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The Last Equation

The wind howled through the desolate wastelands of Alaska, where snow fell in solemn procession, shrouding the earth in a silent, suffocating white. Alone beneath the expanse of a merciless sky, Victor Harrow trudged forward, his breath crystallizing before him, his socks damp from the ceaseless march. He was a man of reason, of science, yet even he could not ignore the foreboding weight of the night.

But he was not alone.

Beside him, Eleanor Vespertine walked with quiet resolve, her golden hair hidden beneath the hood of her heavy coat. She, too, had sacrificed everything for the knowledge they now carried. In her gloved hands, she held a single, worn notebook—within its pages lay the final partial differential equation, the one that whispered secrets of existence itself.

“This is madness,” Eleanor murmured, though her voice betrayed no fear.

Victor exhaled, watching the mist of his breath vanish into the frozen void. “Madness? Or inevitability?”

Ahead of them, at the crest of the ridge, a lone figure awaited. A grotesque apparition—a clown, its painted visage both jubilant and mournful. It stood beside a makeshift wooden table, upon which sat a steaming bowl of mac and cheese, the scent of artificial cheddar cutting through the glacial air.

“You are late,” the clown murmured, stirring the viscous gold with a tarnished spoon.

Victor hesitated. Eleanor did not.

“You knew we would come,” she said, stepping forward, eyes narrowing.

The clown grinned, revealing teeth that were far too sharp. “I knew you would have no choice.”

Behind them, the heavens rippled—a cosmic wound forming in the fabric of reality. The black hole was awakening. It pulsed like a malignant heart, its event horizon devouring the light, its hunger infinite. And above it all, distant and leering, hung Uranus, its pale blue visage an indifferent witness to the folly of men.

The sound of gunfire shattered the frozen air. From the shadows, dark-clad figures emerged—scientists, soldiers, zealots. They came not as allies, but as warring factions, each desperate to claim the final theorem, to wield its knowledge for their own ends. A fierce gunfight erupted in the valley below, muzzle flashes illuminating the carnage like errant stars.

Eleanor turned to Victor, her voice steady even as chaos raged around them. “Tell me, Victor,” she said. “If we go through with this, do you truly believe it will change anything?”

Victor did not flinch. His fate did not belong to the battle of men. His war was with the void itself.

The clown slid the bowl toward him. “Eat,” it urged, its voice now devoid of mirth. “Your final meal, before wisdom consumes you.”

Victor stared at the grotesque parody of comfort before him, the meal of the ordinary in the face of the infinite. The contrast was almost poetic. Shakespearean, even. He recalled a passage from the Bard himself:

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

A bitter smile ghosted across his lips. Shakespeare had spoken of mysteries beyond comprehension. But Victor? He had found the equation to unlock them.

And Eleanor—Eleanor, the only soul who understood the cost—she knew that once they crossed this threshold, there would be no return.

The ink in her notebook shimmered, the symbols shifting, rewriting themselves as though guided by a force unseen. The final equation had been solved.

And the black hole, now sentient, now aware, had begun to take notice.

Eleanor reached for Victor’s hand. It was warm despite the cold.

“Whatever happens,” she whispered, “we go together.”

Victor met her gaze. In this frozen, dying world, she was the only truth that mattered.

The event horizon expanded, the light around them collapsing into nothingness.

Victor exhaled one last time.

And stepped forward with Eleanor—into eternity.

単語レベルが高いので早慶・京大受験生にお勧めです。

そのうち解説をします。