Pragmatist and the Scientist

CHAPTER 11

The so-called "principle of humanity"—that sentimental rot about treating others as ends in themselves—was a poetic joke. Rika didn't need people to be ends. She needed them to be functions. If two paths reached the same destination, why argue over morality along the way? Efficiency was the only virtue worth defending.

Rika stepped closer to a statue of a woman mid-laugh, half-covered in stone, lips parted in a silent joke no one would ever finish. Maybe she'd be useful. Maybe not. That wasn't Rika's concern.

The world would be rebuilt not by heroes, but by those who knew how to make use of what was left.

Ryusui was already there, arms crossed, standing over a particular statue near the chamber's edge. The sunlight filtered through the torn canopy above, grazing the stone like reverent fingers. Every groove, every detail had been preserved with eerie precision—the faint arch of a brow, the delicate press of fingers at their side. The figure stood in a posture too composed for the chaos it had been born from. Francois remained as immaculate in stone as they had been in life as if the apocalypse had merely been an inconvenient delay in their schedule.

"You remembered exactly where they were," Rika said, stepping beside him.

"Of course I did," Ryusui replied, voice low. "Some things, you don't forget."

There was a rare restraint in him now, an undercurrent of solemnity she didn't often see. Ryusui wore reverence like a mask he forgot to take off—genuine, unguarded. Francois had earned that from him, from all of them, in ways words couldn't capture.

Rika stared at the statue, silent. Something clenched in her chest, but she ignored it. Francois wouldn't have approved of sentimentality. They'd have called it a distraction—wasted processing power. She remembered the quiet mornings, the precision in every gesture, the cold brilliance that dissected human nature as if peeling fruit. The smell of ground beans, the mechanical perfection of a blade slicing through herbs. Calm, polite, inhumanly focused.

"I still think they're creepy," she muttered.

Ryusui chuckled, but it was softer than usual. "That's just because they were always two steps ahead of you."

"More like ten." Her voice dropped. "They taught me everything I know."

Francois was the one who taught her that emotions had weight—and that weight could be weaponized or discarded. That people were functions, tools to be sharpened or reshaped. That purpose came before peace, and utility before compassion. They were never cruel, but never kind either. Precision didn't need kindness.

"They didn't waste time on 'good' or 'evil.' They didn't flinch from necessary decisions," Rika continued, almost to herself. "They said it once—'If the results serve the objective, the method is a matter of preference, not morality.'"

Ryusui's expression tightened. He said nothing.

Rika took a step forward, standing directly before the statue. "People keep asking whether we should bring back everyone. Francois would say that's the wrong question."