It all makes sense now. Kyou isn't cruel—he's curious—he's
ENTHRALLED!
He is trapped on the edge, fascinated by the one aspect of human experience he cannot touch—
pain.
His laughter, his joy—they spring not from his malice, but from absence within.
He can't understand suffering, not in body nor in mind.
Every
squirm, every
plea, every
twitch, every
bleed, every
cry, every
need, every
lie, and every
dream—
The most confounding and humorous thing!
All of it are riddles he'll never solve!
Yet, his victims continue to ask "
why?"
For you see, a question with no answer
is a joke.
The defining element of
LIFE—the capacity to feel—is void within him.
Therefore, Kyou cannot live.
Kyou is already dead.
He indulges himself in the concept that is most beautiful to him: dying,
DEATH... Kyou indulges
his very self.
And then the mirror flips. The author is Kyou. We are Uruma.
The one numbed by deadlines and profits... writes suffering.
The ones who can still feel—still wait on the chapters—read it.
Every
chapter, every
panel, every
page, every
bubble, every
drawing—
we come back and ask "
Why are we still here... just to suffer?"
Still hoping for resolution.
Only for the author to continue the same madness.
This is the most purest cycle:
a void trying to feel.
And those who stick their heads in to scream.
This is the MOST BEAUTIFUL EDGINESS I HAVE EVER WITNESSED! MY EYES ARE COMPLETE!