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Nagisa’s Reality Rewrite (The Dark Knight's Downfall)
🕑 Added 2025-08-08 21:00:03 +0000 UTCAsh drifted like snow across the blackened remains of the city. Flames crackled weakly among collapsed rooftops and shattered stone, casting flickering shadows across the ruins. Smoke coiled into the crimson sky, carrying the scent of scorched wood, blood, and victory.
James Grayson stood at the heart of the devastation, his towering black armor unmarred by soot or blade. A jagged crimson cape flared behind him, fluttering like a banner of conquest. His sword, long as a man and twice as merciless, rested on his shoulder, still steaming with residual heat. From behind his horned helm, his gaze swept the ruins with cold satisfaction.
“This is it,” he muttered, voice like grinding metal. “Finally.”
At his feet, nestled in the cracked stone altar of the town’s temple, pulsed the stolen jewel, a prism of dark violet, thrumming with divine energy. The air around it warped and shimmered, vibrating with the promise of godly power.
He raised the jewel skyward, shouting a wordless invocation born from ancient script and forbidden knowledge. A ring of violet fire erupted around him, crackling with divine pressure. The very air buckled.
He had done it. He had summoned her.
And then…
POP.
A tiny burst of sparkles. The fire hissed out like wet paper. Floating a few feet above the scorched ground, surrounded by lazy spirals of glitter, was... her.
She was small compared to his hulking menace. The height of an average woman. Dark-skinned, barefoot, with long, bright orange hair cascading like a waterfall of fire. Her black robes looked more like oversized pajamas, yet with seemingly the universe converging on the inside of it. A mischievous smirk curled her lips, and her piercing blue eyes sparkled with untamed energy.
She was levitating. The pressure around her was immense. So intense it made the world feel thinner, unreal. But nothing about her looked godly.
“Whaaaazzzaaap!” she chirped, waving lazily with one oversized sleeve. “You called?”
James blinked. The heat of the battlefield still clung to him, but the sudden shift in atmosphere nearly threw him off balance.
He did not flinch.
“I am James Grayson, the Black Blade of Ruin,” he declared. “Goddess of Chaos, Nagisa, is it? I command you to form a pact with me. Grant me power beyond mortal limits, so I may strike down all who oppose me!”
There was a pause.
Nagisa floated closer, looking him up and down with comical exaggeration, head tilted.
“Ohhh,” she said, drawing out the word like taffy. “That’s what this is. You want more power. Real edgy warlord stuff. Got it.” She snapped her fingers, and a glowing parchment and feather quill appeared in midair.
“Let’s see, how about this~ Tell me if this sounds good to you, Jamesy-boy.”
She cleared her throat and read in a mock-formal tone:
“Anything written on this parchment about the two mentioned parties is true and even gods and reality shall bend to its end. Nagisa Fulkami, goddess of chaos, shall infuse James Grayson with magical power such that his magical output shall increase by more than threefold. In exchange, James shall become a Priest of Nagisa until his power surpasses her.”
The contract hovered before him, glowing softly.
James scoffed. “Triple the power?” He seized the quill without hesitation. “Fine. With this, I’ll easily surpass even someone like you.”
He signed in a flourish, confident, unshaken. The moment the last stroke was complete, the paper shimmered, and floated back to Nagisa, who was having the biggest gremling smile on her face the world had ever seen.
“Contract sealed! Thanks dude~” she said, licking her lips. “Ohhh, this is gonna be so fun.”
“There will be no such fun!”James narrowed his eyes. “Now hand over the power you promised!”
“All in due time~” Nagisa giggled, twirling the pen in her hand.
Nagisa twirled the quill between her fingers like a conductor’s baton. The parchment hovered beside her, still glowing softly in the air, humming with barely restrained potential.
James stood tall, his voice a low growl. “All in due time? You dare mock me?”
Nagisa only smiled wider. Her eyes flashed. The feather quill dipped itself into inky light, and with a lazy flourish, she scribbled something new onto the parchment.
Then the world… twitched.
At first, James felt a ripple beneath his feet, like the earth itself was yawning. The light dimmed, bent, and then snapped into strange new angles, like a painting warping under heat. The air shimmered, and his armor… his proud, blackened armor, forged in the fires of conquest, began to shift.
Metal groaned as it softened, folding into itself like melting wax. The jagged plates along his shoulders sloughed down, reshaping into flowing fabric. His gauntlets unraveled into silk-gloved sleeves, white and gold threads weaving themselves from nothing. His chestplate cracked down the center, and from the breach poured bands of ornate embroidery and velvet folds of black and ivory cloth.
“No… what trickery is this?!”
He stumbled back, watching helplessly as his once-imposing greaves thinned and reformed into long, flowing skirts, robes, sacred in appearance, etched with celestial patterns. His crimson cape turned pristine white and attached itself neatly to a golden clasp at his collar.
Within moments, the transformation was complete.
There was no trace of his armor left. Not even a clink of metal or a glint of blackened steel. His reflection shimmered in the blade of his sword, though even that had begun to dull.
Nagisa clapped, hovering upside-down in midair like a lounging cat. “Ehehe Surprised?.”
James stared at her, lips parted in stunned silence. Then, finally:
“…What did you just do?”
She beamed, plucking the parchment out of the air and turning it toward him like a teacher presenting a quiz answer.
Her voice came in a sing-song lilt.
“Anything written on this parchment about the two mentioned parties is true, and even gods and reality shall bend to its end.”
“James is wearing no armor but priestly robes.”
There was a pause.
James stared at the parchment. Then at himself. Then back at her.
His voice was a hoarse whisper. “You… twisted the contract…”
Nagisa giggled behind her sleeve. “I didn’t twist it, silly. I just used the parts you agreed to.”
She leaned in closer, eyes glowing with starfire.
“And I haven’t even started the fun parts yet.”
His sword was gone.
It hadn’t fallen, hadn’t slipped from his grip, it had simply ceased to be, as if reality had edited it out along with his armor. But James Grayson wasn’t about to let that stop him. He had razed cities bare with his fists before. This was no different.
With a guttural growl, he surged forward, robes flaring behind him like a mockery of his former cape. His fist, feared across the land, cut through the air toward the goddess floating before him.
She caught it.
Effortlessly.
There was no recoil. No strain. Just the soft slap of her palm meeting his knuckles mid-swing, and stopping him cold.
James stared, disbelieving.
He had leveled this town with that strength. Broken stone and steel and men. But she held him as if he were a child throwing a tantrum.
“Rude,” Nagisa said, pouting theatrically. “I thought priests were supposed to be pacifists~”
Before he could pull away, she flicked her wrist and he flew.
Twenty feet, maybe more. His body hit the ground hard, robes fluttering like a wounded dove as he rolled to a halt against a half-collapsed pillar. Dust rose in choking clouds.
He groaned, pushing himself upright.
Nagisa was already there, floating above him with infuriating ease, her oversized sleeves swaying gently in the air.
“Look, I really don’t want to solve this with more violence,” she said sweetly, pulling out the glowing parchment again. The quill was already scribbling as she spoke.
“Let’s try a different solution, hmm~?”
She read aloud, voice like a nursery rhyme:
“James cannot attack his patron, nor can he even attempt to touch the contract without Nagisa’s consent.”
The words glowed for a brief moment, then vanished into the scroll.
James staggered to his feet and immediately lunged forward…
And froze.
His body locked in place mid-stride, muscles tensing, teeth grinding. His limbs wanted to move. His rage demanded it. But something unseen and absolute pressed down on him, like invisible chains forged from the very fabric of reality. Every fiber of his being strained in rebellion, but his arms wouldn’t lift. His legs refused to lunge. His fingers, curled into fists, trembled at his sides, unable to rise against her.
He could do nothing.
Nagisa hovered inches from his face now, upside-down again, her hair hanging like fire above his head.
“Oooh~ that binding settled in real nice,” she whispered with a grin. “Feels like the weight of the world, huh? That’s reality correcting itself.”
James seethed, jaw tight. “You... you demon...!”
“Technically chaos goddess, but close enough!” she chirped.
She twirled in midair and drifted backward, humming to herself.
“Don’t worry, Jimmy. We’ll get that temper under control soon enough.” She tapped the parchment with the quill. “I’ve got so many ideas~”
The quill scribbled in glowing ink as she spoke:
“James never attacked this village. The reason he came was to help the people in this village with his powers.”
The moment the last word dried, reality cracked.
James gasped as the world around him shuddered, as if someone had kicked a chessboard and now the pieces were scrambling to obey a new set of rules.
The blood-stained streets rippled like water, the scorched stones pulling themselves back together in chunks and layers, rebuilding what had been broken. Flames snuffed themselves out in reverse, curling back into lamps and hearths. Smoke spun downward like unburning incense and vanished into nothing.
Collapsed homes twisted upright, stone reshaping, wooden beams growing from their charred remains like trees in spring.
And worst of all, the fallen… all collectively rose.
Those he had struck down with blade or spell now stood again. Blinking. Stretching. Laughing. Embracing one another. Wounds reversed in time. Screams forgotten.
They didn’t run from him. They didn’t scream.
They smiled at him. Waved.
"Thank you again, Priest Grayson!" someone called.
A child ran up and offered him a flower, reverently. “You're a real hero!”
James staggered back in horror, mouth dry. “No... No, I-! This is wrong! I burned this place to the ground! You can’t just erase that!”
He turned to Nagisa, trembling. “This goes against everything you are! You’re supposed to be the goddess of chaos! Why would you do this?!”
Nagisa just giggled, legs swinging midair like a child on a swing.
“Silly James. Chaos doesn’t mean destruction.” Her smile sharpened. “Chaos means upsetting power balances. Chaos means change. Real change. The kind that makes fate cry into its pillow.”
She leaned in, upside-down, eye to eye with him.
“And what’s more chaotic than turning a raider into a saint?”
James’s fists clenched. “I am James Grayson, the Black Blade of Ruin! I’ll flatten as many villages as I have to until I take what I want!”
Nagisa’s smile stretched, wide enough to be dangerous. “You sure about that?”
She dipped the quill again, and with one smooth flourish, the parchment glowed anew as she read aloud:
“James is a woman named Grace, known throughout the land as the White Wing of Salvation. Even just the sight of her inspires hope in bystanders.”
The effect was immediate.
James felt the ripple not in the world this time, but in himself.
It began in his gut. A twist. A pull. Something was wrong. Something was rewriting him from the inside out.
He stumbled forward, gripping her chest, gasping.
His robes tightened, reshaped, fitted not for a knight, but for a figure divine. His limbs softened, refined, his frame reshaping with every heartbeat. His hair grew, strands thick and lustrous, cascading in shining waves. His jaw slimmed, his shoulders narrowed, his voice caught in his throat as it pitched higher.
The strength remained, but it had changed. Flowed. He was no longer a blunt instrument, but a conduit of something radiant.
Deeper still, his identity buckled under pressure. Thoughts cracked. Names blurred.
He was… James? Yes, she was… she was…
Grace.
The name rang in her head like a bell.
Across the village, people whispered it with awe:
“Grace... the White Wing of salvation is here!”
“A blessing in the flesh!”
“She saved my son last week in the next town over! She’s a miracle!”
Grace stood shaking, panting, looking down at her now-slender, radiant hands. Her reflection shimmered in a nearby puddle, large, expressive eyes, soft features, robes that shimmered like starlight. She looked... like a divine being.
Nagisa did a slow clap in midair. “Aaaaand scene.”
Grace's voice cracked. “You... you can’t just change who I am.”
Nagisa beamed. “Babe. I already did.”
Grace’s hands trembled at her sides. Her breathing was shallow, erratic. The glow of the village, the praise of the people, the peace of it all... it was wrong.
Deep down, she knew.
She could feel the power still coiled in her core like a slumbering dragon. It was raw, seething, and destructive. It hadn't gone anywhere. She could still bring ruin to this place, bend it to ash if she let it loose.
This wasn’t over. She could still…
“No, it is over.”
Nagisa's voice cut through her mind like a bell tolling the end of a war.
And Grace froze.
She hadn't spoken out loud.
Nagisa was floating beside her, still smiling, but her eyes now shimmered with that impossible, god-tier brilliance, like they could see through souls. She lazily raised the quill again.
“Alrighty~ Let's tweak that attitude a smidge.”
She read aloud while writing, her voice like a melody scribbled in ink:
“Grace has a dazzling smile that puts the heart of anyone at ease. When someone praises her as the saint, she can't help but honestly smile at them and tell them that she is glad to be able to help.”
Grace felt her face twitch.
Her jaw trembled. Her lips tingled. Her expression contorted, not in anger or defiance, but into a radiant smile, one so sweet and soft and warm it startled her.
She didn’t know what face she was making. She hadn’t chosen it, but she could see the result.
The people around her lit up like candles. A nearby man clutched his heart with a teary gasp. A child covered her mouth and whispered, “She’s... beautiful.” Even the birds seemed to sing in brighter tones.
Grace's throat tightened. She tried to speak. Tried to shout, to protest, to rage.
But her mouth opened… and the words that came out were not hers.
“Thank you all for the warm welcome,” she said, voice shining with gentle warmth. “I’m truly glad I could be here to help.”
Her heart felt like it had been hollowed out.
That wasn’t her.
That was what she’d become.
An elderly woman, her eyes wet with awe, stepped forward, hands clasped.
“You truly are an angel sent by the gods, dear Grace. Just when we needed you most.”
Grace blinked. Her smile never wavered. Her face wouldn’t let it.
Inside, she screamed.
Nagisa hovered overhead, head tilted, as if waiting for the applause to settle. Then she shrugged.
“Sure, why the heck not. I mean, I’ve gotta triple her power anyway~”
The quill twirled once in her hand like a wand, before it danced once more across the contract as she sang out each word with faux innocence:
“When Grace hears her goddess snap her fingers, her bust will grow one size, her butt will grow one size, her hips will grow one size, she will grow a pure white angelic wing, and her magical power will increase by 50%. So that after four snaps, she is an unbelievably attractive, three-times-as-powerful angel, with holy power emanating from her so strongly that small wounds heal and wilting flowers bloom just from her presence.”
She winked. “Ready~?”
And then she snapped.
The sound cracked like thunder through Grace’s ears and then the real storm hit.
Grace cried out as her body detonated from within with a violent surge of magic. Her skin glowed. Her robes strained. Her spine arched as her frame expanded with divine power, reshaping her.
Her chest pushed forward, swelling with sudden mass as her ribs widened to accommodate it. Her hips flared, flesh blooming like sculpted marble warmed by sunlight. Power flooded her, reshaping every curve, sculpting her form into divine excess. A single white wing burst from her back in a glorious spray of feathers and light, flaring out as if declaring her rebirth.
She dropped to one knee, gasping.
Then… SNAP.
Another wave hit like a tidal surge.
More power, more growth. Her robes, tailored seconds ago by reality itself, began to strain at the seams. Her backside thickened, thighs pressing together with new mass. The wing on her right mirrored a second on the left, two now, brilliant and bright.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her knees buckled. Her divine aura cracked the stones around her.
SNAP.
The third. She groaned long, sharp, and trembling with overstimulation. Her robes barely held together now, breasts jostling, pressing outward with enough force to displace her center of gravity. Her hips swayed with every tremble. Her wings beat once, twice, and now three times involuntarily.
The pressure was unbearable. She couldn’t take much more.
“P-please…” she gasped.
SNAP.
The fourth.
The final wing erupted from her back, pure white and pulsing with holy light. Her body had one final, immense growthburst. A divine climax of divine flesh and sacred power.
Her thighs thickened. Her form shimmered. Her core burned with sacred fire as she finally collapsed to her knees, arms trembling, wings unfurled, chest heaving, legs buckling beneath their own plush weight.
She panted, lewdly. Each breath was a moan stifled behind divine decorum. Sweat glistened on her skin like dew. Her robe clung to her frame like reverence incarnate.
Around her, the world bloomed.
Wilted flowers perked up all around her. Bruises on bystanders vanished in golden sparkles. The air smelled of honey and clean sunlight.
The townspeople rushed toward her. “Lady Grace! Are you alright?!”
Grace looked up… and froze.
They were all staring. Wide-eyed, blushing, breathless.
She could see it: the hearts in their eyes. Literal stars in their gazes. Infatuation, adoration, lust and worship.
And what terrified her most?
She couldn’t blame them.
Her smile twitched.
“If I were still a man,” she thought, “I’d probably have kidnapped a woman who looked like this too…”
As Grace sat on her knees, still catching her breath, the crowd kept their distance, awed, enchanted, overwhelmed. Then, from the back, someone moved.
A young man, no older than his twenties, dirt still streaking his boots and panic in his eyes, pushed through the crowd, holding his cap in his hands like a shield.
He trembled as he stepped forward. But he didn’t kneel. He looked her in the eyes.
“Please,” he said, voice rough but steady, “My sister… she’s been sick for weeks. Bedridden, unable to work for like forever. We’ve tried everything. The healer says she’ll waste away if this continues. If you… if you could help her…”
The square went silent. Even the birds stopped chirping.
Grace stared at him.
She blinked in confusion.
And then she heard it.
Scratch scratch scratch.
Nagisa’s quill.
The goddess was grinning wider than ever, eyes alight as she inscribed the next rule of reality:
“Grace’s key personality traits are that she is selflessly helpful first, and effortlessly perverted second. She is a proud bombshell more than willing to show it, but a hurt or sick person is something she could never ignore.”
The words glowed like branding iron against the parchment. And Grace felt it immediately.
A pull. Not just on her body.
On her very soul.
Her heart pounded faster. Her breath hitched. Her spine tingled.
She stood.
Not because she thought it through. Not because someone asked her to. But because it was now who she was.
She rose to her full, goddess-like height, her wings unfurling like curtains to a miracle. The crowd watched in reverent silence, as if witnessing a divine ascension.
Inside, Grace trembled.
But outwardly she glowed.
Someone was sick. That was serious. Someone needed her.
The very idea sent a shiver down her thighs.
Her mouth curled into a dazzling, confident smile, as warm as it was sultry. Her hips swayed as she stepped forward, the sacred fabric of her robes parting just enough to tease the eye with every movement. Her chest bounced with controlled grace, as if it too understood the power it now held.
She walked past the man… no, sauntered past him, with a strut that could make statues blush. Her eyes shimmered as she gave him a sidelong glance.
“Lead the way,” she purred, her voice velvet and sunlight. “Let’s see if I can do something about this so-called sickness.”
The young man turned scarlet, flustered, eyes darting between her face and, well, anywhere else he could possibly look.
Grace noticed.
And she liked that.
No, she loved that.
After all, no one could truly handle her presence. Not anymore. She was divine. Overwhelming. Blessed and blessed-looking.
And something about the way he fumbled with his words, the way he kept averting his eyes… Well.
It was kind of cute.
The sick girl’s room was small, quiet, and dimly lit, suffused with the scent of herbs and old fabric. A faded curtain filtered the sun. The only sound was the shallow, rasping breath of the young woman lying in the bed, her skin pale, lips dry, body frail beneath threadbare sheets.
As Grace stepped inside, the entire room changed.
The soft glow surrounding her grew brighter, purer. The wilted flower in the vase by the bedside perked up, its petals unfurling as though basking in spring. Dust lifted from the air, pulled toward her in motes of shimmering light. The very walls seemed to breathe easier in her presence.
The young man looked between his sister and Grace, clinging to hope. “Please… can you help her?”
Grace turned toward the girl, and with practiced grace she didn’t remember learning, placed a hand over her heart.
“Of course I can help,” she said with radiant confidence.
Then, in her mind:
Wait.
She frowned, just faintly, lips twitching at the edges. She had never healed anyone. Never even tried to. Her magic had always been destructive, elemental, brutal.
She glanced toward Nagisa, uncertainty flickering in her perfect blue eyes.
Nagisa was already floating just outside the window, upside-down and grinning like a proud parent watching a school play. She twirled her pen.
“Grace is a capable healer and devoted priest of Nagisa’s,” she showed through the window proudly.
Wham.
The knowledge hit Grace like a wave crashing against a cliff… No, more like a freight train made of divine insight.
She gasped, hand flying to her temple. Dozens of incantations, mantras, and holy rituals flooded into her brain all at once. Her fingers tingled. Her wings shimmered with new understanding.
The young man flinched. “Lady Grace?! Is something wrong?! Can she not be healed?!”
Grace caught herself, smiling again, gently, effortlessly.
“Nothing of the sort, my dear,” she said, her voice like silk woven in gold. “Let me demonstrate.”
She stepped forward, lifting her arms above her head. Her wings unfurled, each one glowing with divine light. The air thickened with power… real power, not brute force, but something deeper. Something holy.
Her voice rang out like a hymn echoing through a cathedral:
“O divine being whom I have chosen to serve, goddess of whim and chaos, Nagisa Fulkami... You who upset fate and unravel destiny. This girl needs your miracle, to overcome the overwhelming odds stacked against her. Lend me your power, so that we may defy the story written for her!”
Outside the room, Nagisa gave her double finger guns. “You got it, queen~!”
And then it happened.
Power surged.
It didn’t flood into her: it exploded, racing through every fiber of her being like a sun being born behind her eyes. Her breath caught, and for a moment, Grace felt like she could see the threads of fate themselves, twisting and writhing like strings of light.
The world went still.
She understood.
This. This was the true power she had always dreamed of.
Not through fear. Not through fire. Not through domination.
This was more. This was divine. She didn’t just command magic. She was its conduit. She was chosen. And for this moment, as the surge lifted her feet slightly off the ground, wings fully outstretched and robes billowing in unseen wind…
She was limitless.
Tears pricked her eyes. Her smile deepened, not forced, but real for the first time.
If this was what it took to hold this kind of power… If this healing prayer was the price...
Then so be it.
Let them call her a saint.
Let them worship her.
She would embrace it.
Gladly.
She closed her eyes, and the light surrounding her expanded outward in a gentle wave of pure white absolution. Covering the room slowly but serenely.
—
Grace stepped out of the small cottage, the young man hurrying close behind her. Sunlight bathed the street, casting long golden rays across the stone path and dancing along her four gleaming wings. Townsfolk stood in hushed silence as she emerged, the faint echo of divine energy still clinging to the air.
“She’ll recover quickly,” Grace said gently, her voice steady and rich with warmth. “The illness took a toll, but her body just needs time to regain its strength. You’ll have to help her get back to her feet.”
The man nodded quickly, eyes still shimmering with awe. “I-I will! Of course! I’ll do everything I can. Thank you… Thank you, Lady Grace. I owe you everything.”
She smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch radiating comfort and encouragement. “No debt,” she said. “Just be good to her. That’s all the thanks I need.”
As they walked out together, the village erupted into cheers. Children danced. Bells rang. Flowers were tossed into the air like confetti. Dozens shouted her name, holding up hands and scarves in reverence.
“Lady Grace!”
“Thats the White Wing of Salvation for you!”
“The miracle worker!”
She waved and smiled, radiating calm and elegance. But inside, she was still scanning the horizon.
Her smile faded just slightly.
Where was Nagisa?
She paused, casting detection magic across the landscape. Nothing. No mischievous pressure. No giggling goddess lurking behind a chimney. No chaos leaking from a crack in the sky.
Grace narrowed her eyes, even casting a focused scry. Still nothing.
Until…
A spark. A familiar twinkle of magic.
In… her pocket?
Curious, she reached in, and pulled out a sheet of parchment.
The contract.
It was warm to the touch, practically humming with residual chaos energy. The handwriting was unmistakable. The playful, swirling strokes like a song half-sung couldn't have belonged to anyone else:
“Nagisa Fulkami, goddess of chaos, shall infuse Grace Pureheart with magical power such that her magical output shall increase by more than threefold. In exchange, Grace shall become a Priest of Nagisa until her power surpasses her.”
That much was familiar.
But below it, scrawled in fresh, glittering ink, was a new addition:
“I’m sure we can both agree that I fulfilled my side of the deal. Glad to be working with you. If you ever need my help, I am always just one prayer away~ <3”
Grace stared at the paper.
Then she snorted.
Then she laughed.
It started as a quiet chuckle, then grew into rich, musical laughter that echoed through the village square. Some townsfolk looked over in surprise, but seeing her smile, they only smiled wider themselves.
Grace wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, still grinning.
“What a turn of events,” she whispered to herself.
She looked up at the sky. The first line of the contract, the one that once terrified her, was gone. Erased. But the truth of it lingered.
She was more powerful than she was before. She was Nagisa’s priest. And she will never be more powerful than her. And... she was okay with that.
More than okay.
She rolled the parchment and slipped it back into her robe.
Then, with a devilish grin curling her perfect lips, she placed a hand on her hip and strutted forward, her halo of holy light catching in the breeze, her wings fanning out behind her like a celestial fan.
Time to do some more good in the world.
After all…
She knew men across the country would love to watch her booty in action.
“Hehehe~”
—
It always takes the bloodiest of knights to make for the bustiest of saints, doesn't it?
