Chapter 7 – Island of Saints θ

After returning from the refectory, The Convert entered the room, tossed down his scimitar, and was about to close the door when a hand wedged itself into the gap to stop it.

He knew who it was and didn’t bother resisting. He let go of the handle, allowing the other to enter. It was The Listener, looking agitated. He stepped inside, grabbed The Convert by the waist, and slammed him against the door with a thud.

The Convert said nothing, his eyes lowered. His expression was so arrogant—so infuriatingly arrogant—that The Listener didn’t know what to do with him. Clumsily, he brushed the hair from The Convert’s forehead, like coaxing a wary cat, then leaned in. He tried several times to kiss him but hesitated, either out of fear or inexperience, and couldn’t bring himself to do it.

The more he hesitated, the more flustered he became, holding The Convert tighter—so tight that The Convert nearly cried out. But he held it in, refusing to make a sound.

“At the refectory, you ignored me,” The Listener said, his large hand cupping The Convert’s beautiful left cheek as if soothing a bruise, stroking it over and over.

The Convert shoved him away in annoyance, but The Listener wouldn’t budge. They were so close, noses touching, breaths mingling. Reluctantly, The Convert muttered, “That was last time’s business already…”

The moment he spoke, The Listener kissed him like a man possessed. He wasn’t skilled at it, just sucking greedily at his lips. The Convert frowned and pushed at him, but after a few half-hearted attempts, he ended up pulling The Listener closer instead.

The sound of panting, the wet slide of tongues, the rustle of their robes—the two of them pressed against the door, faces flushed, unable to stop tasting each other’s mouths. The Listener tugged at the hem of The Convert’s robe, but it was too long; every time he pulled it up, it slipped back down. Frustrated, he ground his hips against The Convert’s thigh, groaning, “Two days have never felt so long!”

Hadn’t those two days felt just as long for The Convert? He clung to The Listener like a drowning man, fingers twisting in his short hair. “Forget about the cage, okay? Let’s just find a place…”

Abruptly, The Listener stopped. The moment he did, he seemed embarrassed, ducking his head as he wiped The Convert’s mouth. “This time’s Archer,” he said, “is the same one as last time.”

The Convert fell silent. Then, The Listener kissed him again—this time gently, slowly, from the corner of his eye to the bridge of his nose, from his temple to his brow. Who could believe there was no affection in the way he did it? The Convert gripped his hand nervously, testing his gentleness with cautious defiance. “The cage has already been handed over to The Elder. Why are you still hung up on it?”

“That person can’t survive without me,” The Listener said bluntly. “Right now, he’s beneath our feet, suffering hunger and darkness. How can we not save him?”

“And after we save him?” The Convert asked.

“We’ll get the money from the red-robed monks, take him with us, and go anywhere we want!”

“Impossible,” The Convert pushed him away. “Haven’t you noticed? That old man is sinister. The moment you whistle, he appears. And how did he even know we’d run into the red-robed monks?”

“Then we can’t hand him over,” The Listener clenched his fists. “Who knows what he’ll do to him!”

“Are you insane?” The Convert glared at him, incredulous. “The person in the cage is just an NPC. There’s not even an option for him in the character interface. Are you really getting emotional over a bunch of data?”

“Data? NPC?” The Listener slumped onto the bed, defeated. “Here, in my hands, he’s alive.”

“This is just a game,” The Convert sat beside him, grabbed his hand, and bit down hard on the back of it. “Does it hurt? It’s fake! The Island of Saints, you, me—none of this fucking exists!”

The Listener suddenly pinned him down, roughly yanking up the hem of his robe and sliding a hand beneath it. “Is this fake?” He cradled The Convert’s neck, pressing close to his lips. “Is this fake?” Then he kissed him fiercely, like fire. “If it’s all fake, why does my heart pound like this? Why do you look at me like that?”

The Convert stared at him, then slowly wrapped his arms around him. “You’re getting pretty skilled, huh? Learning fast.”

He was talking about the kiss. The Listener smiled sheepishly, burying his face in The Convert’s neck. “Help me…”

The Convert ran his fingers through The Listener’s short hair, staring at the ceiling for a long moment before finally saying, “Fine.” He rested his cheek against The Listener’s head. “After all, you and I are just lines of code. Other than this consciousness in your mind, there’s nothing I have to hold back.”

Once again, it was The Listener, The Convert, The Archer, and The Thief. First, they destroyed the tabernacle, then descended into the Saints’ Tombs to activate the mechanism. At dawn, they took a horse-drawn carriage out of the monastery, killed wolves by the stream, and finally encountered the red-robed monks. The sequence of events was identical to before.

As they sat on the wreckage of the small carriage, counting gold coins, The Listener suddenly said, “We’ve got the money. Should we keep going?”

It was a probing question. Everyone’s hands stilled. The Convert knew what he was thinking but stayed silent. The Archer was the one who answered, “Keep going my ass. Let’s take the money and head to the Center of the World.” He pointed at the cage. “As for that thing—either leave it here or just—” He made a slashing motion. “Kill it and be done with it.”

The Listener looked up, glaring darkly at him.

The Archer laughed, deliberately provoking The Convert. “Just kidding! I know he’s your precious!”

The Convert acted as if he hadn’t heard, his expression unreadable. The Listener smiled at The Archer. “You’re right. We should go to the Center of the World—but not to kill him. To kill The Elder.”

At that, The Convert’s hand loosened, and a handful of gold coins slipped through his fingers. “I don’t agree.”

The Listener said, “I’ve thought it over. This is the best way.”

The Convert shook his head. “That’s no ordinary old man. We can take the money and run, but we can’t provoke him!”

“But we’re taking the cage with us,” The Listener leaned in, trying to persuade him. “Like you said, he’s not ordinary. He’ll come after us. So we have to strike first!”

“Wait, wait, wait,” The Archer cut in, nudging The Listener aside. “You want to kill The Elder? What makes you think you can?”

The Listener frowned at him, confused. The Archer said, “I don’t care about killing The Elder, but—” He jerked his thumb at The Convert. “I’m with him. If he says no, I won’t move.” He crossed his arms, smirking at The Listener. “If neither of us moves, who’s going to kill The Elder for you?”

The Listener was speechless. Then, The Thief, who had been silent until now, spoke up. “I’ll go with you,” he said, clutching a pile of gold coins. “I’ve been in here so long, and I’ve never killed anyone before!”

As they loaded the gold onto the carriage and adjusted the ropes binding the cage, The Convert approached The Listener. “Are you really sure about this?” he whispered worriedly. “You’re going against the storyline. I’m afraid…”

The person in the cage pressed against the bars, resting his sharp, thin chin petulantly on The Listener’s palm. The film over his eyes had almost disappeared, and his pale skin reflected the faint light of dawn, glowing with an almost holy purity.

The Listener stroked his chin tenderly, holding his hand. “Look at him. He doesn’t understand anything, can’t do anything. We’re his parents now.”

The Convert understood what he meant and said nothing more, turning to stand with The Archer instead.

The Listener watched them, wanting to call him back but unable to find the words. Just then, he suddenly remembered—last time, The Elder had crouched on top of the cage, twisting something repeatedly.

The top of the cage… He stood on tiptoe to look. What could be up there? He climbed up, the iron bars slippery under his hands. On one of the crossbeams, he found a small hole—like a keyhole?

“Hey—” He turned to call for The Convert but saw him half-embraced by The Archer, their heads close together as they argued. At the height of their debate, The Archer suddenly grabbed him and kissed him hard on the left cheek. It was rushed, rough—both of them winced and pulled away, rubbing their faces in embarrassment.

Watching them, The Listener turned back silently, reminded of his own past self.

He climbed down from the carriage, wanting to stand there a moment before rejoining the others. The person in the cage leaned toward him, fingers weakly clutching at the edge of his sleeve. Irritated but restraining himself, The Listener coaxed, “What’s wrong? Hungry?”

He played with the other’s slender fingers, resting his forehead against the bars in frustration. Suddenly, he felt something soft press against his temple. Startled, he looked up—it was a kiss.

Disbelieving, he cupped that face in his hands. The person in the cage seemed completely unaware of what he’d done, staring blankly back at him. He was only mimicking, copying what he’d seen The Archer and The Convert do. But to The Listener, it was as if he were an overjoyed father, pulling the other into a hug with far too much force.

“Ah…” A sound escaped from the figure in his arms—soft, fragile, the voice of someone not yet fully formed.

Both The Convert and The Archer heard it, turning to look. “Was that him?” they asked in surprise.

The Listener seemed dazed too, nodding vaguely. “I think… it was him!”

“He can make sounds now?” The Convert approached the cage. The moment he did, the person inside shrank back into the corner, as if remembering what The Convert had done to him. But that couldn’t be. “Maybe he needs a name,” The Convert said.

The Listener looked excited but hesitant, wringing his hands. “He—he must have had a name before. I don’t know if we should wait for him to remember or just give him one ourselves…”

“Forget it, then,” The Convert said dismissively. “Let’s just call him Monster for now.”

“No,” The Listener objected immediately. “I want to call him Silver.”

Underground, in an iron cage, silver—it suited him. The Convert gave him a haughty look. “You’ve had this planned for a while, huh?”

“No,” The Listener avoided his gaze, leaning against the cage to tease the person inside, calling him “Silver” over and over. The Convert watched him coolly before turning away.

“Hey!” The Archer called from ahead, a coil of rope slung over his shoulder. “Come gather firewood with me!”

It felt like an escape. The Convert followed without thinking. Only after they’d walked a fair distance did he realize, “We’re about to leave. Why the hell are we gathering firewood now?”

The Archer grinned, flashing white teeth. “Didn’t want you to feel awkward back there.”

The Convert froze, then put on a tough front, rolling his eyes. “None of your business.”

The Archer didn’t call him out, idly flicking the end of the rope against the grass, looking pleased. “I haven’t shown you my skills yet.”

The Convert was indifferent. “What skills?”

“I can set traps,” The Archer said proudly. “Not just digging holes—real hunting traps.”

The Convert gave him a mocking look. The Archer hurried to add, “Not a system skill. It’s my own.” He scratched his head sheepishly. “Traps, fancy knots, and… other stuff. I’m useful, you know.”

The Convert stopped to look at him, really looking this time, chin raised, the corners of his eyes carrying a hint of imperceptible amusement. “What are you trying to say?”

“I want…” The Archer met his gaze. He knew he couldn’t answer—if he did, there’d be no going back.

Seeing his hesitation, The Convert thought he’d won. But then The Archer abruptly changed the subject. “Let me show you.”

“Wha—” The Convert stood there, stunned, as The Archer pulled the scimitar from his belt without so much as a “May I?” and started hacking at branches. “Hey! There’s no time for this—” He chased after him, meaning to stop him, but somehow—maybe he’d lost his mind—he ended up joining in.

While The Archer was setting up the trap, The Convert sat under the shade of a nearby tree, using his scimitar to carve a pair of small horses out of a rotten tree stump—chubby, with short, stubby wings. He tossed one to The Archer, somewhat awkwardly saying, “Here, my skill.”

The Archer held it in his hand, weighing it. “It’s so ugly.”

The Convert laughed, then got up to help him finish the trap, securing it to three trigger points before walking back side by side with him.

On the carriage, The Thief was dozing, while The Listener remained by the cage. The Convert walked up and stuffed the small horse into his hand.

“What’s this?” The Listener asked, confused.

The Convert lowered his head and said softly, “For Silver.”

Only then did The Listener take a closer look at the small horse, surprised. “You made this?”

The Convert didn’t answer. The Listener suddenly hugged him, wanting to whisper something, but a pair of hands reached out from the cage, clingingly tugging at his sleeve. Without hesitation, The Listener casually soothed him with a “Be good,” then pulled his hand away and led The Convert toward the woods behind them. Before they even entered, he kissed him urgently and shyly on the same spot The Archer had kissed earlier—hot and wet.

The Convert immediately covered his left cheek, muttering, “So effective, huh? If I’d known…” He sighed quietly. “I should’ve been nicer to him.”

The Listener took the hand covering his face. “You’ve already been very good to him.”

He brought the hand to his lips, nuzzling it with deep affection. The Convert gazed at him, mesmerized, then suddenly smiled, slinging an arm over his shoulder like a brother, and they ducked under low-hanging branches, heading deeper into the woods.

They hadn’t gone far when The Listener suddenly grabbed him and gently pressed him against a crooked cypress tree.

“What…” The Convert leaned against the trunk, raising an eyebrow.

The Listener seemed restless, staring at his lips but unable to focus, his gaze repeatedly darting back the way they’d come. The Convert disdainfully tossed his hair. “They’re not stupid. They won’t follow.”

Suddenly, The Listener kissed him.

Just as eager and rough as before, but The Convert loved it, wrapping his arms around The Listener’s shoulders, lost in the intoxicating kiss, teasing him in every way possible.

Soon, The Listener faltered, moving against him uncertainly. “Lift your robe…” he whispered. “Lift it up!”

The Convert was clearly surprised, unsure whether to be delighted or ashamed. “H-Here?”

The Listener abruptly knelt, impatiently pushing up The Convert’s robe. “I want…” He clutched The Convert’s knees, almost pleading. “Like how you did for me last time…”

He meant with his mouth. The Convert was genuinely embarrassed—not blushing, but frozen in shock, nervous to the point of hesitation. “Y-You really don’t have to…”

Whether out of curiosity or a desire to return the favor, The Listener forcefully flipped the robe up, making The Convert hold it in place, then yanked down his pants, exposing the trembling flesh beneath.

The Convert clutched the bundle of robe, unable to see anything, growing more and more flustered. “Can you even do this? If not, just forget it—”

Abruptly, he cut himself off, gritting his teeth, arching his back as his bare ass scraped against the rough bark of the tree.

A tongue pressed against the crease of his thigh—or rather, the sensitive junction between thigh and groin. He waited, eyes wide, but nothing happened. The Listener seemed hesitant, unsure about actually taking a man into his mouth, even if this was just a game.

“You bastard…” The Convert clutched the robe, his eyes damp. “You fucking bastard!”

The Listener looked hurt by the insult, gripping The Convert’s length. “I-I don’t know how to do it,” he admitted, tentatively sucking at the tip and sides. “I can’t seem to take it in.”

The Convert’s legs weakened, threatening to give out, but The Listener caught him, hands cupping his ass to hold him up. In this position, The Convert felt like he was about to burst, writhing uncontrollably in The Listener’s grasp, hips thrusting forward in frustration. “Can you do it or not? If not, get lost!”

The Listener, perhaps spurred on by the challenge, suddenly took him in—no hesitation, no pause for breath—swallowing him whole.

It was so sudden that The Convert couldn’t believe it. With a shudder, he came, spilling messily into The Listener’s mouth. Unprepared, The Listener choked, coughing violently.

The Convert collapsed onto the grass, dazed, still clutching the robe. It had been a rushed, almost comical climax, but he felt weightless, floating. He turned to look at The Listener, who was hunched over, busy between his own legs.

The Convert tugged his arm. Like a thief caught in the act, The Listener immediately stopped and straightened up. The Convert reached around his waist, grabbing him firmly. “After you deal with that old man, let’s find a house… a good bed…”

The Listener didn’t speak, just nodded.

The Convert thought he was being cruel—enjoying his touch but refusing to make a sound, just like the maddening clumsiness from before. The more he thought about it, the rougher his grip became, making The Listener moan helplessly.

The Listener returned first, pretending to inspect the horse’s harness. A while later, The Convert came back, looking refreshed. The Thief glanced at him surreptitiously, while The Archer kept his head down, slapping his quiver loudly.

The Listener knew it was deliberate—some childish act of retaliation. Smirking, he called out, “Get on the carriage. Let’s go!”

It was around noon when they set off toward the location marked on the map. Perhaps because they didn’t take any detours, they arrived before nightfall. The Listener carefully surveyed the woods, stopped the carriage, and took out his whistle.

The setting sun painted the horizon blood-red. With a soft blow of the whistle, a figure emerged from the bushes—an old, hoarse voice rasping, “I’ve waited long enough.”

Just like last time, even the words were identical. The Listener signaled for everyone to get down.

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

They lifted the cage down. Last time, Silver had reached out from the bars to grab The Listener’s sleeve, but this time, as if aware of their plan, he stayed still, obedient.

The Elder moved slowly. The Listener exchanged a glance with The Thief, edging behind The Elder as the old man laboriously peered into the cage. Suddenly, in a movement utterly unlike an elderly man—or even a human—he leaped onto the cage’s roof.

The Listener stared up in shock as The Elder pulled a golden key from his left sleeve, his bony wrist trembling as he inserted it into the hole on the cage’s roof—he had a key?

The Convert shot him a nervous look, signaling not to act. The Listener hesitated, but when The Elder lifted the cage’s lid and reached in to drag Silver out, he made up his mind—he couldn’t hand Silver over!

A razor blade, prepared in advance, was hidden in his sleeve. Gripping it tightly, he grabbed The Elder’s cloak and yanked him down, pressing the blade deep into his throat in one swift motion.

Immediately, The Thief lunged forward, driving a knife straight into The Elder’s chest with such force that only the hilt remained visible.

Everyone held their breath as the old man collapsed, bloodied, without even a struggle. Gradually, he stopped moving. The Listener crouched, checking for breath, then nodded to the others.

The Convert finally exhaled, a faint smile appearing. But The Listener’s gaze went past him, calling out warmly, “Silver!”

Silver stood unsteadily inside the cage, hands gripping the roof as he peered out. Blood—The Elder’s—stained his body. The Listener cradled him like a lost kitten, holding him tenderly.

The Convert immediately looked away, unwilling to watch. “Take him to wash up.”

“Okay,” The Listener agreed easily, as if The Convert meant nothing to him. Silver clung limply to his head as The Listener affectionately squeezed his hand. “There’s a stream up ahead. I saw it on the way.”

The moment The Listener left, The Convert bolted in the opposite direction. The Archer immediately gave chase, but then The Thief, still by the corpse, suddenly shouted, “Holy shit!”

The Convert stopped and turned. The withered corpse was convulsing violently, white smoke rising as the tattered cloak bulged unnaturally. From the gaps, a bloodied hand emerged—thick-fingered, with long, sharp nails—clawing blindly before suddenly clenching into a fist.

“He’s not dead!” The Archer yelled, pushing The Convert to run. But The Convert didn’t move, staring as the hand viciously tore at the cloak and the shriveled flesh beneath. Amid the sickening crunch of bones, a naked man crawled out of the skin, drenched in warm blood.

“W-What the hell is that?!” The Thief fell back in terror. The creature went for him first, seizing his neck—not choking or twisting, but folding him like paper, crushing him effortlessly before tossing the remains aside.

Then it turned to The Convert and The Archer, its short black hair obscuring its eyes until the wind blew, revealing golden pupils.

“Go!” The Archer shoved The Convert, nocking an arrow and aiming for the creature’s throat. But just as he was about to shoot, The Convert turned and ran—past him.

The Archer stared at his retreating back, realization dawning. He was going after The Listener—that man was his treasure. The Archer was just someone to be abandoned.

The bowstring slackened. Suddenly, he lost all interest in the game. Just die here, he thought, ready to accept his fate. But the creature, drawn by The Convert’s movement, turned toward him instead.

Noticing its shift in focus, The Archer reflexively raised his bow again, drawing it taut as he shouted, “Hey, monster! Over here!”

At the same moment, The Convert vanished into the undergrowth.

Left alone, the creature flexed its neck irritably, emitting a beast-like growl from deep in its throat before clenching its fists, muscles tensing as it advanced.

The Archer released the arrow. At this range, it should have been impossible to miss—but the creature was faster. Before the arrow could strike, it dodged, the projectile embedding itself in the grass.

No chance. The Archer turned and fled east, stumbling through towering trees and dense underbrush as darkness fell. The creature’s roar pursued him, but its legs seemed unsteady, unable to close the distance. Gradually, The Archer calmed. He couldn’t just run blindly—he had to take control, get closer, end this faster!

He stopped to assess. Ahead lay a fallen tree. Drawing an arrow, he panted heavily, waiting until the creature’s silhouette appeared in the dim moonlight before pretending to limp, feigning injury.

“Kkh… kkhh…” When not roaring, the creature made short, guttural clicks. Its mouth, visible in the moonlight, was lined with sharp fangs. Clearly unsteady on its feet, it finally caught up, pinning The Archer against the rotten trunk—but it barely had the strength to hold itself up.

In that split second, The Archer twisted the bow, firing at point-blank range. The creature’s hands closed around his throat, ready to crush it—but The Archer jerked his head aside and released the arrow.

It shot straight into the creature’s mouth, piercing through its throat.

He stopped moving. The Archer pushed him off, leaning against the tree trunk to catch his breath. His mind was clear—he needed fire. As he reached into his pocket for flint, the “khh… khh…” sound came again, chillingly close. His eyes widened as he scrambled away, watching as something beneath the creature’s shoulder blades writhed, as if struggling to break free.

No sooner had the thought formed than blood splattered across his face. Something was emerging from those shoulder blades—a pair of black, skeletal structures, rapidly growing taller, stretching out wetly before unfurling in the wind. The Archer watched in horror as they expanded, finally forming a pair of massive, sky-obscuring black wings!

This… was this a demon? His hand groped at his chest, not finding flint but instead the small horse The Convert had carved for him—chubby, ugly yet endearing. In that dazed moment, his chest was suddenly soaked in blood.

──────

The Listener carried Silver to the stream and was about to remove his robe when a scream rang out from the woods behind them—The Thief’s voice, filled with pain. He knew immediately—something had gone wrong.

He turned to run back but was tripped by Silver, who, still weak, tilted his head pitifully and reached out for him, begging to be held.

The Listener quickly scanned the surroundings. Upstream, a few large rocks formed a narrow crevice. He picked Silver up and ran toward it, shoving him inside despite his reluctance. “Stay hidden!” he ordered urgently. “Don’t peek out!”

Silver clutched the rocks, his beautiful face twisted in protest, but he was too weak to crawl out. He could only rest his head on The Listener’s knee, nuzzling him like a spoiled child.

“Be good!” The Listener lifted him, kissed his slightly plump cheek, then pushed him back inside before sprinting away.

Returning to where they had parted, he found The Thief’s remains—if they could even be called that. It was just a pile of shattered bones. The Elder, too, had been hollowed out, nothing left but scattered wreckage.

The Convert and The Archer were gone. A fog had risen in the woods, and The Listener wandered blindly through it, the stench of blood assaulting his senses, making him nauseous. Then, from the direction they had come—from the star-filled east—a faint roar echoed. He pulled out his razor, gripping it to his chest as he ran toward the sound.

The darkness was absolute, barely pierced by the trampled grass marking the creature’s path. He charged recklessly forward, lungs burning, until he had to stop to catch his breath. Then—a rustling sound behind him. Every hair on his body stood on end as he spun around, brandishing the razor in terror.

Standing there was The Archer, motionless, his entire chest drenched in blood.

“You scared the shit out of me!” The Listener rarely swore, but this was an exception. “Where is he?” he demanded. “Was he with you?”

The Archer didn’t answer, staring at him blankly.

The Listener looked past him—nothing but endless darkness. “What the hell happened?!” He yanked open The Archer’s collar, trying to see his wounds. “Who did this to—”

A crushing force seized his throat—The Archer’s hands, impossibly strong. The Listener grabbed at the wrists, gasping, “You… you did this? Why?!”

Still, The Archer didn’t speak. Only that strange, guttural “khh… khh…” sound came from his throat. The Listener had no choice but to slash at his wrist with the razor.

The Archer let go. The Listener broke free but didn’t run. Instead, he grabbed The Archer by the collar, shaking him furiously. “Where is he?! Give him back to me!”

He thought this was just part of the game, some jealous revenge from The Archer. But then his throat was seized again—this time with enough force to kill.

“Ugh—!” He kicked wildly, raising the razor high before plunging it into The Archer’s left eye. The grip didn’t loosen. He pulled the blade out and stabbed again, mangling the socket to no avail. Desperate, he turned the razor sideways and drove it deep into The Archer’s ear, twisting violently.

──────

The Convert rushed to the stream but saw no one. Not daring to call out, he followed the water downstream, then doubled back upstream, finally spotting Silver wedged between a cluster of rocks.

“Where is he?!” he demanded.

Silver shrank back, pressing against the stone in silence. The Convert had none of The Listener’s patience—he reached in and yanked him out roughly. Silver struggled weakly, whimpering, until suddenly, sharp pain flared on The Convert’s hand—Silver had bitten him.

He threw Silver onto the riverbank and slapped him—just as The Listener had done to him before. “Keep fighting, and I’ll kill you!”

He really wanted to kill him, but what was the point? The game would just reset. There would always be another Silver. He tore a strip from Silver’s robe, knotting it into a makeshift rope before hauling him onto his back and tying him there. With his scimitar in one hand, he gave Silver’s rear a firm pat. “Let’s go find him.”

He moved like the wind, darting through the dense forest, crouched low, his free hand occasionally bracing against rocks or mounds of earth—almost like running on all fours. He headed east, following the faint scent of blood on the wind.

Silver clung to him in terror, arms wrapped tightly around his neck. The Convert didn’t have time to comfort him—the blood scent was too strong. Then, ahead, beneath the trees, he saw a figure—hunched over, wiping blood from its face.

The Listener.

He sprinted toward him, crashing into his arms. It’s just a game, he reminded himself, but his heart still pounded wildly, threatening to burst from his chest.

“Damn it, where the hell were you?!” He cupped The Listener’s face, voice trembling. “I didn’t even dare log out—what if I never saw you again—” He noticed an unevenness on The Listener’s left brow, as if from a severe injury. “Did… did you run into him?”

He meant the creature. The Listener stared at him blankly, expressionless, until his gaze shifted to Silver—and froze.

Something felt off, but The Convert didn’t dwell on it. He started untying the rope—until The Listener reached out to touch Silver’s ear. Silver flinched, burying his face in The Convert’s hood.

He never shied away from The Listener.

The Convert stopped. Staring at his own feet, gripping the scimitar, he made a split-second decision—he headbutted The Listener in the chest, then slashed downward with the blade. Without waiting to see the result, he bolted east, Silver still on his back.

That wasn’t The Listener. Then who was it? And where was the real Listener? Was he even alive?

Clutching that sliver of hope, he raced through the night fog. Stopping meant death. He pushed on, from midnight to dawn, until the rosy sun rose in the east. Exhausted, stumbling, sweat stinging his eyes, he was on the verge of collapse when heavy footsteps sounded from about five hundred meters north.

He dropped into the grass, blinking against the bright morning light. A tall figure—silver-gray hair, a bloodstained robe—another Listener?

Then Silver stirred, whimpering softly against his back. Gathering his courage, The Convert stood and called out, barely above a whisper, “Hey!”

The figure turned. The moment their eyes met, The Convert knew—it was him.

“Where the fuck were you?!” were his first words. The Listener’s face crumpled with relief, arms spreading wide as he limped toward them.

The three of them clung to each other—desperate, grateful. The Listener pressed frantic kisses to The Convert’s cheeks until Silver, annoyed, shoved at his head. The Listener caught his hand, turning to The Convert. “It was The Archer!”

The Convert shook his head. “No.” He saw the bruises on The Listener’s neck. “The Archer was probably the first to die. That old man… he’s a monster.”

“But I killed The Archer. With the razor—”

“That wasn’t The Archer,” The Convert cut in. “It took your form too. It has golden eyes. It can snap a man in half.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” The Listener said, struggling to accept it. “This world has always been real—we fetch water, chant scriptures, eat rotten stew. Now suddenly there’s a monster?”

“Anything can happen in a game!” The Convert grabbed his neck, pressing their foreheads together. “Right now, we need to kill it. Survive.“

The Listener’s stormy gray eyes steadied. He nodded. “Do you have a plan?”

The Convert pointed south, to a cypress tree. “There. The Archer set a trap there—said it could take down a full-grown boar. We’ll wait for it there.”

Ambush was a solid strategy. They each took position behind one of the trap’s triggers, resting to regain strength. By the time the sun was high, the creature appeared—still wearing The Listener’s face, but now with a deep gash running from his left eye to his right jaw, bisecting his nose, the ruined flesh dangling over his lips.

The Listener and The Convert stood, ready to provoke it—but the creature ignored them, heading straight for Silver. The moment it stepped into range, the trap triggered. Seven or eight sharpened wooden stakes shot from three directions at once. There was no way it could dodge—

Yet when the stakes collided, the creature was gone.

At the same moment, the sky darkened. The Listener looked up instinctively—and saw the once-clear sky blotted out by massive black wings.

With a powerful flap, they swooped down.