Chapter 6 – Island of Saints η

After the Morning Prayer, The Listener rose from his small stool and walked into the crowd.

Leaning against a pillar ahead was The Convert, a beautiful silhouette. As if by agreement, he turned his face, locking eyes with him in a scorching gaze.

Each time felt like the first—they would gaze deeply into each other’s eyes before tacitly and abruptly looking away.

The Listener headed toward the corner where The Thief in black robes was curled up. Nearby, The Swordsman and The Archer were arguing. He had never bothered to listen to their quarrels before, but this time, The Archer suddenly flung off The Swordsman’s hand and bumped into him, muttering a hasty “Sorry” before brushing past him and walking away.

The Listener turned to watch him go. The guy strode straight toward the pillar. Frowning, The Listener took two steps forward before stopping, turning to stare at him. Sure enough, he was heading for The Convert.

Had he never approached him before? The Listener tried to recall. Maybe he had, but he hadn’t noticed back then. Why was he noticing now? He glanced over the crowd toward The Thief—that was who he should be seeking out now.

The Archer and The Convert began talking. They were about the same height, though The Archer was more athletic. His golden hair and the extravagant string of beads around his neck made him dazzling. Standing beside The Convert, they looked like a perfect pair.

His bow leaned against the pillar, right by The Convert’s leg. As they spoke, he casually gripped it, rubbing the raised silver ornaments on it. The restless movement of his fingers made The Listener deeply uncomfortable.

He walked toward them. While still some distance away, The Convert spotted him, his expression caught between surprise and bashfulness. The Archer suddenly turned his head, saw him, and glared with unmistakable resentment.

“What are you talking about?” The Listener asked with a gentle smile.

The Convert seemed unsure how to answer. He didn’t understand why The Listener had come back or why he was asking.

“What we talk about is none of your business,” The Archer snapped, flicking his sleeve dismissively.

“You might not know this,” The Listener said coldly, “but he’s my…” A long pause. “Friend.”

The Archer laughed, grabbing his arm and pulling him aside. “Weren’t you the one who said you weren’t interested in The Convert?”

The Listener froze.

The Archer’s gaze was familiar—playful yet sharp. “I warned you,” he said, draping an arm over The Listener’s shoulder in an intimate gesture. “The Convert is mine. Don’t mess with him.”

The Listener recognized him now and sighed in irritation. “Didn’t you already get that ‘Convert’?”

“Don’t remind me,” The Archer grumbled. “This is such a fucking shitty game. Listen,” he demanded, “take me with you.”

The Listener hadn’t expected him to want in and refused outright. “No.”

The Archer tightened his grip on his shoulder. “In this game, aside from The Convert, there’s no stronger DPS than me.” His bow-wielding hand was immensely powerful—just a little more force, and he could crush bone. “I can help you, or I can ruin you. Think about it.”

With that, he pushed through the crowd without looking back. The Listener rubbed his numb left shoulder, glanced once more at The Convert, but ultimately said nothing and went to find The Thief in the corner.

This Thief was also quite interesting. Seeing him, he patted his butt and stood up. “I knew you’d come.”

The Listener raised an eyebrow. The guy grinned. “I used to play The Drunkard—a minor role whose task was to kill The Thief. Sometimes I succeeded, sometimes not. But once, The Listener actually stopped me. I wanted to know why.”

The Listener studied him with amusement but didn’t respond. The Thief continued, “I’ve been in here a long time, played many roles, but never the main storyline—until that one time.” He lowered his voice. “The Tabernacle fell.”

The Listener’s expression shifted slightly.

“Every time I attacked The Thief, I’d pick up his keys. That keychain could open any room on the Island of Saints.” He stared at The Listener without blinking. “That time, I opened your door.”

At this point, The Listener didn’t want to beat around the bush anymore. “Was it after I went to repair the Tabernacle?”

The Thief grinned. “Yeah. You drove the carriage away, but the Tabernacle was still in your room. That’s when I guessed—maybe you were the main storyline.”

The Listener smiled along with him. “So, do you want to be part of the main storyline?”

“Of course,” The Thief replied.

“Good.” The Listener glanced at the keychain on his waist. “After dark, meet me at the Saints’ Tombs.”

Leaving the refectory, The Listener returned to his room. Just as he was about to close the door, The Convert slipped in, his cat-like eyes flickering. Without a word, he gently shut the door behind him.

The Listener knew what he wanted but was too embarrassed to say it outright. He didn’t kick him out either, just calmly straightened the bedding as if nothing was happening. Behind him, The Convert undressed, rustling out of his clothes without a shred of modesty, then climbed naked onto his bed, burrowing under the covers and looking up at him.

The Listener’s face was already red. One hand clutched the disheveled blanket, the other clenched into a nervous fist. “G-get down!”

The Convert immediately stuck out a pale leg from under the tattered quilt. “You want me to get down like this?”

The Listener hurriedly turned to pick up his clothes, only for the guy to pounce on his back like a leopard, clinging tightly. “What are you afraid of?” he whispered, biting his ear. “Didn’t we already… in the pit—”

Suddenly, the world spun. By the time The Convert realized what was happening, he was pinned beneath the tall, gray-eyed man—chest to chest, hips to hips, lips brushing lightly against his in a soft, fleeting kiss.

Just that one touch, and The Convert felt himself melting. Weakly, he clung to him, his voice trembling. “We have all day… we can take our time…”

The Listener was anything but slow. With a force The Convert hadn’t anticipated, he toyed mercilessly with the golden ring on his left nipple—pinching, pulling, squeezing—leaving no room for resistance.

“Ah… ah!” The Convert thrashed like a fish out of water, desperate for air but unable to breathe properly. His hands feebly gripped The Listener’s wrists as he watched his small nipple rapidly engorge, turning from pale pink to a vivid red.

“You b-bastard!” he cursed, bucking his hips to grind his hardening cock against the rough fabric of The Listener’s monk’s robe. “T-touch me,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Fucking touch me!”

The Listener’s face was flushed the entire time, shocked at himself, ashamed of his own perverse fascination with a man’s nipple. So when The Convert begged to be touched, he not only ignored him but clamped down harder, restraining him like he was afraid he’d resist. Then, like a suckling babe, he latched onto his nipple and sucked hard.

The Convert hadn’t expected this at all. Gasping for breath, drenched in sweat, he weakly pushed at The Listener’s head. “W-wait… you—” He wanted to break free but not entirely, caught in an indescribable limbo. Then The Listener grabbed his thigh, inching his hand toward his cock.

“Oh god…” The Convert stared in alarm at the low ceiling. How had The Listener turned something as simple as mutual touching into this? “Have you… really never done this before?”

The Listener lifted his head from his chest, meeting his eyes. Reluctantly, he released the golden ring, licking the areola with the tip of his tongue before shyly murmuring, “Mm.”

The Convert felt like he was losing his mind—because of this guy. “I don’t believe it. No way.”

Propping himself up on his elbows, The Listener moved closer until their faces were level. “Have you… had many?”

The Convert suddenly couldn’t meet his gaze, lowering his eyes. “Before I came here, there were a few women.”

The Listener said nothing. After a long pause, he nodded slowly. “Oh.”

The Convert immediately felt guilty, as if he’d wronged him somehow. He nipped at his chin in a placating gesture. “Do you… do you want to… go inside?”

The Listener knew what he meant. Just the thought of “going inside” made him want to hide in shame. Burying his face in the bedding beside The Convert’s neck, he shook his head. “I… I can’t do that.”

“I can,” The Convert murmured, running his fingers through his silver-gray hair. “I mean, The Convert can.”

There seemed to be something unspoken in those words. The Listener lifted his head. “What do you mean, The Convert can?”

“My first scene in the game…” The Convert cleared his throat, shifting to a more comfortable position to look at him. “Was in someone else’s bed.” His lashes fluttered. “It wasn’t even dawn yet…”

The Listener, like a dog sensing danger, immediately tensed.

“Probably… after the fact,” The Convert said with forced nonchalance, hesitating. “I guess it was meant to imply The Convert’s promiscuous character. Anyway… that’s how it was.”

The Listener’s expression was unreadable, but his voice was calm. “Who was it?”

The Convert paused noticeably before answering. “I left before he woke up. He never even knew who he’d spent the night with—”

“I asked,” The Listener insisted, “who was it?”

Seeing his reaction, The Convert grew a little displeased, a little haughty, mumbling awkwardly, “The Archer.”

No wonder. The Listener finally understood why The Archer had gotten The Convert’s golden ring so quickly—because from the very start of the game, the two of them had been together.

“When that guy woke up,” The Convert rambled on, “his bed was half cold.”

The Listener sighed. “What if there was a Convert who didn’t leave?”

The Convert froze, staring at him open-mouthed. The Listener enunciated each word: “What if there was a Convert who didn’t leave… but stayed in bed, waiting for him to wake up?”

“You’ve met a Convert like that?”

“If I’m not mistaken, this Archer has,” The Listener said helplessly. “And we have to bring him along.”

The Convert abruptly flipped out from under him. “No. I don’t agree.”

“I’ve already decided,” The Listener said firmly, though his fingers gently smoothed the disheveled hair at The Convert’s temple. “Rather than a powerful enemy, we need a powerful ally. Isn’t that right?”

The Convert stayed silent for a long time before muttering, “He’s… kind of into me. Don’t you know that?”

The Listener knew. Of course he knew. When The Archer’s arm was around his shoulders. “That doesn’t matter.”

The Convert quirked his lips into a vicious little smile. “When I woke up in his bed, my ass was sore and numb. I rolled over to get up, and something… leaked out. That doesn’t matter either, huh?”

The Listener stared at him, stunned—not just by the words, but by something else he couldn’t quite name. “That… wasn’t you. It was just the role.”

“The brain doesn’t give a damn whether it’s a role or not!” The Convert pointed at his temple. “What’s in here feels too real—so real I thought that was my ass, I—”

Just then, someone knocked on the door. The Listener motioned for The Convert to be quiet. “Who is it?”

A frantic voice shouted from outside, “The High Priest wants you in the refectory now! The Tabernacle fell off the wall and shattered!”

The Listener quickly agreed, getting out of bed to put on his shoes. The Convert slowly pulled on his monk’s robe and asked quietly, “What’s going on? The Tabernacle fell so early this time?”

“Maybe I hammered the nails in too hard,” The Listener said, tidying himself up before turning to fix The Convert’s robe and hair, smoothing everything meticulously. “It’s fine. We’ll leave first thing tomorrow.”

In the tomb passage, four torches flickered on either side. The Listener led the way, followed by The Thief, with The Convert at the rear as before. The Archer stuck close to him. The dark path was eerily quiet, but the guy couldn’t resist muttering from time to time, “Stop pretending. You know we’ve been together.”

The Listener stopped and turned to call The Convert. “Hey, come up front.”

Everyone paused, confused. He spoke with righteous authority, “Those who’ve been in the tombs before go up front. Those who haven’t, stay in the back.” He pointed at The Thief, signaling him to switch places with The Convert. “For safety.”

The Archer scoffed but didn’t outright object. The Convert brushed past The Thief and took his place beside The Listener. The moment their eyes met, they both looked away, as if afraid of revealing something.

The path was long, and they walked slowly. Originally, they all held their torches in their right hands, but The Convert quietly switched his to his left, leaving his right hand free to brush against The Listener’s. A slight hook of his pinky could have linked their fingers.

But The Listener knew him too well. Without a word, he also switched his torch to his left. Seeing this, The Convert pursed his lips in frustration.

They took the right-hand corridor, pushed open the sheepskin door, and squeezed into the narrow passage beyond. One by one, they entered the round stone chamber with its high dome and the oppressive iron cage inside. The Listener rushed forward, rummaging through his bag to feed and water the half-dead figure inside. The Archer, seeing him press his lips to the “monster’s” mouth to help it drink, shot a shocked look at The Convert, who pretended not to notice, keeping his head down sullenly.

“Hey, isn’t that disgusting?” The Archer yelled indignantly toward the cage. “That thing’s probably rotting—who knows what diseases it has!”

The Listener ignored him, wiping his mouth before embracing the figure through the bars, carefully smoothing its messy hair at the temples—just as he had done for The Convert earlier that day.

“Fuck, you’re seriously sick—”

“Enough!” The Convert suddenly snapped, still not looking up, his expression unreadable. “Shut the hell up!”

The Archer immediately fell silent, obedient as a well-trained dog, circling him with an invisible wagging tail. Meanwhile, The Thief had noticed something on the ground, pointing at one of the stone slabs. “Why is this one a different color?”

The Archer moved closer, studying it briefly. “Let’s lift it and see.”

The Convert glanced at them sidelong. The two had no idea they were about to trigger a mechanism—one with a pair of etched footprints that would cost The Thief his life.

“Huh?” The Thief exclaimed. “There’s a pair of footprints underneath!”

The Listener also turned from the cage, his expression complicated, as if he didn’t want to watch him die.

This Thief was different from the last—more experienced, more cautious. He narrowed his eyes and asked The Convert, “What happened last time? Did you step on them?”

The Convert met his gaze calmly, then suddenly smiled. “Didn’t try it. No idea. Why don’t you test it?”

The Listener stood and took a few steps toward them. The Thief eyed the footprints warily, torn between suspicion and curiosity. He knew it was dangerous, but the game’s mechanics made it hard to escape fate. Slowly, he placed one foot on the prints, then the other. In the flash of an instant, The Convert could almost hear the massive gears turning beneath the stone chamber.

Then, at the last second, The Listener lunged from behind, yanking The Thief out of the jaws of death just as the mechanism snapped shut.

The entire chamber shook. The narrow passage widened, smoothly expanding on both sides until it was fully open. The Listener lay sprawled on the ground, and as he did, he noticed a small pattern in the dust near the wall—slender, barely visible. He reached out to brush the dust away, but The Thief shoved him aside and scrambled up, pointing at The Convert.

“You fucking tried to kill me!”

The Convert just stared at him with half-lidded eyes, silent. His arrogance infuriated The Thief, who lunged forward, only to be grabbed from behind by The Listener. In the chaos, The Archer stepped in front of The Convert, seizing The Thief by the collar.

“Yeah, he tried to kill you. So what? Try laying a finger on him!”

The Thief, choked by the grip, froze and didn’t dare speak. The Archer smirked, patting his cheek. “You’d better keep your tail between your legs. We don’t need a damn thief!” With that, he flung him to the ground.

Next came laying the sleepers, hauling the cage, and preparing the carriage. Before dawn, the four of them charged through the Island of Saints’ only service gate, turning west toward the first mountain ridge. The Listener told The Convert to ride with him to dig traps, but The Convert refused. The Listener knew—he was upset that he’d saved The Thief, making him the bad guy.

“I’ll go with you,” The Thief volunteered, stepping down from the carriage. The Listener glanced between The Convert and The Archer. “Blondie, you come with me.”

The Archer, lounging lazily against The Convert, asked, “What for?”

“There’s a stream up ahead—the only water source on this route. There are wolves there,” The Listener said, his gaze lingering on their arms pressed together. It made him uncomfortable. “We’ll dig traps first, then—”

The Archer cut him off. “How many?”

The Listener blinked. “Eleven or twelve. Why?”

The Archer smirked dismissively. “All that effort for a dozen? Come on, let’s go. I’ll handle this for you.”

The Listener was skeptical—until night fell and they reached the spot. The wolves emerged one after another, and The Archer drew his dazzling silver bow. That was when The Listener understood what real DPS looked like. The arrows spun through the darkness, piercing the beasts’ throats at point-blank range. His draw speed was inhuman—blink, and another wolf dropped, bleeding into the grass.

The howls of the pack and the whistle of arrows filled the air. The horses panicked, kicking wildly against the trees. This time, The Listener had tied the reins extra tight—they couldn’t break free, so they thrashed even harder. The iron cage teetered dangerously, about to topple off the carriage.

The Convert was closest. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was for The Listener’s sake—he sprinted forward to brace the cage. But the horses’ strength was too great, and the cage too heavy. It twisted, sliding off the cart and grazing his right foot before crashing into the undergrowth.

With a boom, the wolves retreated. The Archer leaped onto a nearby boulder, taking aim from a distance, firing continuously. The Listener had already stopped worrying about the wolves—he rushed to the cage to check on the figure inside. He didn’t dare pull too hard, but the moment he touched it, miraculously, the figure leaned toward him.

“Tch. Two got away.” The Archer jumped down from the rock and immediately spotted The Convert on the ground, clutching his ankle, teeth gritted in pain.

“Shit!” The Archer cursed, slinging his bow over his shoulder as he ran to him. In the dark, he could barely see, but there was definitely blood on his right ankle. “Are you fucking stupid? It’s just a damn cage—why’d you bother?”

“It’s fine,” The Convert said through gritted teeth, looking up to find The Listener still by the cage. “Just a scratch.”

The Archer fussed like an old woman. “Out of all the Converts, you’re the only idiot who’d—ugh, stubborn bastard!”

Annoyed, The Convert shoved him hard with his bloodied hand, making his neck crack. The Archer didn’t get mad, just rubbed his neck and muttered, half-complaining, half-pleading, “I was just worried about you…”

The Convert’s reply was cold and haughty. “Mind your own damn business.”

The Archer rolled his eyes and mumbled under his breath, “He doesn’t even care about you, why bother being so desperate?” Then, as if to cover it up, he stood and called loudly, “Come on, I’ll carry you!”

The Convert heard him but didn’t deny it. He reached out, gripping The Archer’s shoulder as he slowly got up.

“Hey, you!” The Archer yelled at The Listener. “My sweetheart’s hurt. We’re camping here!”

The Convert glared at him like he was an idiot. “Who the hell is your sweetheart?! Who the fuck—”

The Archer clapped a hand over his mouth, half-commanding, half-pleading. “Okay, okay, let’s not, alright?”

The Listener watched their bickering as they limped toward a moonlit spot, calling for The Thief to gather grass and start a fire. He zoned out for a moment before turning back to the cage with a smile. “It’s okay now. You’re safe.”

The figure inside couldn’t see him—was even too weak to lift his head—but instinctively pressed his forehead against the bars, swaying slightly as if nuzzling him.

“Don’t be scared,” The Listener murmured, gently stroking his cheek. “I’ll stay with you, okay?”

Then something strange happened. The figure seemed to lose his balance, his head tilting slightly before nodding forward. The movement was so brief and subtle that The Listener couldn’t be sure. “Did… did you just nod?”

There was no response. The figure’s milky-white eyes stared blankly into space, like a slow-witted child.

“Name,” The Listener said, taking his hand and kneading it in his palm. “Do you have a name?”

Still no answer. The figure just sniffled, rubbing his forehead against the bars as if trying to break free and crawl into his arms. The Listener felt something paternal—no, maternal—rise in his chest. He wanted to cherish him, protect him, let him depend on him, make him happy. “Don’t rush. When you’re stronger, I’ll help you out of this cage.”

The figure didn’t understand, still nuzzling the bars. Helpless, The Listener reached in and hugged him. Once held, he calmed down.

Over by the fire, orange flames cast long shadows of three dark silhouettes. The Archer sat pressed against The Convert. He must be trying to win him over, The Listener thought, a strange weight settling in his chest. Then, in a lull of conversation, while The Convert’s foot was still injured, The Archer suddenly leaned in to kiss his cheek—only to get knocked flat with a chop to the neck.

The Listener chuckled. He remembered The Archer’s words: In this game, aside from The Convert, there’s no stronger DPS than me. Yeah. That was definitely true.

The next morning, The Convert woke to The Archer’s snoring. He squinted at the misty dawn, where a figure carried a small bucket from the stream to the cage. That plain, earnest silhouette was The Listener.

He watched him, torn between longing and resentment. His right foot throbbed. Lifting the blanket, he saw it had swollen.

The water was for washing the figure in the cage. The soft splashes mingled with the uneven birdsong of morning—and maybe, The Convert imagined, quiet laughter too. He stared helplessly at the cage, at the two figures inside and out, unable to look away.

“Hey,” The Archer said from behind him. “Stop staring.”

“None of your business.” The Convert didn’t move, spellbound.

“Honestly,” The Archer said slowly, tentatively wrapping an arm around his waist from behind, “he’s probably just taking care of him. That thing’s so weak, a stiff breeze could knock it over.”

The Convert didn’t push him away, just squirmed slightly. “Why?” he muttered to himself. “Just because he’s weak?”

Laughter drifted over—bright, like a parent’s joy at seeing their child’s first steps. The Convert’s fingers dug into the dirt. To distract him, The Archer teased, “Hey, wanna take a piss? I’ll carry you—”

He froze—because in the mist, The Listener had actually cupped the “monster’s” face and stuck out his tongue.

“That guy!” The Archer stood up, stepping over The Convert with bare feet on the dirt, looking shocked but saying, “That’s just nasty.”

The Convert irritably punched him in the back of the knee, making him bite back a groan and kneel, curling into a ball. With sudden earnestness, he said, “I’m way better than him, seriously.” His voice softened, almost tender. “I’d stay here with you forever if you wanted. We don’t need the money—just find some place to grow old together.”

The Convert said nothing. Didn’t even look at him.

“Stop being stupid. That guy’s off licking someone else.”

“He was licking the film off his eyes,” The Convert snapped, shooting him a warning glare with those cat-like eyes of his. He struggled to his feet, limping off to piss. “I just happened to fall for a damn do-gooder, that’s all.”

By the time the sun rose, they worked together to haul the cage back onto the carriage. The Thief sat beside it, watching the other three standing below. The Archer was probably waiting to help The Convert up, while The Convert himself lingered by the carriage shaft, glancing around as if waiting for something.

The Listener finished adjusting the harness and circled around the horses. “What’s wrong?”

A sudden gust of wind blew by, not strong, but The Convert immediately covered his eyes—a little dramatically, to be honest. “Got something in my eye.”

The Archer couldn’t take it. His acting was terrible—obviously inexperienced, painfully unconvincing. Yet, somehow, The Listener bought it. “Left or right?”

They leaned in close. The Listener cupped his face hesitantly, and The Convert pointed to his left eye with exaggerated delicacy. “Can’t open it.”

The Listener carefully pulled the eyelid open and examined it. “There’s nothing there.”

“There has to be,” The Convert insisted, lying through his teeth. Then, abruptly, he muttered, “Lick it for me.”

The Listener froze, glancing around. “You… really got something in it?”

“Are you gonna lick it or not?” The Convert raised his voice, loud enough to make The Listener flush. “Quiet down, they’re—”

“What’s the big deal?” The Convert pointed at the cage. “You licked him.”

The Listener looked embarrassed. “Stop messing around,” he said, letting go and stepping back. “This isn’t the time.”

“Fine, I’ll lick it for him!” The Archer suddenly reached forward, about to grab The Convert’s face. The Listener shoved him hard in the ribs, snarling, “Fuck off!”

Both The Archer and The Convert looked stunned. The Listener scowled, as if suppressing a surge of fury, then abruptly bent down, scooped The Convert up, and unceremoniously dumped him onto the carriage before turning to yell at The Archer, “Get on!”

There was no denying it—he had the bearing of a leader. Trial after trial, death after death, leading different people out of the Island of Saints. It wasn’t easy. The Archer sat in the carriage as they raced through the forest, the wind whipping cold against his face.

They rode for hours. At the height of noon, a sharp crack echoed through the trees—the sound of another carriage rolling over gravel. The Convert gripped his knife. Soon, a gilded little carriage burst from the dense woods, pulling up alongside them.

Inside were two monk-like figures in fine red linen robes and matching wide-brimmed hats. Through the small window, they kept glancing over—at The Convert.

“Hey! You’re hurt!” they called. The Convert ignored them. They shouted again, “We have medicine! And wine from last summer’s harvest!”

The Archer was tempted. “Stop the carriage—they’ve got medicine!”

But the horses didn’t slow. Just as The Archer was about to question it, the other carriage’s door swung open, and a small medicine bottle was tossed over, landing on The Convert’s lap. “You’re heading for the Edge of the World, aren’t you? So are we!”

The Archer tugged at The Convert. “They’ve got good stuff, and they’re going the same way. Maybe we should—”

The Convert suddenly leaned against his shoulder. “The one on the inside,” he whispered, almost inaudible. “The moment my knife moves, you shoot him.”

The Archer blinked, then nodded subtly in understanding. The Convert spun around and threw his knife—against the wind, the scimitar spinning through the air before embedding itself in the chest of the outer monk. The man didn’t even have time to scream before toppling headfirst from the carriage, his neck snapping under the speeding wheels as he tumbled away.

The other one pulled out a flintlock pistol, but before he could aim, The Archer’s arrow was already whistling through the air. With a clink, it pierced his throat, pinning him to the carriage wall like a grotesque ornament.

Only then did The Listener rein in the horses. The Archer, finally catching on, jumped down from the still-moving carriage, shaking his head. “How many damn times have you two played this?!”

He went to retrieve The Convert’s knife while the other carriage’s driver abandoned his post, sending the horses careening wildly into the woods until the vehicle shattered against the trees. The Thief and The Listener rummaged through the wreckage. Besides wine, bread, and a bit of salt, they found an entire chest of gold coins—at least a thousand, gleaming brightly.

“My god!” The Thief exclaimed, lifting a handful of the precious metal. “Thank fuck I didn’t take The Flagellant’s job and came with you instead!”

This detail wasn’t new to The Listener. “What lock did he want you to pick? Didn’t he offer any money?”

“Never got that far,” The Thief said, knowing The Listener had heard this from the previous Thief. “Just some salt. The Flagellant controls the Salt Vault, after all.”

Salt—even on the Island of Saints, it was scarce. The Listener nodded and helped him haul the chest.

Left alone by the cage, half out of curiosity and half competitiveness, The Convert gripped the bars and peered inside at the half-human, half-monster figure. “Hey, freak.”

The figure seemed to hear him, tilting his head slightly but staying curled in the corner. His docility was maddening, begging to be messed with. The Convert reached in, grabbing his calf to drag him closer.

He made no sound, pliant and obedient—so easy to take advantage of. The Convert roughly grabbed his thin arms, wanting to be gentle but not knowing how, handling him like a child. “He bathed you? Let me see how clean you are.”

First, he pinched his face. Without the grime, his features were delicate—deep-set eyes, a narrow nose, high cheekbones, straight teeth, slightly parted lips. Rubbing his thumb over them, they felt soft and damp.

The Convert didn’t like that. The prettier he was, the more The Listener seemed to care. He yanked at his robe, inspecting his skin like a livestock trader. It was pale—unnaturally so, like it had never seen sunlight. His nipples were tiny, ribs protruding, belly soft. Compared to him, The Convert felt too rough, too coarse.

“You’re good at playing docile, huh?” He pried open his eyelids. The film was still there but clearer now, revealing faint irises shifting beneath. “Maybe he likes you like this.” His gaze dropped to the tattered cloth covering his lower half. His hand slipped under, closing around something small. “He’s touched you here, hasn’t he?”

“Hey, what the hell are you doing?”

The Convert flinched, turning to see The Archer standing there, holding his bloodied scimitar, staring at his lewd hand. The Convert smirked. “Having fun. Got a problem?”

“No, but why him?” The Archer grabbed his arm, but The Convert stubbornly refused to let go. Just then, a loud clatter rang out—gold coins spilling from the chest. The Listener stormed over, shoving The Archer aside before backhanding The Convert hard across the face.

After that, there was nothing—no argument, no fight to the death. Everyone quietly packed up, quietly boarded the carriage, quietly whipped the horses onward.

The journey was excruciating. The sky darkened, the moon climbed the treetops, stars hidden behind clouds. No one spoke. They dozed fitfully. Just as The Listener’s eyelids were about to shut, a figure suddenly appeared in front of the carriage. At the last second, he yanked the reins, the horses rearing as dust billowed before they skidded to a stop.

“What the hell?!” The Archer yelled. The Listener pointed ahead—where the haze of dust settled to reveal nothing. No one was there.

The Convert scoffed. “He’s just paranoid, scared we’ll die out here!”

The Listener shot back, “Is that so impossible?!”

The Convert glared defiantly. “Worst case, we reset in forty-eight hours!”

No. The Listener rubbed his temples. He had seen someone—a hunched figure in a tattered cloak, old, probably. That image… Suddenly, he dug out the map from his pocket, along with a whistle. The map was vague, but this area was marked. He raised the whistle and blew.

A single note, and a figure emerged from the bushes—a hoarse, aged voice rasping, “I’ve waited long enough.”

The Listener climbed down, and the others followed, exchanging uneasy glances. This was beyond strange.

“You’ve received your payment,” the old man said, extending gnarled fingers with long, dirty nails. “Now, my property. Hand it over.”

The Listener hesitated, then realized—the old man meant the chest of gold coins. He’d used the red-robed monks’ wealth to pay them!

Everyone except The Convert went to lift the cage. As they set it down, a hand reached out from inside, weakly clutching The Listener’s sleeve. Of course, he pulled away—easily—then boarded the carriage, turned it around, and urged the horses onward.

But his sleeve still felt gripped. He looked back. The wind blew back the old man’s hood, revealing his face in the misty night. He crouched atop the cage, twisting something back and forth.

He didn’t move like an old man. The Listener frowned. What was his relationship with the figure in the cage? What would he do to him? Was he really here to save him?

No. He changed his mind. He had to go back!

Just as he tugged the reins, a sudden, wet splat hit the back of his neck. He turned—only to see The Convert slumped behind him, his throat slit wide open.

The Thief stood there, a razor in his hand. He’d hidden a blade this whole time.

The Archer lunged, pinning him down and snatching the razor—but instead of stabbing The Thief, he dragged it across his own neck.

It happened too fast. The Listener could only watch, horrified, as The Thief, hands dripping with blood, scrambled for the gold chest, screaming like a madman, “Everyone who crosses me dies! Dies!“

The Listener’s gaze went past him, into the distance. The old man and the cage were gone, swallowed by the endless dark. If he had another chance, he thought, he wouldn’t have pulled away from that hand.

With a sharp tug on the reins, the horses screamed. A thick cypress tree loomed ahead—then everything went black.