Chapter 5 – Island of Saints ζ

“And Samuel told all the words of the Lord unto the people that asked of him a king. And he said, This will be the manner of the king that shall reign over you: He will take your sons, and appoint them for himself, for his chariots, and to be his horsemen; and some shall run before his chariots.…”

The Listener sat on a small stool. As soon as the prayer he had heard dozens, if not hundreds, of times ended, he immediately stood up and walked into the crowd. Ahead, beneath a pillar, stood The Convert, leaning lazily against it, his head arrogantly raised.

The Mute carried a bread basket into the refectory, The Swordsman began to argue, and The Pious One watched with his blue eyes. The Listener ignored them all, his gaze fixed solely on that flamboyant infidel, who lounged with one leg propped against the pillar, raising an eyebrow as he looked over.

He stopped in his tracks. That look was all too familiar. He quickly lowered his head.

It was that guy—no mistake. The palm of his hand remembered the slippery touch of that skin, damp with sweat, trembling slightly. And those lips, eager to suckle at the slightest touch…

The Convert sauntered toward him, swaying like a flower on a stem or a blade of resilient grass, stopping gracefully in front of him. “Hey.”

The Listener fidgeted, staring at his toes. “Why is it you?”

“Why can’t it be me?” The Convert laughed lightly, his cat-like eyes curving like those of a proud noble in a miniature painting. “Scared?”

He was right. The Listener was afraid of him—afraid of his beautiful appearance, his supple figure, and his fiery temper. “It’s just… too much of a coincidence.”

“You disappeared during Morning Prayer,” The Convert said, stepping closer. He was referring to the last time. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

The Listener couldn’t deny it and nodded. The Convert looked somewhat forlorn, even jealous. “I heard you and that little brat talking before. You usually log into the game every forty-eight hours,” he said, greedily staring into The Listener’s eyes. “I just wanted to try my luck. I didn’t expect to actually…”

So, the time of Morning Prayer roughly coincided with when they had encountered the wolves. The Listener finally lifted his head, casting his shy, indifferent gaze toward him. “This time, help me out.”

For a fleeting moment, The Convert’s face lit up with wild joy, but he quickly suppressed it. He tilted his chin down, peering through the seductive gaps of his dark lashes as he studied The Listener. “I don’t want gold coins.”

“Then… what do you want?” The Listener stammered.

The Convert chuckled softly, like a child waiting for candy. “You know what I want.”

After eating bread, The Convert dragged The Listener by the sleeve to his place—a large south-facing room with a distant view of The Seven Saints’ Tombs through the window. The Convert sprawled lazily on the bed, tilting his head to watch The Listener lean nervously against the windowsill.

“Not even one kiss?” he asked.

The tips of The Listener’s ears turned red. He was both afraid and flustered. “Then… then come here!”

The Convert propped himself up, complaining, “Can’t you come to me?”

“How… how am I supposed to do that?” The Listener refused to turn around, his voice rising but his tone weak. “You’re the one who wants… wants that, not me…”

The Convert slapped the bed loudly. “Are you coming or not?”

Reluctantly, The Listener pulled his hands from the windowsill, rubbing them nervously before shuffling over. His unwillingness was so infuriating that The Convert almost wanted to grab him and throw him onto the bed. “Seriously? I’m letting you have me, not the other way around!”

At the word “have,” The Listener’s face became a mess of red and white. “I thought… wasn’t it just a kiss?”

The Convert rolled his eyes, sitting up to glare at him. “Yeah, a kiss. Come on.”

He sat boldly on the edge of the bed while The Listener stood opposite him, awkwardly bending down to carefully cup his chin. What should have been a simple act became unbearably awkward because of his hesitation. Suddenly, he kissed him—and once their lips met, it was intense. The Convert was desperate, gripping his shoulders tightly, pulling him close.

The Listener was so shy and scared that when The Convert finally let go, he could barely stand straight. His eyes were dazed, his lips wet and parted as he panted heavily.

“Not bad?” The Convert asked, wiping the saliva from the corner of his mouth.

The Listener nodded dumbly, then immediately felt embarrassed and hunched his shoulders.

“Want some water?” The Convert pointed to the wall cabinet. “There’s a cup inside.”

The Listener knew there was a cup inside—he had used it many times before. But this time, perhaps because he was too shy or because it hadn’t been as bad as he feared, he shook his head. “Get two shovels.”

“Okay.” The Convert didn’t ask why, just grinned at him.

The Listener couldn’t stand that look and turned his face away. “Do you know The Carpenter?”

The Convert obediently turned his head as instructed but couldn’t stop giggling. “Yeah.”

“What’s so funny?!” The Listener snapped, though even his anger was polite. The Convert immediately straightened his face. “I’m not laughing, I swear! I’m not!”

The more he acted like this, the more uncomfortable The Listener felt, his face burning red. “Kill him!”

The monks gathered in the refectory for dinner. The Listener moved through the crowd, listening to the brothers around him gossip:

“…Did you hear? The Carpenter was killed.”

“Strangled to death… thrown in front of the Cathedral…”

“…Must’ve pissed someone off…”

The Listener scanned the crowd as he walked. There—the guy in the black robe. He approached slowly, watching as the man fiddled with a set of small keys, likely lockpicks. “Brother,” he called.

The Thief looked up at him blankly.

“You’re about to die,” The Listener said with a faint smile, brushing dust off his shoulder. “Or you can help me, and I’ll get you out of this hellhole.”

The Thief clearly didn’t believe him, his lips pursed in a sneer. Just as he was about to say something mocking, a strong force slammed into him from behind. In an instant, something rough pressed against his neck—a shard from a food bowl. The Listener, anticipating this, grabbed the assailant’s wrist and twisted hard.

The Drunkard collapsed to the ground. The refectory erupted into chaos as groups of monks rushed forward, pinning The Drunkard down and calling for The High Priest.

The Listener yanked The Thief by the collar, pulling him against the crowd toward the Tabernacle. “When it gets dark,” he whispered, “go to The Saints’ Tombs. Got it?”

“Y-yeah…” The Thief was still in shock, staring blankly at the swirling mass of robes. The hand on his collar loosened, and The Listener gave him a light shove before turning to leave—only to be stopped by a hand on his arm. He glanced sideways. It was The Swordsman.

“Need another teammate?” the handsome nobleman asked. The Listener warily scanned their surroundings. “To be honest, ‘The Swordsman’ isn’t very useful.”

“That’s because ‘he’ didn’t react in time,” The Swordsman said abruptly. “He was the first one the wolf attacked.”

The Listener’s expression turned surprised as he scrutinized the guy. The Thief? No… it was The Pious One. “I don’t need a main DPS right now. I just need someone who can get the cage out from underground.”

“We can figure it out,” The Swordsman said, narrowing his eyes as he locked gazes with him. “A cage that big—if they got it down there, we can get it out.”

He had a point. The Listener nodded and pushed open the small door to the Tabernacle’s compartment. “Keep watch for me.”

The Swordsman stood guard at the door, watching as The Listener pulled a small hammer from his robe. “What are you doing?”

The Listener answered indirectly. “That guy was too weak. Last time’s method won’t work. This time, we have to take the cage out,” he said decisively. “Otherwise, we’re not leaving.”

The Tabernacle was nailed to the wall with four old nails. The Listener used the hammer to loosen them from different angles. The Swordsman smirked. “Hey, is there any food in there? I’m starving.”

The Listener casually grabbed two thin communion wafers and tossed them to him. “That hungry?”

The Swordsman chewed. “Adults and kids feel hunger differently. This game’s realism settings are insane!”

The Listener and The Swordsman walked ahead, with The Convert and The Thief following behind. The night was terrifying enough, but the tomb passage was even darker—a blackness deeper than night itself, with only the flickering torchlight offering a sliver of comfort.

The Listener kept glancing back. At first, The Swordsman didn’t understand why—until he turned and softly reminded them, “Slow down. Watch your step.”

“Wow,” The Swordsman said sarcastically. “Never knew you were so attentive before.”

The Listener remained composed. “At this stage of the game, the real challenge is ‘outside.’ If we fail here, this whole playthrough is wasted.”

The Swordsman smirked noncommittally. A moment later, The Listener turned to give more instructions—ostensibly to both of them, but for some reason, The Swordsman and The Thief both glanced at The Convert. The Convert, uncomfortable under their stares, snapped at The Listener, “Will you shut up already? How many times are you gonna say it?”

Only then did The Listener fall silent.

They passed through the triple-arched corridor, walked to the end of the blood mural, and pushed open the sheepskin door. When it came time to squeeze through a narrow hole in the wall, The Convert pushed ahead, cutting in front of The Swordsman to stand beside The Listener. As soon as they were close, he secretly grabbed his hand from behind.

The Listener startled and turned to see a pair of cat-like amber eyes and a small, lively mole on the bridge of his nose in the torchlight.

The Convert’s lips curved into a faint smile before he quickly lowered his head. Maybe because of that, The Listener hesitated—he couldn’t bring himself to shake him off.

Once they emerged into the circular stone chamber, The Listener rushed to the cage. The iron cage was just as before, with a dying man wrapped in tattered cloth inside. He crouched down and hurriedly pulled out dry bread and a water pouch from his robe.

The Convert looked around the stone cave in amazement—the smooth walls, the beautiful domed ceiling. His gaze followed the elegant curves downward until it landed on The Listener, who was hugging the “monster” through the bars of the cage.

Yes, it was practically a monster—filthy, ugly, neither human nor ghost. In such an airtight stone cave, even the strongest man would suffocate.

Yet The Listener treated him with extreme tenderness, carefully feeding him water before breaking off a piece of dry bread, chewing it himself, and then using his fingers to place the softened paste into the man’s mouth. The care in his actions was that of a father—or a lover.

“Hey, what are you doing?” The Convert asked, his tone accusatory.

But The Listener was too focused on the man in the cage to even look up. “Keeping him alive. He’s too weak.”

“He’s not even human,” The Convert said viciously. “He won’t die without you.”

The Listener glanced at him, displeased. “He died in my arms once,” he said, gently cradling that slender waist. “I won’t let him die again.”

The Convert felt a surge of anger, the kind that comes from being deeply wronged. He wanted to argue further, but The Listener suddenly tightened his embrace, exclaiming in delight, “He just sucked on my finger! Like a baby, just a little suck!”

The Convert decided there was no point talking to him. Rolling his eyes, he kicked the wall in frustration and turned away, watching as The Swordsman searched along the stone walls and The Thief fumbled stupidly over his own body.

“What are you looking for?” The Convert asked.

“My keychain is missing,” The Thief muttered, frowning. “Where did I drop it…?” Suddenly, his attention was caught by something on the ground. He crouched down, staring at a stone slab. “Weird. This slab’s color is different from the others.”

The Convert crouched beside him. With a sharp shing, a greatsword suddenly stabbed into the gap between the slabs from the side, levering it up to reveal a wooden pedal beneath—called a pedal because it had two concave footprints carved into it.

The Swordsman sheathed his sword. “What is this?”

The Convert shook his head. The Thief stood up, grinning mockingly at them. “If there are footprints drawn, it’s meant to be stepped on,” he said, placing his feet one after the other onto the pedal. “Watch me—”

In an instant, he was yanked downward as if by an invisible force. Blood sprayed out like a pump, splattering The Convert and The Swordsman in the blink of an eye.

At the same time, something beneath the stone chamber began to move—a sound like massive gears turning. The narrow passageway widened, smoothly expanding outward until it was fully open.

During Morning Prayer, The Listener couldn’t help but glance repeatedly at the Tabernacle behind him. Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought he could hear the nails slowly pulling free from the lime-plastered wall.

“Amen!” The prayer’s final word was always the loudest. He stood from his stool and walked slowly into the crowd. At the other end of the sea of people stood The Convert. Despite the distance, their eyes locked instantly, their gazes twisting and turning like tangled threads.

The Convert looks were flirtatious. Even from afar, his eyes held a dreamy, intoxicating allure. No one could resist it—not even The Listener. Like a clumsy beetle caught in a silken web, he struggled slowly, helplessly sinking deeper…

Then came a loud boom. The monks all turned toward the Tabernacle, but The Listener didn’t. Instead, his lips curled into an imperceptible smile—one that said he had expected this.

The Convert understood immediately. This was his doing.

“The Tabernacle fell off the wall!” The monks swarmed around it, chattering. “The back panel’s broken… Don’t touch the sacred vessels! Where’s the door…? Go, call The Carpenter!”

But The Carpenter was already dead.

“Anyone else know carpentry?” they shouted. “Any carpenters here?”

There weren’t. The Island of Saints only had one carpenter—a flaw in the game’s design, which didn’t assign duplicate roles. The Listener locked eyes with The Convert over the crowd. Then, from behind, a voice bellowed:

“Listener!”

It was The High Priest.

The Listener turned slowly and retraced his steps. The Convert watched him with burning intensity, skirting the edge of the crowd to get closer, his hand already resting on his knife.

The Tabernacle was right there, but suddenly, someone blocked his path. The Swordsman grinned, stopping him. “Hey, beautiful. Don’t be rash.”

“Get lost!” The Convert snarled. He could see inside the compartment—the door propped open with a stool, The High Priest sitting on one side, The Listener opposite. He had seen this scene before—only last time, it ended with The Listener’s back crisscrossed with whip marks.

“You had him kill The Carpenter, didn’t you?” The Swordsman whispered, patting the hand gripping the knife. “Don’t worry. He knows what he’s doing.”

Sure enough, The Listener soon emerged from the compartment, The High Priest amiably patting his shoulder. “Disperse, everyone,” he said, waving his sleeves. “The Listener will take the Tabernacle outside for repairs. It’s his duty.”

“Elder,” The Listener said hesitantly, “the horse had diarrhea yesterday. Can we leave early tomorrow instead?”

The High Priest nodded generously. “As soon as possible, child.”

Success!

After leaving the refectory, the three of them split up to gather supplies—mainly The Convert’s two shovels, along with food and water. The Swordsman sharpened his greatsword until it gleamed. Once night fell, they descended into The Saints’ Tombs with ropes and wooden beams.

Inside the circular stone chamber, the “monster” seemed slightly different from before, curled up slightly as if reacting to the torchlight.

“Shh, don’t be afraid,” The Listener murmured, gently stroking his cheek. “We’ll get you out soon.”

The Convert watched coldly before giving the cage a light kick. “Quit dawdling. Are we leaving or not?”

The Listener shot him a glare, then looped a rope over the cage frame, tying a slipknot and padding it with wooden beams. The three of them took turns pulling from the front.

They worked until the early hours of the morning before finally reaching the surface. A carriage waited nearby. The Listener drove it over, and together, they loaded the cage onto it. The Swordsman hid under the tarpaulin first. When it was The Convert’s turn, he pretended to climb aboard but suddenly turned and grabbed The Listener’s collar, pressing his lips to his in the darkness.

“What are you—” The Listener didn’t dare make a sound, letting The Convert slip his tongue inside. The Swordsman poked his head out from under the tarpaulin, sighing before knocking on the carriage. “Uh… just a reminder, let’s focus on the mission. It’ll be dawn soon!”

The Convert let go, shoving The Listener away angrily before climbing onto the carriage without another word. The Listener’s face burned. He was annoyed but felt it would be too embarrassing to argue over something like this, so he awkwardly took the reins and drove off.

By the time they passed through the eastern gate of the Island of Saints, the sky was beginning to lighten. The gatekeeper saw the large object covered by the tarpaulin and assumed it was the Tabernacle, so he didn’t inspect it. After turning west and crossing the first ridge, The Listener stopped the carriage and called The Convert down.

“What?” The Convert crossed his arms arrogantly. “I’m sleepy.”

“Take your shovel,” The Listener said, unhitching the black horse and fitting it with a saddle and reins. “Come with me.”

The Convert’s face brightened instantly—happy but trying not to show it. “Just the two of us?”

The Listener ignored him, switching the carriage’s double shafts to a single one. To The Swordsman, he said, “We’ll go ahead. Drive the carriage slowly. We’ll wait for you about a kilometer before the stream.”

The Swordsman grabbed his arm. “The wolves appear at dawn. This time, we won’t reach that spot until noon. Don’t bother.”

“Don’t you think this game’s triggers are player-activated?” The Listener lifted the tarpaulin slightly to check on the cage. “Like how The Thief found the mechanism under the slab, the wolves will find us.”

The “monster” seemed to be sleeping soundly, utterly silent. Reluctantly, The Listener turned away. “Take care of him.”

They set off, riding double on the horse. The sun rose slowly through the dense forest canopy, casting dappled golden light. At some point, The Convert wrapped his arms around The Listener’s waist, pressing his chest flush against his back. “I always thought the Island of Saints was surrounded by sea.”

He spoke first, his tone docile. The Listener, still a little miffed but not enough to hold a grudge, replied coolly, “The Island of Saints is the monastery’s name. It’s a metaphor—God’s faithful gathered here in the vast sea of ignorance.”

“How do you know?” The Convert pressed his face against The Listener’s back, rubbing shamelessly.

“I’ve… played for a long time.” The Listener shivered as ripples of sensation ran down his spine.

“How long?” The Convert asked, just to keep the conversation going, to savor this rare intimacy.

The Listener turned his head, troubled. “You really shouldn’t do this. It makes me very uncomf—”

The Convert leaned up and kissed him again—another desperate, wet, burning kiss. But they were on a galloping horse, jostling as trees blurred past. The Listener was seized by an unprecedented thrill of recklessness. He couldn’t push him away—in fact, he wanted more, again and again—

Before reaching their destination, they did do it again and again. It was impossible to say who initiated it—perhaps it was mutual. Sucking, panting, trembling—by the time The Listener dismounted, his legs were weak.

“Dig here,” he said, pointing to a relatively sparse patch of trees. “As deep as you can.”

The Convert didn’t ask why, picking up the shovel immediately. Then The Listener handed him a clean cloth. He froze before realizing it was for the cut on his hand.

He remembered. The Convert lowered his head, unable to even say “thanks”—too overwhelmed. Maybe, like those wordless kisses, many things between them were already understood without speaking.

They dug until the sun began to set, creating a pit over a man’s height. The Convert cut thick branches with large leaves from nearby trees, stepping onto a small slope left on one side of the pit. He reached out to The Listener. “Come up. Time to lay the branches.”

The Listener didn’t think twice, grabbing his hand to climb up—only for The Convert to deliberately let go, sending them both tumbling back down.

The loose soil was as soft as a freshly made bed. The Convert leaned against The Listener’s shoulder, giggling. The Listener stared at him, flustered, then slowly became entranced. The Convert noticed his gaze, his smile fading as he grew serious—but before he could say anything, The Listener turned away, staring at a pair of white-crowned sparrows perched on a fir branch overhead.

The Convert propped himself up on one elbow, studying him thoughtfully. The Listener’s face slowly, slowly reddened, and he blurted out, “What are you looking at…?”

Instead of answering, The Convert pressed his palm firmly between The Listener’s legs, rubbing in quick circles. The Listener began to tremble, his teeth chattering. Too embarrassed to be watched so shamelessly, he closed his eyes.

Then The Convert lifted his robe. He didn’t resist. When his pants were pulled down, he still didn’t refuse. He might have continued pretending nothing was happening—until a sudden wet heat enveloped him below. He jerked up in shock, staring down in horror.

Between his legs, The Convert was kneeling, making soft sucking sounds. He knew what he was doing, so his expression was one of utter disbelief. “Hey…” he whispered. “Hey!”

The Convert was too busy to reply. The Listener spread his legs, gritting his teeth before giving up and lying back, letting out an involuntary moan. “You’re… so perverted…”

This time, The Convert stopped and looked up. “More perverted than you and that ‘monster’?”

The Listener thrust his hips slightly, wanting to push his head back down but too embarrassed. “How are we perverted?”

The Convert knew what he wanted but refused to give it. “You chewed bread for him like a mother bird. Isn’t that perverted? He’s a grown man, yet you coddle him like a child. Isn’t that perverted?”

The Listener was truly at his limit, his entire lower body trembling. “He’s… a dying man. If I don’t take care of him, who will? He needs me.”

“Who the hell knows who really needs you,” The Convert muttered, eyeing his erection. “If I’m so perverted, do you still want it?”

Getting The Listener to say “yes” was harder than climbing to heaven. He squirmed awkwardly, staring at the bugs in the dirt, fists clenched in silence. The Convert pinched his thigh hard. “I asked you—do you want it or not?”

The Listener winced from the pinch and quickly grabbed his hand. “Y-you want to… so just…”

“I want to?” The Convert glared at him angrily. “Sucking your dick—what the hell do I get out of it?”

His words were too crude. The Listener couldn’t take it and turned away, clumsily rubbing himself through his robe. The Convert might really be a pervert—watching him like this, he swallowed hard before boldly wrapping his arms around his waist and diving between his legs. “Come here, hurry up!”

The Listener immediately turned toward him, lying flat. Just as he settled, The Convert felt the ground beneath them tremble. He stood up, listening carefully. “It’s the carriage!”

The Listener scrambled to his feet, hastily pulling up his pants. “Let’s go, up!” Even in his panic, he didn’t forget to grab The Convert, cupping his face to wipe his lips. “Hurry, cover the branches.”

The Convert froze for a brief moment. In that instant, he realized this wasn’t just a game for him—he had fallen for real.

They flattened the inner slope of the pit, densely layering branches over it before scattering leaves and dirt. In the distance, the carriage carrying the cage approached. The Swordsman, seeing the trap from the carriage, immediately understood and signaled for them to mount up. Together, they galloped toward the stream where they had encountered the wolves last time.

After tying the horse to a tree, the three of them quickly divided tasks, standing back-to-back under the shade of the forest. The Swordsman’s grip on his sword was slick with sweat. “It’s not dark yet. Will they come?”

The Listener trusted his instincts. “If the cage is here, the wolves will come.”

Suddenly, a gust of wind rushed through the trees. “They’re here!” The Convert shouted.

Before his voice even faded, a wolf—large, brown-gray, with knife-like teeth—burst from the underbrush, lunging straight for The Listener. Before it could strike, The Convert leaped forward and slit its throat.

What followed was a nightmare. One wolf after another charged at them—too many to count, maybe over a dozen—snarling and snapping. It was a test of endurance, but thankfully, The Swordsman managed to kill one too. The pack grew restless, showing signs of retreat.

“Hold steady!” The Listener yelled, pulling flint from his sleeve to light a torch. “Don’t let them escape!”

The evening fire wasn’t very bright, glowing gold with a ring of black smoke. Using the torch, he began herding the wolves back. The wolves were smart enough to scatter, but The Convert and The Swordsman flanked them, blades flashing in the light, forcing them instinctively backward—straight toward the trap.

Soon, the first wolf fell in. The others, reacting too late, followed. The Listener watched as the camouflaged branches collapsed under the weight, sending up clouds of dust. From a distance, he hurled the torch high—it spun through the air before landing in the pit, igniting instantly.

The wolves howled, trampling each other in their panic to escape. The Convert and The Swordsman reached the pit first, circling its edge to slash at any that tried to climb out. By the time The Listener arrived, the ground around the pit was slick with blood.

Gradually, the wolves stopped trying to escape. The fire burned hotter, filling the air with the stench of charred flesh. The Swordsman wiped wolf blood from his face and said to The Listener, “That was brutal.”

The Listener gave him a cold look. “Were they any less brutal when they gutted us last time?” Without waiting for a reply, he walked past him.

Wiping blood from his clothes as he walked back, The Listener suddenly cursed when they were about a hundred meters from where they had tied the horse. He sprinted forward.

“Hey! What are you—” The Swordsman started to shout, only to see the tree where they had tied the horse—empty. The horse was gone.

The horse and carriage had been tied together. The tree trunk bore marks from the rope being dragged. The iron cage lay overturned on the ground, small items scattered around it. Both water pouches had burst.

“The horse broke free,” The Swordsman observed the rope marks. “The wolves must have spooked it.”

The Listener knelt beside the cage, carefully checking the man inside for breath—faint, but still there. He exhaled in relief and called to The Convert, “Hey, go find the carriage!”

The Convert looked at him, then at the man he was cradling. “Where the hell am I supposed to look?”

“The horse ran off, but the carriage can’t have gone far,” The Listener said, lifting the “monster” from the cage and holding him protectively. “The carriage has to carry the cage. Without it, we can’t move.”

The Convert didn’t move, staring at him with a complicated expression. The Listener, seemingly oblivious to his mood, urged impatiently, “Hurry! If we wait any longer, we won’t even catch the carriage!”

The Convert clenched his jaw, his face twisting with an indescribable mix of hurt, jealousy, and something else. In the end, he obeyed and went to search.

The Swordsman watched his retreating figure before kicking The Listener’s butt. “That was harsh.”

“Huh?” The Listener glanced at him, confused.

“He’s jealous,” The Swordsman said, pointing in The Convert’s direction. “You hurt his feelings.”

Only then did The Listener understand. In front of The Swordsman, his face flushed, but he feigned indifference. “I’m here to clear the game, not to fall in love with some Convert.”

The words were callous. The Swordsman didn’t respond, walking away.

It was long after dark when The Convert returned, his face and hands covered in wounds, dragging the carriage horse behind him. One side of the carriage was broken, but it was still sturdy enough to carry the cage. Seeing his injuries, The Listener stood abruptly from the campfire, wanting to ask something but hesitating, never speaking.

The Swordsman had started the fire. The Convert tied up the carriage and sat by the flames to eat the bread he had salvaged. The night was quiet, the crackling fire lending a peaceful serenity.

“Let’s sleep. We’ll leave at dawn,” The Listener said quietly.

The Convert didn’t respond, silently finishing his bread before going to the stream to wash his wounds. Meanwhile, The Listener obediently laid out the tattered blankets by the fire—two on the side near the cage, one on the other. Then, ingratiatingly, he called toward the stream, “It’s late, come sleep!”

Under the moonlight, The Convert returned, water droplets glistening on his skin. He glanced at the blankets but didn’t go to The Listener. Instead, he shook out his long black hair and lay down alone by the fire. The Swordsman looked at The Listener awkwardly, about to sit down, when The Listener glared at him. Resigned, The Swordsman nodded, picked up his blanket, and went to sleep elsewhere.

The horse snorted, marking the end of an exhausting day. Only when snores filled the air did The Convert slowly turn over, gazing at The Listener across the fire. The heartless bastard was already fast asleep. He resented him—the more he resented him, the harder it was to let go. His eyes burned with unshed tears. Just as he was cursing himself for being weak, he saw a slender hand stealthily reach out from the cage, touching The Listener’s hair.

He bolted upright. The hand retracted instantly. Frowning, he circled the fire, glaring at the cage before lifting The Listener’s blanket and slipping underneath.

“Mmm…” The Listener woke, instinctively pulling him close, mumbling, “What?”

The Convert huffed. “I’m pathetic, okay?”

“What are you talking about…” The Listener turned over to go back to sleep, but The Convert pinched his cheek and kissed him wetly. He pushed back groggily. “Stop… someone’s here…”

“No one’s here,” The Convert whispered between kisses. “They’re asleep.”

His kisses grew deeper, more insistent. The Listener struggled as if drowning. The Convert climbed on top of him, wrapping his legs around him, grinding against him pleadingly. Before long, The Listener flipped him over, pinning him down with his heavy body.

They were practically devouring each other, locked in a silent battle.

“Hey…” The Convert panted into his ear between kisses. “This rough?”

The Listener was frustrated with his own lack of restraint. “Shut up!” He pinned The Convert’s wrists above his head, kissing him fiercely before pausing to study him in the firelight—cat-like eyes, that little mole, glistening lips. He couldn’t resist kissing him again and again. “Happy now, seeing me like this?”

The Convert gazed at him adoringly, knowing full well the fool couldn’t see it. So he deliberately put on a seductive, shameless act. “No, not yet…” His hand slid down their heated bodies, but the moment he reached his waist, The Listener shuddered and rolled away, panting heavily as he stared at the sky, flustered.

“They’re here,” he muttered.

The cage and The Swordsman. The Convert glanced at them before lying beside him, pressing his forehead to his shoulder. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

“It’s fine,” The Listener said uncomfortably, shifting his hips. “It’ll pass.”

“Mm,” The Convert murmured, though he was clearly suffering too. “Call me if it hurts.”

The Listener didn’t answer, closing his eyes as if asleep. The Convert stared at him adoringly—until a hand clumsily but unmistakably grasped him under the blanket.

He nearly gasped aloud, staring in disbelief at the man beside him, whose face betrayed nothing. Quickly, he gripped The Listener’s wrist, biting his lip before slowly pulling the blanket over his head.

The next morning, The Swordsman was the first up, watering the horse before The Listener woke. Trying to make conversation, The Listener said, “You’re up early.”

The Swordsman’s reply was loaded. “I fell asleep as soon as I lay down. Not tired at all.”

The Listener and The Convert exchanged a glance before kicking off the blanket and getting up. With no water pouches left, they drank their fill from the stream. The Listener fed the man in the cage mouth-to-mouth. The Convert watched them as he chewed bread, recalling the slender arm that had reached out from the cage the night before. His eyes narrowed dangerously.

They set off before sunrise, heading west toward the Edge of the World. After a full day and night of travel without finding water, by the third morning, both men and horse were at their limit.

“Not a single fruit tree along the way,” The Convert muttered, chewing on bitter green leaves. “The system’s set up to kill us with thirst.” He thought for a moment. “Kill the horse.”

“No,” The Listener refused flatly. “Without the horse,” he pointed at the cage, “what happens to him?”

The Convert slammed his sword down. “Then leave him behind!”

Just then, the sound of wheels crunching over gravel reached them. They turned toward the trees, and soon, a small gilded carriage came into view, stopping beside them. Two monks in fine red linen stepped out, wearing wide-brimmed hats of the same color, their attire opulent.

“Brothers,” they greeted politely, “are you also heading to the Edge of the World in search of the Boundary of Creation?”

“Ah…” The Listener hesitated, noticing their eyes flicker over the cage with disinterest before settling on The Convert with an unreadable expression.

“That brother seems thirsty,” they said, pointing at The Convert’s leaf-stained lips. “We have water.” They offered a leather pouch stamped with a family crest. “Don’t be shy.”

The Convert was parched. Thanking them, he and The Swordsman gulped it down. The Listener waited until they were done before taking a sip himself, then turned to feed the man in the cage. When he turned back, he saw The Swordsman collapsed on the ground while The Convert was being dragged toward the carriage, his mouth covered. He struggled weakly—drugged.

The water was poisoned!

The Listener lunged forward. A loud bang echoed, followed by searing pain in his chest. He collapsed, reaching up to touch the wound—his hand came away bloody. A flintlock. ¹A type of firearm that uses a flint-striking mechanism for ignition

In his daze, The Convert saw him fall. He screamed through his gag. Before blacking out, The Listener heard the men say:

“…Too wild. Not fun, right?”

“That face alone is worth it. Gorgeous Eastern goods like this are hard to find these days. We hit the jackpot—oh God! Pry his teeth open, quick!”

“…Tongue… dead… bastard!”

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  A type of firearm that uses a flint-striking mechanism for ignition