Chapter 4 – Island of Saints δ

Throat discomfort.

The sensation of having his throat slit by an iron plate was too real. Even after forty-eight hours, The Listener still found himself instinctively clutching his neck, forced to relive the dull pain simulated by the system.

This awful feeling didn’t fade even after Morning Prayer ended. He stood up from the small stool and walked into the crowd. The Penitent was talking to The Flagellant and The Ascetic, while The Mute held a large basin, preparing to distribute bread. Not far away, The Swordsman and The Archer were arguing. Everything was as usual—except for one thing. No, it wasn’t different, just…

The Convert still leaned against the pillar, lazily and arrogantly, drawing attention. That was his character setting. But for some reason, The Listener couldn’t help but glance over there repeatedly, as if some soft light was shining on that guy, making him dazzling. This was bad, he thought. Worse than the bug in his neck.

“Hey!” Suddenly, his arm was yanked from below. The Listener startled and looked down to see a pair of innocent blue eyes—The Pious One.

“You’re not looking for me,” the child frowned and complained. “What are you doing?”

“I…” The Listener hesitated. “I was…” His gaze drifted back toward The Convert again—the wavy black hair, the reserved and haughty posture. In his homeland, he must have been someone extraordinary, accustomed to being surrounded by crowds. But now, unusually, he wasn’t looking this way. The Listener wondered, Why isn’t he looking over here?

“I’ve been thinking these past two days,” The Pious One tugged at his sleeve and whispered, “I’ve pretty much figured out where the thing is. You go find The Firehand first, and we—”

The Listener absentmindedly cut him off: “Not him this time.”

“Why?” The Pious One tugged harder.

“If we really get out, we’ll need someone like The Swordsman,” The Listener brushed the small hand off his arm and cautiously scanned their surroundings. “At this stage, The Firehand isn’t useful anymore.”

With that, he subtly sidestepped The Pious One and headed toward the bread basin.

The Scriptorium was nearly empty in the morning. A rare, faint sunlight spilled through the southern window, casting dappled shadows like swaying trees. Under the window sat a neatly groomed monk, his quill scratching across parchment in elegant calligraphy.

“Brother,” The Listener stood behind him.

The Swordsman didn’t stop writing, asking casually, “What?”

This wasn’t the same person as last time. Following the embedded system prompts, The Listener asked, “May I speak with you more closely?”

The Swordsman answered irrelevantly, continuing to write those ancient letters while shifting slightly to let him see. “Hey, look at these words. They’re really coming from my hand. Pretty interesting, huh?”

That was the skill integration during character fusion—just like The Convert’s scimitar or The Pious One’s knowledge. The Listener repeated, “May I speak with you more closely?”

The Swordsman set down his pen, visibly impatient. “Just say it. No need for all the formalities.”

He turned around. Backlit, his face was strikingly handsome, with the classical serenity of a Greek sculpture. But because the “person inside” was different, the originally warm and refined temperament was gone, replaced by greed and cunning.

“Ah, The Listener,” he grinned, crossing his legs. “Here to make a deal?”

The Listener wasn’t surprised. It was common for the same character to be played multiple times. “Then I’ll get straight to the point,” he said bluntly. “Tonight, the Saints’ Tombs. You, me, The Pious—”

“The Saints’ Tombs?” The Swordsman looked confused. “Not the Vestment Vault?”

The Listener froze, narrowing his eyes at him. “You were originally…”

The Swordsman chuckled sheepishly. “Played as The Mute for a while,” he waved his hand dismissively. “Got outsmarted by you—well, by ‘The Listener’—and lost my life.”

That sounded like it was referring to him. The Listener felt awkward. The Swordsman stood up, adjusting the gem-studded belt over his robe and proudly grabbing his greatsword. “Alright, see you tonight,” he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Don’t forget my share.”

He was referring to the gold coins.

Leaving the Scriptorium, The Listener headed to the Cathedral. Though called a cathedral, it hadn’t seen proper repairs in three hundred years. The outer walls were crumbling, exposing large stone bricks, and the rose windows were either missing or broken. Inside, the sunlight filtering through the gaps above was patchy and surreal.

The Listener walked down the narrow aisle between the rows of seats. At the foot of the high platform, near the washbasin, a figure in a stark black robe was crouched, scrubbing the floor diligently.

“Brother,” The Listener called.

The man looked up—a thin, small face with two large eyes. “Hello, brother.”

He lowered his head again. The Listener glanced around. “This work—interesting?”

The man replied indifferently, “It’s alright.”

“I’ve got a job,” The Listener shook his sleeve, and something small fell out, rolling in a circle before the man caught it with his hand—a gold coin. “Interested?”

Clutching the coin, the man stood up, overjoyed. “Money?”

The Listener smiled. “Would you work for free, Thief?”

“No money, no deal,” The Thief bit the coin, then weighed it in his palm. “Last time, The Flagellant asked me to pick some lock, didn’t pay, and I ignored him!”

The Flagellant? A lock? The Listener’s heart skipped. He was about to ask for details when a group of seven or eight young monks rushed in, armed with sticks, pointing at The Thief and shouting, “It’s him!”

The Thief tried to flee, darting left and right, but failed. The group cornered him, stomped on his nimble hands, and beat him mercilessly with their sticks.

“Wait!” The Listener pushed through, trying to pull the young men away. “What did he do?”

“None of your business!” They shoved him back, outnumbering him. “He stole from a noble!”

The Listener stood there dumbfounded. “Who?… What?”

The Thief wailed as the group took turns tormenting him. One of them, tired from beating, stepped back to catch his breath and, spotting The Listener, exclaimed excitedly, “He stole from The Archer!”

The Archer… The Listener glanced at the crumpled figure on the ground. He had sought him out as a precaution—in case The Pious One’s guess wasn’t the answer, in case there were other mechanisms behind the wooden door. He needed someone with skills, and that someone was The Thief. After a moment’s thought, he decided he couldn’t give up on him yet. “Where’s The Archer?”

“Huh?” The group yanked The Thief up by his hair, toying with him like an animal. “The apple grove to the east. He’s always playing his flute there.”

Coldly, The Listener told The Thief, “Wait here,” then turned and headed east.

The apple grove bore no apples, only scattered blossoms. From afar, the delicate sound of a flute drifted through the air. In this eerie monastery, amid the endless cycle of tasks, such pure beauty was deeply moving.

Spotting the figure, The Listener pushed aside a branch. Under a small apple tree sat a young man with overly long golden hair, playing a vertical flute made from a goose’s leg bone. A string of extravagant gemstone beads hung around his neck. He played an unfamiliar tune—though system-simulated, The Listener was captivated.

The Archer noticed him and stopped, making no move to stand. The Listener approached, ducking under the low-hanging branches. Amused by his awkwardness, The Archer leaned back against the tree trunk and said slowly, “Rivals meeting, eyes burning with hatred.”

Rivals—referring to The Convert? Had this Archer already unlocked The Convert’s obsession with The Listener? That was too fast. The Listener crouched down, studying the nobleman intently. “I have no feelings for him.”

The Archer turned his profile away, as if unwilling to argue. “But he does for you.”

“Let The Thief go,” The Listener abruptly changed the subject. “Whatever he took, I’ll get it back for you.”

The Archer’s eyebrows shot up. His sea-colored eyes shimmered. “Fine,” he said softly, in an inscrutable tone. “But I want you to bring it to me personally.”

By the time The Thief was released, it was nearly dinner. He had been badly beaten—his left arm dislocated, his right ear bleeding—and now huddled pitifully in a corner of the Confessional. The Listener reached out to him. The Thief flinched. “What?”

“The thing,” The Listener ordered. “Hand it over.”

The Thief swatted his hand away. “Don’t have it.”

The Listener smiled. “Fine. Then return my gold coin.”

The Thief looked aggrieved. “Then… then I got beaten for nothing!”

“If you don’t return it,” The Listener grew impatient and began rifling through the bloodstained rags, “you won’t live through the night!”

“Alright, alright,” The Thief relented, reaching into his pants and fumbling around before pulling out a tiny object, clenched in his fist. “I’ll give it to you, but you owe me another gold coin!”

“Deal!” The Listener pried his hand open. Inside was a tiny gold ring—strangely small, smaller than a woman’s ring. He held it up for a closer look. Intricate arabesque patterns circled its surface.

Arabesque… Suddenly, he remembered something. In this very stone chamber, in a hazy morning light, The Penitent had confessed shamelessly: …a gold ring pierced through the left nipple, the size of a fingernail, with an Arabesque pattern…

It was The Convert’s? His eyes widened, making The Thief uneasy. “W-what’s wrong with it?”

“You… really stole this from The Archer?”

“Yep,” The Thief boasted. “Even things he hides against his chest, tied around his neck—nothing I can’t get my hands on!”

The Listener felt uneasy. The relationship between The Convert and The Archer had progressed this far? It unsettled him, even disgusted him. “Go eat. Meet at the Saints’ Tombs after nightfall.”

The Thief limped to his feet. “What about you?”

The Listener clenched the small gold ring. Had The Convert given it to The Archer, or had the latter taken it by force? Either way, they were already in that kind of “unspeakable” relationship. “I’ll pay your debt for you.”

When The Listener arrived at The Archer’s quarters, the man was clearly waiting. His room was luxurious—silver-plated chandeliers, wolfskin rugs, sour wine. Draped in a pearl-colored silk shawl, he greeted his guest with an enigmatic smile. “So late. I thought you’d broken our deal.”

“When did your people release him? Didn’t you know?” The Listener wouldn’t normally speak like this—it made him seem agitated. The Archer caught onto it and asked with the air of a victor, “Where is it?”

The Listener glared at him, then slowly opened his hand and extended it. Resting on his palm was the small gold ring.

The Archer laughed wantonly—not the relieved laughter of recovering something beloved, but laughter deliberately aimed at him. “Do you know what this is?” He wasn’t in a hurry to take it, letting The Listener hold it for him. “You’ve encountered so many Converts—you should know.”

The Listener frowned. “How do you know how many Converts I’ve met?”

The Archer pursed his lips and walked closer, his silk shawl slipping from his golden hair. Suddenly, he wrapped his arms around The Listener’s neck and whispered, “‘The Convert’ needs a man…”

The Listener shoved him away. The small gold ring tumbled to the ground. He recognized him now. “You—you were The Convert before?”

That Convert who ignored the damn storyline and only chased after ‘The Convert.’

The Archer bent down to pick up the ring, gripping it tightly. “The system’s so-called ‘fate’—I don’t believe in it. In this version, I got to him first.” He pointed arrogantly at the door. “Get out. Don’t let me see you approach him again.”

The Listener stubbornly met his gaze. “How did you recognize me?”

“Your eyes,” The Archer said disdainfully. “That hypocritical, sanctimonious look in your eyes.”

The Listener didn’t argue. He walked out the door and headed to the refectory. By now, the bread distribution should still be ongoing. As soon as he entered, he saw monks crowding in chaos. Someone pushed through with a bloodied cloth, and The Listener grabbed a brother’s arm. “What happened?”

“Th-The Thief—Drunkard slit his throat with a broken bowl!”

Shocked, The Listener roughly shoved through the crowd. In the center, The Thief lay covered in blood, his eyes rolled back. When The Listener looked up, The Pious One was watching from the opposite side. He crossed over, grabbed him, and pulled him into a corner. “When the first bell rings, slip out. Exactly five minutes later, we’ll go back in together.”

“Slip out…?” The Pious One was stunned. When realization hit, he instinctively clutched his neck. “Why?”

The Listener thought for a moment. “Not sure yet. I think this Thief might still be useful.”

──────

The Listener walked down the dark and rugged corridor. The black stone walls were slick with dampness, covered in a thin layer of frost. Patches of dark green moss grew between the cracks, glistening under the faint firelight from the lamp troughs, dripping tiny beads of dew.

After hearing The Penitent’s confession, he hurried to the refectory. Morning Prayer had ended, and bread had been distributed. Amid the quiet diners, he headed straight for the corner by the west wall, only briefly exchanging glances with The Pious One along the way.

The black-robed Thief was crouched there, about to take a bite of bread when The Listener grabbed his hood and yanked him outside.

“Hey, what are you doing?” The Thief struggled, but The Listener was much taller and stronger, twisting the hand that had stolen so many things. “If you don’t leave now, you’ll be beaten half to death later!”

The Thief went still, tiptoeing after him. “Why?”

The Listener wanted to drag him to the Saints’ Tombs to hide there until nightfall. “You took something from The Archer, didn’t you?”

“The Archer?” The Thief sounded innocent. “No, what thing?”

The Listener suddenly stopped, turning to scrutinize him, eyes burning as he gauged the truth. “The Archer’s… a small gold…” Abruptly, he cut himself off. This version of The Archer wasn’t the same as before—he might never have gotten that ring. So how could The Thief have stolen it?

Letting go of his wrist, The Listener recalled the scene in the refectory earlier—The Archer and The Swordsman arguing, while The Convert… that cat-eyed youth had been staring unblinkingly at him, cold and sharp, watching him!

It was that guy… The Listener covered his face. That guy would never let The Archer get his hands on his nipple ring—because he was foolish, his eyes only on him.

After settling plans with The Thief, The Listener went to find The Swordsman. Around noon, he returned to the dormitory. In the long corridor, a lone figure stood waiting. From a distance, he recognized him—The Convert.

He had been waiting at his door, probably all morning. The Listener kept his expression blank, casually pulling out his key to unlock the door. Without a word, the two entered in silent understanding.

“Do whatever you want,” The Listener kicked off his shoes and stripped off his robe, collapsing exhausted onto the small bed. “I need to sleep.”

With this Convert, he had no defenses left—as if facing an old friend, all caution long discarded. The Convert moved quietly, sitting on the broken chair opposite the bed, watching him in silence.

Soon, snores rose from the bed. The Listener curled on his side, facing the wall. The Convert had to crane his neck just to see his face. Slowly, he stood up, bracing one knee on the edge of the bed, and drew his scimitar.

A cold glint of steel. The Listener remained oblivious, sleeping peacefully, lips slightly parted like a child’s. The blade inched toward his head—slowly, stealthily. The Convert pinched a lock of his silver-gray hair and sliced it off.

The scimitar slid back into its sheath with a sharp ‘shing.’ He plucked a loose thread from his tattered robe, tying the hair into a neat bundle. Just as he was about to tuck it into his chest, The Listener suddenly flipped over and grabbed his wrist.

“What are you doing?” he asked blearily.

The Convert pursed his lips, then, after a long pause, raised his eyes arrogantly. “Nothing.”

“Hand it over!” The Listener yanked at him. The Convert resisted stubbornly, and in the tussle, the two tumbled onto the bed in a tangled mess. The Listener, suddenly embarrassed, flushed red. “That lock of hair… will bring you harm!”

The Convert didn’t believe him. “Harm because I can’t let you go?” He leaned in, nipping lightly at his ear. “If I can’t have you, can’t I at least keep a memento?”

The Listener immediately released him, his face burning crimson, flustered as he covered his ear.

The Convert sprawled on his bed, refusing to move, wrapping his legs around The Listener’s waist to trap him.

“You…” The Listener grabbed his ankle with one hand, barely propping himself up with the other. “You’ve always liked…”

The last three words—”men, haven’t you?”—were spoken so softly The Convert had to sit up to hear. “No,” he said, their faces now inches apart. His long lashes lowered as he stared at The Listener’s lips—so cold-looking. “Isn’t everyone like this? With men…”

The atmosphere grew ambiguous. Unconsciously, The Listener found himself fixated on The Convert’s lips—those Eastern lips, curved like a crescent moon.

Then those lips moved. “How do you usually… do it?”

The Listener didn’t dare answer, his face burning hotter. He timidly turned his head, staring blankly at their shadows on the floor.

“With your hand?” The Convert pressed closer, so near their lips were almost touching. “I use my hand too. With two people, it’s just… an extra pair of hands…”

The Listener grew increasingly uneasy—whether from nerves or frustration, he couldn’t tell. He lowered his head. “I… rarely…”

Though the room held only the two of them, they spoke in hushed whispers, as if afraid of being overheard. “Rarely…” The Convert probed. “How long has it been?”

The Listener mumbled something unintelligible. The Convert looped his arms around his neck, slowly tightening his embrace, trapping his head. “The last time,” he straddled his lap, predatory, “when was it?”

The Listener shyly dodged, whispering, “Almost… never…”

The Convert looked at him with disbelief, as if he were a naive girl. “How old are you?”

The Listener glared at him indignantly. “Disclosing personal info violates the rules,” he said stiffly. “I don’t want a thirty-day ban—ah!”

The Convert grabbed him firmly, shamelessly. “This big…” He stared into those gray eyes. “And hard from just a touch…” He lingered on the last word, teasingly, seductively, letting it curl into The Listener’s ear.

The Listener shuddered violently, trembling uncontrollably. He really did seem like a virgin. The Convert’s hand moved, stroking him through his pants, each slow pump drawing a startled gasp. The Listener stared wide-eyed at his own lap in disbelief.

“Feels good?” The Convert asked. Seizing the moment of dazed vulnerability, he hiked up his own robe, guiding The Listener’s hand inside and pressing it against something hot. The Listener didn’t flee, but neither did he move, frozen as he touched, his stiffness making The Convert’s legs weaken, his back arching in tremors.

“Bastard!” he cursed, even as he freed his left hand from his collar, baring half his shoulder like a child undressing. Just that tiny glimpse, and The Listener’s gaze locked onto it.

Pale skin, flawless as alabaster. A few small moles dotted his armpit. His chest bore faint pink areolas, and at the tip of one nipple—a gold ring. Small, engraved with an Arabesque pattern. The Listener reached out, too timid to touch the nipple itself, instead tugging lightly at the ring. “Does it hurt?” he whispered. “When did you get it?”

“Had it when I got here,” The Convert stared greedily, as if eyeing a sweet pastry or a long-coveted piece of meat. “Do you like it? Want me to take it off for you?”

Suddenly, The Listener thought of The Archer. Had his Convert been like this too? Tangled recklessly in bed with him, letting him fondle his nipples, offering the ring like a virgin’s token? Roughly, he grasped The Convert’s length, mimicking the way he’d been handled, clumsily stroking him.

The Convert gritted his teeth, suppressing his moans. Veins bulged at his temples, sweat beading at his hairline. “G-Gently!” He clutched The Listener’s wrist, surrendering as he pressed his forehead to his shoulder.

“What do you like about me?” The Listener suddenly asked.

“Huh?” The Convert’s lips trembled, nuzzling into his chest. “That you came looking for me… that you worried about the cut on my hand… that you were so cold, wouldn’t even glance at me…”

Perhaps the mood was too intoxicating, or the words too tender. Either way, The Listener’s mind was about to explode. Without needing guidance, he seized that slender neck, desperately pressing their lips together.

“My God…” The Convert moaned, shivering as he curled in on himself. The Listener wouldn’t let him retreat, controlling him, manipulating him, holding him like a flower or a blade. “My hair… give it back.”

The Convert tried to retrieve it, but his trembling hands fumbled. The Listener boldly explored every possible crevice of his body, tickling him until The Convert giggled, a mix of shock and delight, before The Listener suddenly gripped him. Like a raging tide, he recklessly captured his lips.

The Convert fell silent at once.

It was just a shallow kiss, over as quickly as it began. As The Convert melted against him, still savoring the taste, he lifted an eyebrow. “From now on, we…”

The Listener felt there was no “from now on.” Even this kiss—he regretted succumbing to temptation.

──────

That night, he crouched with The Pious One and the others in the grass outside the Saints’ Tombs. Only after The Flagellant and The Ascetic entered the “King’s” tomb did they begin to move.

The Swordsman and The Thief were here for the first time. As soon as they entered the tomb passage, they grew nervous. When they reached the bottomless pit, the wind from nowhere lifting their hair, they joked with pale faces: “This isn’t treasure hunting—it’s suicide!”

The Listener and The Pious One led the way. It was a terrifying path, but after walking it so many times, they’d grown accustomed. Soon, the three arched corridors appeared in the torchlight. The Listener motioned The Pious One ahead, standing beside him like a student, as if asking: Which path should we take?

The Pious One raised his arm, extending a slender finger, slowly pointing to the rightmost passage. The inscription above it read: For ours is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen.

“That can’t be right,” The Listener wasn’t doubting, just puzzled. “This is a dead end.”

“Let’s go,” The Pious One had already stepped inside, his childish voice echoing from the murky darkness. “Only by testing it will we know if I’m right.”

So everyone followed him in. The long blood mural stretched before them, ending at a rotten wooden door wrapped in stinking sheepskin. This door wasn’t the issue—they’d opened it before. The Pious One handed the torch to The Thief and pushed the door open with his whole body. Suddenly, that same musty, cold wind rushed out, tousling his childlike hair.

“Hey,” The Thief shuddered. “This is fucking terrifying. I’m not going in!”

“It’s just a game,” The Pious One scoffed. “Besides, no one’s asking you to walk in.”

Not go in? The Listener frowned, following The Pious One over the threshold. Just as he was about to voice his confusion, the child pushed them forward, turned back, and slammed the door shut with the wind’s force—bang!

“What are you—” Everyone jumped. The Listener cut himself off abruptly. From where the door had been, a narrow, elongated hole appeared—an entrance hidden within the entrance.

“My God,” The Swordsman gasped. “It’s a door within a door!”

The Pious One chuckled. “I was right. Of these three passages, only this one could hide an entrance.”

The Listener didn’t praise him, only gently ruffled his curly hair with a broad hand. “Let’s go.”

The hole was extremely narrow, barely wide enough for an adult to squeeze through sideways. They filed in, hoping the space would widen, but the deeper they went, the tighter the devil’s path became—like a giant clamp about to crush them.

If the path is this narrow, The Listener thought, the thing must be small—a weasel or a scorpion, maybe? But if that were the case, how could it be worth two thousand gold coins? Suddenly, the space ahead opened up. The narrow path ended, and in the torchlight, they saw a massive circular stone chamber.

“Holy shit!” The Thief exclaimed from behind. “After all this time, I never knew about this storyline. We must have unlocked the Island of Saints’ ultimate secret!”

Oxygen was scarce, and the torchlight dim. The Listener urgently shone the light toward the chamber’s center, where a waist-high iron cage stood. Inside was a gray, shapeless mass—like a pile of rags.

“What is that?” The Swordsman asked.

“It can’t be…” The Pious One tiptoed, afraid to approach. “The Female Saint from the legends… starved to death alive…”

The Listener stepped forward. Underground, in an iron cage, silver. There was no more fitting explanation. Inside the cage was likely the skeleton of a woman, dead for over three hundred years, with a fetus in her womb!

He crouched by the cage, reaching in to feel for bones. After some fumbling, his fingers brushed a thin arm—pale, with the faintest trace of warmth. He froze, gripping it, feeling the pulse at the inner elbow flutter. With a tug, he pulled a figure out from under the rags.

“It’s alive,” he said slowly, looking at The Pious One. “…How is this possible?”

The Pious One couldn’t answer either, whispering, “Is it the Female Saint?”

The Listener studied the ‘thing’—a creature barely human anymore. Its short, gray-white hair was matted, its eyes covered in a reptilian film from years without light. Tiny insects skittered across its eyelids. Its body was emaciated, hovering on the brink of death.

“So pitiful…” The Listener reached into the rags, first touching a skeletal chest with two small, pointed nipples, like red bumps. He trailed down to the protruding hip bones, then between the legs—no hair. When his fingers brushed the private area, he pulled back. “It’s male.”

“Not the Female Saint?” The Pious One dared to step closer. “Then why was he locked here?”

“No idea,” The Listener moved aside. “Judging by his condition, he’s been here at least three years. Doesn’t seem like anyone fed him regularly. How did he survive?”

The Swordsman and The Thief crowded around, peering into the cage. “God, that’s disgusting,” they covered their noses. “We have to take this freak out?”

“Yes,” The Listener signaled to The Thief. “Quick, open the cage.”

The Thief immediately pulled out his tools, circling the cage. After a full inspection, he sighed. “There’s no fucking lock.”

Like the legend of the Female Saint, the cage was welded shut. The Listener turned to The Swordsman. “Use your sword to cut it open,” he pointed to the narrow passage. “We can’t take the whole cage out.”

The Swordsman sighed. “Brother,” he showed off his gem-studded greatsword. “It’s bronze. No way it’s cutting through iron.”

The Pious One patted The Listener’s shoulder. “Let’s go find some tools and come back tomorrow night—” Before he could finish, The Listener shook his head. “I’ve been preparing for this moment for so long, searching everywhere. I’ve never found a saw.”

“In other words…” The Pious One understood. If the game’s design didn’t include a saw—if the developers never coded it—then it didn’t exist in this world.

“Besides,” The Listener gripped the frail hand of the caged man, pity in his voice, “he won’t last much longer.”

“I have an idea,” The Thief interjected. “Can anyone get water? Cold water?”

The Listener asked, “How much?”

“Two or three buckets,” The Thief thought. “The more, the better.”

Would this really work? Using water to open a cage? The Listener hesitated, then nodded. “We’ll try. Tomorrow night, I’ll bring the water.”

The Listener could leave the Island of Saints to fetch water. It was on one such trip that he met the old man wrapped in a beggar’s cloak, who offered two thousand gold coins to find someone. What connection did the caged man have to him?

Carrying water through the underground passage, he couldn’t help but wonder. They’d found the ‘thing,’ but the mysteries only deepened, layer upon layer, perhaps unsolvable. Entering the stone chamber, he rushed to the cage with the torch and checked the man’s breathing. Faintly, there was still a trace of life.

The Thief set down the bucket, stirring the water with a finger. “Not cold enough.”

“This is all we have. No fridge here,” The Listener rolled up his sleeves. “Tell me what to do.”

With three buckets of water, The Thief selected a thinner bar of the cage, poured cold water over it, then held the torch to it. After repeating this a few times, the metal began to crack and contract from thermal stress.

Thermal expansion and contraction, The Listener realized. Just as he was about to help, the man in the cage furrowed his faint brows and let out a muffled whimper.

“Wait, stop! He can’t take it!”

“Tough luck,” The Thief ignored him, continuing with the water and fire. “No other way.”

After five minutes of this, The Thief tossed aside the torch, pulling out a short wooden stick and a coil of rope. He tied the rope around the heated bar, twisted the stick, and—snap!—the bar broke.

The Listener hurried to drag the man out. He was so light, so thin—like paper, slipping effortlessly through the narrow gap. Cradling him in the torchlight, The Listener saw a beautiful young man, maybe seventeen or eighteen, tall but wasted away to nothing.

“Ugh, gross,” The Swordsman backed away in disgust. “Don’t touch me after this!”

The Thief was wiping his hands near the entrance when he noticed a fresher-colored stone among the floor tiles. Curious, he crouched. “Hey, come look at this!”

The Listener didn’t seem to hear, gently patting the pale face in his arms, stroking the hair like comforting a child. Suddenly, he pressed his fingers to the thin neck, checking for a pulse. “He… stopped breathing!”

Silence fell. Slowly, The Pious One asked, “Did the buyer… specify he had to be alive?”

The Listener scooped up the corpse, grabbing the torch. “Let’s go. We’re leaving the Island of Saints tonight!”

His water cart was behind the refectory, in the cattle shed, hidden under a tarpaulin with a few large buckets. The horses were sturdy—one black, one spotted. He drove the cart at breakneck speed toward the island’s eastern gate, the only exit.

Passing through the gate was easy. Above the gatehouse was a small wooden hut where the gatekeeper lived. Hearing the cart, he called out with a lantern: “Out so late at night?”

“It’s me!” The Listener tugged the reins. “We agreed yesterday—early departure. I need to be back by dawn to pray and polish the Tabernacle’s sacred vessels!”

Silence. The wooden rollers on either side of the gate creaked as they turned. The Listener cracked the whip, spurring the horses through the rising gate.

This was his first time leaving the Island of Saints. The forest loomed dark, casting only slivers of moonlight on the gravel road. From under the tarpaulin, heads popped out of the empty buckets, yelling into the wind: “Holy shit, this is the outside! The real outside!”

Outside. The Listener smirked. After so many attempts, he was finally about to succeed. “Giddy up!”

They rode nonstop through the night. When the first rays of sunlight brushed his shoulders, he pulled the reins. They’d been heading west the whole time. Around his neck hung the old man’s whistle; in his hand, the sheepskin map. “Rest here,” he called back, pointing to a babbling stream a dozen paces away. “Drink some water!”

“We should keep going,” The Pious One clung to the bucket’s edge. “Once Morning Prayer starts, they’ll realize we’re gone!”

The Listener climbed onto the cart and carefully lifted the cold corpse from the wooden barrel. “He needs washing. Like this… it’s too cruel.”

The dawn-chilled stream was icy. He unwrapped the rags from the corpse, revealing what had once been a splendid robe—now threadbare, its embroidery rotted, the fabric’s color long faded. The body was just as gaunt, its skin glowing faintly silver in the dim forest light.

“If we hadn’t opened the cage,” The Listener cupped water to wash the face, “you wouldn’t have died.”

The corpse didn’t answer, holding no resentment. The surroundings were silent, as if only the two of them existed. The Listener turned the thin body over, revealing a massive scar from the shoulder blades to the waist—like a burn, or flesh carved away.

The Listener covered his mouth. What had this man endured in life? A wave of guilt and nausea hit him. He pressed his ear to the chest—nothing. Prying open the mouth, he saw neat white teeth. Suddenly, he wanted to revive him, to at least try… Taking a deep breath, he leaned down and pressed his lips to the corpse’s, breathing into him.

“Hey!” From the cart, The Thief and The Swordsman burst into laughter. “Big guy, you fucking necrophiliac!”

The Listener wiped his mouth, about to call them over to see the wounds—when something pounced on The Swordsman. The Thief screamed and bolted, but not fast enough. His shrill cry echoed: “Wolves! Wolves!”

The Listener sprinted back. A massive force slammed into him from behind, and in the next instant, teeth sank mercilessly into his neck.

Not one wolf—a pack! He collapsed into a pool of blood, his coarse robe torn from all directions. Soon, the agony of being gutted reached his brain.