Chapter 0: Final Evaluation
When my sentence was first handed down to me, I felt sorrow—
failure—
guilt.
But as the years went by, those feelings faded.
Hatred was the only thing that stayed with me until the very end.
And today... even that ends.
At last, I’m free.
“Ishida Daicho. May we begin?”
I flinched.
I hadn’t noticed anyone else enter the room.
My eyes lifted, focusing on the figure in front of me—a beautiful young woman wearing a white blouse. A gray ID badge bounced against her stomach every time she moved, swaying as she waved her hand in front of my face.
KANZAKI MIO – Clinical Psychologist
“Are you planning to keep staring at my body, or should we start?”
“Start... what?” I answered, slightly confused, as if my brain hadn’t fully processed the situation.
“Your psychological evaluation,” she replied tiredly.
“Right, of course. Sorry—I was just... lost in thought.”
She sat down across from me and placed a folder on the table.
From her blouse pocket, she pulled out a small digital recorder, pressed the button once, and set it beside the folder.
She stayed silent for about twenty seconds.
Then she finally began.
“Good evening, Ishida-san,” she said, leaning toward me politely.
Silence followed.
I stared at the psychologist, feeling oddly insulted.
She must have realized her slip, because she quickly moved on in her script.
“My name is Dr. Kanzaki Mio,” she continued, her voice smooth and slightly cautious.
“Final psychological evaluation for inmate Ishida Daicho. Prisoner Number 3. Date...”
She glanced toward the window panel.
After a brief pause, she went on:
“...three hours before execution. The time is 10:05. Only the evaluator and the condemned are present in the room. Observers are positioned behind the one-way glass.”
Mio sifted through her notes, then looked at me.
“Is it okay with you, Ishida-san, if I record our session?”
I glanced at the recorder, then back at her.
“Isn’t it already recording?”
She checked it.
“I still need your verbal consent for the file,” she said.
“Go ahead and record,” I replied.
Honestly, I still didn’t understand why they had to evaluate me on my last day.
She seemed to relax a little after I gave permission and took a deep breath.
“Okay. Let’s start with some simple questions.
Ishida, answer as honestly as you can, even if it won’t change your sentence. I... I want to understand your current mental state.
Name,” she began.
“You already know my name.”
“Say it for the recording.”
“...Ishida Daicho.”
“Age?”
“Twenty-nine.”
She started reading from her notes.
“Convicted at eighteen years old for three counts of first-degree murder connected to the Okiwan Academy Ark Project incident.”
She glanced up at me, her gaze lingering.
“...Sigh. Are you really going to go down this path again?”
I’m not even sure if she actually said it out loud, or if I just read it from her lips.
My fingers had pressed deep into my ears—I couldn’t stand hearing the same crap again.
Our eyes locked in a silent staring contest.
Eventually, she broke it, yanking one of my hands down with surprising force.
“Ishida, I understand this isn’t pleasant to listen to. But talking about it—and talking about your role—might help.”
“Help? How? Help me avoid hell?” I scoffed. “You’re not the first, Dr. Mio. They’ve sent others before you. It’s always the same script, the same lines.
Today is my last day. Why can’t I just leave with my thoughts in peace?”
Her hand stayed tense around mine as her eyes dropped back to the notes.
“Victims: Ayako Kitagawa, Ryo Sakamura, Atsuko Hoshino.
Cause of death: explosive charges, impact injuries from structural collapse, and the resulting fire that led to the destruction of Laboratory C.”
She looked up briefly to see if I was listening.
“The media called you the ‘Ark Butcher.’”
I tried to pull my hand away.
To my surprise, her grip tightened.
That small-sized woman was physically stronger than me.
“This is wrong. I don’t want to have this conversation.
I still have some rights... don’t I?”
Completely ignoring my protest, she continued.
“Before we move on, I’ll ask you directly:
Do you acknowledge being responsible for these deaths?”
It took time, but I finally forced the words out.
“In theory, I’m responsible.
But I don’t feel like I’m responsible.”
Curiosity lit up in her expression.
“Explain that.
You feel responsible and not responsible at the same time?”
“I feel responsible for the explosion... but not for the reasons behind it. If that makes more sense.”
“It doesn’t,” she said bluntly. “You’ll have to give me more. Your previous tests placed your IQ over 200, remember? Explain it in words that even us ‘dumber’ people can understand.”
I don’t know if I explained it on a genius level, but I gave her an example from my life.
“I was sixteen when I joined the club creating Ark.
Nothing about that project made sense. Even now, I question why I wanted to try something that impossible.
But they wanted the impossible to become possible as fast as possible.
I told Ayako and the academy club advisor over and over that Ark wasn’t anywhere near ready for testing.
They insisted.
And in the end, under enough pressure, I agreed.
The prototype connected three labs: the core chamber was at the far end; the manual control room was opposite it; and the data room was next door.
You can probably guess which room the victims were in.
My task was simple: manually start up Ark’s prototype.
The others would monitor the readings in the core chamber, and I was supposed to walk to the data room to extract information from Ayako’s scanned brain.
The moment I flipped the main switch... everything went dark.”
The psychologist stared at me with a thoughtful expression for what felt like eternity, before finally continuing.
“So your defense is this: you were pressured into starting Ark even though you believed it wasn’t ready. And since you were the one who activated it—and the only survivor—you were declared guilty. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
“You’re completely correct.”
“The prosecution’s statement,” she whispered, “claimed that you sabotaged Ark’s core on purpose, knowing it was unstable and would cause an explosion.”
“Mio, with all due respect, I’ve read that script too.
And it’s wrong.
Ark was never sabotaged. It wasn’t even finished—never would have been. It’s too difficult for humans, too many problems.
You asked me if I feel responsible.
I gave you my side, and my explanation of why I don’t.
So don’t keep parroting the prosecution’s lines about sabotage.”
“So, according to your own words, it wasn’t sabotage. Interesting. In previous interviews you never mentioned it like this. Why now?”
“That’s a good question. And I’ve got a logical answer:
Because it doesn’t matter.”
She spun her pen between her fingers for a moment, probably trying to figure out what I meant.
Eventually, she seemed to give up.
“Could you... expand on that logic?”
I stared at her, exhausted.
“When I was sentenced, it was done just like that.
The Ark Project was funded by rich sponsors.
Okiwan Academy is a school for the rich.
I’m a scholarship student from a poor district.
What do you think was going to happen?
The academy couldn’t take responsibility—they’d lose sponsorships.
And the wealthy parents of the dead kids needed someone to blame.
So, hypothetically, no matter what I did or said...
the end result was always the same: the death penalty.
The only reason I never told my side back then was because it wouldn’t have changed anything.
It would’ve just caused more trouble.”
“I understand your point,” she said slowly, “except for the last part. How would it cause more trouble? There are always people who love conspiracy theories.”
“Do you know what I’ve hated the most during this eternity in prison?”
“You don’t have to say it,” she cut in. “I think I finally get it.
But still... don’t interviews with me and my colleagues help even a little?
Letting you process your feelings?”
“Honestly? No.
Like I was about to say—but you so cleverly anticipated—
I hate these evaluations.”
“Well, lucky for you, this is the last one,” she said. “And it’s almost over.
But I still have a few more questions.”
“A few questions?”
They’d better be quick, I thought, glancing at the clock.
10:06.
At eleven, I’d have the highlight of my life in this place—my final meal.
My stomach was already longing for it.
“Don’t rush,” she said. “We still have plenty of time.
I actually only have one main question—and depending on your answer, maybe a couple more.
They’re all about Ark.”
The topic pushed me back a bit.
Usually, Ark is mentioned, sure—but the focus is always on the victims and my feelings.
The longer I thought about it, the more I realized something:
we hadn’t talked at all about my feelings toward the victims this time.
“Well, go on,” I sighed. “I’ll answer as best I can.”
“Ark,” she began. “Like you said, it was never finished. And after the explosion, most of the data was destroyed. But Okiwan Academy decided to continue the project.
It’s been eleven years now.
How much progress do you think they’ve made?”
I thought about it. Too long, probably.
Okiwan Academy gets brilliant students every year.
Hearing the concept of Ark, some of them would definitely try to build it again.
But the more my thoughts circled back to the old team I worked with—the ones I built the Ark Project with—the more my answer became clear.
“None,” I said. “They’re in the exact same place Ayako was when I first joined the club.”
“Full marks and a gold star!” the psychologist shouted cheerfully, sarcasm dripping from every word.
In an instant, her face turned serious again.
“Ark,” she said quietly. “Do you believe anyone in this country could ever truly build it in the future?”
The future is such a wide concept that you can’t realistically evaluate it.
But somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew: no one would ever be able to build it, no matter what kind of technology they had.
“If only you knew...” she murmured softly, almost like she was accidentally voicing a thought.
She straightened her posture and stared straight into my soul.
“Last question.
If you were given a second chance—this time with more help, more time, a far larger database at your disposal—do you believe you could complete Ark?”
That was an insane question.
There wasn’t an answer that made sense.
And why was this even relevant?
In the end, I decided to entertain her.
“You know, in this world, nothing is truly impossible for humans,” I said. “I even believe in the possibility of God. I believe you can achieve anything with enough time, motivation, and study.
But Ark is an object that shouldn’t exist.
Ark is, at the theoretical level, like the planet Earth itself—and Earth is the place where wecreatethings.
That’s why it can’t be ‘created.’
It’s not a human-scale concept.”
“But what if that specific, incorrect pattern of thinking disappeared from your mind?” she asked. “Would you have a chance then?”
“Excuse me?” I frowned. “I still don’t get what you’re getting at.
If that part of me disappeared... then it wouldn’t be me anymore.”
“If it still had the same brilliant brain,” she said calmly, “wouldn’t it still be you?
The only difference would be that it believes your ‘impossible’ is possible.”
She stood up quietly and turned off the recorder with a soft click.
Then she started walking toward the door.
“That’s insane!” I shouted after her.
She turned once more.
I couldn’t hear the words, but I could swear her lips shaped:
“I’m looking forward to working with your new version, Doctor.”
