan. Under her constant influence, and through his own diligent practice during the rare hours of leisure outside their grueling research, he had reached a level where he could play alongside his mentor without ever falling behind her tempo.
For so many years, whether they were performing the grand masterpieces of ancient predecessors or testing out his own original compositions, the music was always tailored to the elegant, detached style his teacher preferred.
But this song he had just played… it was saturated with a heart-wrenching, desperate regret, revolving entirely around the messy, irrational concept of love.
‘The last three lines of lyrics I just filled in are clearly quite different from the meaning of the previous verses. They slightly deviate from the central theme, yet…”…they are unexpectedly fitting?’
How could he have unconsciously created such a deeply emotional, tragic piece of music?
This was absolutely not the refined, emotionless style Ruan Mei liked.
The creeping sense of strangeness that kept striking at his heart made Kagashi increasingly confused.
Why were these specific memories forgotten?
If he knew the amnesia was coming, why did he leave a physical reminder for himself instead of a digital one?
Or perhaps, had individuals from certain Path factions finally made a move against him in the dark?
Kagashi hung the ruan back on its wall mount and walked slowly toward the treatment room, his eyes scanning the sterile environment for any lingering clues.
Unexpectedly, resting squarely on the control console of the device used to treat amnesia, was another piece of paper bearing stark black ink.
“Advice for myself: do not seek out the forgotten memories. On the day your life ends, all memories will return as scheduled.”
Kagashi stared at the chilling directive. He reached out, tore the paper from the console, and proceeded to run a full diagnostic check on the surrounding medical facilities. Everything was operating within normal parameters.
He pulled up the encrypted clinical trial records from last night to review the raw data. They were also completely normal, perfectly consistent with the conclusion currently resting in his brain.
As of this moment, the data proved he possessed a method to cure Durand’s amnesia with a ninety percent success rate.
The remaining ten percent was a margin reserved for biological risks that had not yet been fully overcome. However, before the promised day to Clarice arrived, he was confident this final ten percent risk would be entirely eliminated.
Thinking of this, Kagashi chose to honor the warning left by his past self. He would no longer actively seek out the temporarily erased memories.
He only needed to wait for the end.
“Cough, cough…”
A sudden, violent wave of weakness swept through his body, draining the strength from his limbs.
Kagashi leaned heavily against the console as his physical appearance began to age at a terrifying, visible rate. His smooth skin wrinkled, and his head of pristine black hair rapidly turned a dull, lifeless gray-white. His chest heaved with a heavy, rattling cough, and he spat a mouthful of dark blood onto his palm.
As an elderly Short-Life Species, his cellular degradation was inevitable. His internal organs were failing and aging simultaneously, a biological clock winding down to zero.
The closer he drew to his final, destined day, the weaker his bodily functions became.
‘It seems… I need to take the medicine twice a day now just to maintain myself.’Dragging his agonizingly heavy, frail body across the room to the encrypted safe, he keyed in the passcode with trembling fingers. He took out two specialized pills and swallowed them dry.’When it comes down to the last thirty days of my life, taking four pills a day will probably increase to six…’
Kagashi sighed inwardly, wiping the blood from his lips. He hesitated for a brief moment, holding the medicine bottle, but this time he did not place it back into the cold steel safe.
He had finally reached the critical stage where he needed to carry the pills on his person at all times to prevent sudden, fatal emergencies.
Yu Qingtu wanted to see him, and as a genius of her caliber, she could come and go from his sanctuary as she pleased.
Once she learned the true, decaying state of his body, even if she chose not to intervene directly, she would undoubtedly notify Ruan Mei.
Kagashi closed his eyes. He did not want his remains, his pathetic death, to become just another catalyst—another piece of biological fuel for his mentor to step further into the cold abyss of her godhood project.
He knew he lacked the power to stop his teacher’s ambitions, but at the very least… he could choose not to add fuel to the fire. He could die quietly, on his own terms.
As the potent medicine dissolved into his bloodstream, the agonizing pain receded. His gray hair darkened, his wrinkles smoothed away, and he returned to his youthful, healthy appearance once more.
As the days passed, the quiet rhythm of Kagashi’s life continued as usual, masking the decay beneath his skin.
The frequency of Clarice’s visits increased slightly; he would now see the young woman every few days, offering her gentle reassurance regarding the upcoming procedure.
The only significant change in his routine was that sometimes, when he sat by the window and played the ruan, his fingers would unconsciously switch to the melancholic melody of that forgotten song, and he would begin singing the tragic lyrics into the empty room.
With exactly three days left until Durand’s scheduled follow-up appointment, just as the eastern sky was beginning to brighten with the first light of dawn, Kagashi woke from a light, dreamless sleep.
He felt a warm weight on his chest. He carefully picked up Xiao Ju, who was sleeping soundly, and gently placed the orange cat into the residual warmth of the thick covers.
He got out of bed, completed a simple wash at the basin, and swallowed the bitter medicine required to maintain his youthful facade. Drying his face, he walked over and glanced out the window.
Falling snow had arrived quietly in the night, dressing the mountains and all living things in a pristine, heavy layer of silver makeup.
“It arrived a few days earlier than in previous years,” he murmured to the empty room, watching his breath turn to white mist against the cold glass.