Chapter 8 – Island of Saints ι

After Morning Prayer, the monks gradually dispersed from the refectory. The Listener stayed behind, approaching The Mute, who was clearing away the soup bowls. “Brother, do you have any oil?”

Oil? The Mute paused, looking at him in confusion. Of course, there was oil, but it was precious—only a tiny amount was used to prepare the vegetable soup and bread.

The Listener pulled a row of ten gold coins from his sleeve. “Get me some,” he said, tossing the money into The Mute’s hand, which was still smeared with food residue. “Now. It’s urgent.”

The Mute stared at him intently for a moment before tightening his grip on the coins.

He led The Listener to the small, shabby kitchen where he usually kneaded bread. The room was cluttered with grimy jars and pots. Taking out a key, he unlocked the storeroom door tucked in the shadows and retrieved a battered bucket holding about five liters of oil, its walls coated with years of greasy residue. He gestured with his finger at the one-third mark—that was all he was willing to part with.

“Fine,” The Listener said, immediately pulling out an empty waterskin he had prepared, holding it open for The Mute to pour. “Brother, this stays between us.”

The Mute, stingy with the oil, nodded impatiently.

Once The Listener emerged with the oil, The Thief quickly caught up from behind, and the two hurried toward the dormitory.

“Well? Did you get it?” The Thief asked. The Listener nodded. “Is it enough?”

“Should be,” The Listener stopped, turning to glare at him irritably. “How come you’re so talkative after taking on The Thief?”

The Thief slumped his shoulders in frustration. “I’m already pissed off enough that I couldn’t get The Archer. Don’t rub it in.”

The Listener rarely disliked anyone, but he disliked him—especially his fawning attitude toward The Convert. He had thought he wouldn’t have to deal with him this time, but then The Thief had switched in.

“I died way too early compared to you guys. I had no idea when to log in,” The Thief counted on his fingers. “I must’ve died at least twenty times just trying to find you all!”

Entering the dormitory, they climbed the long staircase. The Flagellant’s room was supposed to be the fifth one on the south side of the second floor.

“You sure he’s not there?” The Listener asked in a low voice. The Thief was confident. “Other than Morning Prayer, Evening Prayer, and noon, it’s his time for flagellation under the sun.”

Once they reached the room, The Thief pulled out his master key, fiddled with the lock, and the door opened. They tiptoed in, quietly shutting the door behind them.

The room was unnaturally tidy—so much so that it didn’t seem lived in. The Listener lifted the bedding and pillows. “Have you seen the key to the Salt Vault?”

“Nope,” The Thief searched the desk and the clothes rack. “If it’s a key, we’ll take it. One of them’s bound to be the right one.”

“Could he have it on him?” The Listener worried, accidentally jostling the flimsy wooden bed as he lifted the mattress, revealing a man-made hole in the wall behind it.

“Nah,” The Thief had checked every drawer—nothing. “Flagellants believe in owning nothing. They’d rather go out naked. No way they’d carry extras.”

“Hey,” The Listener called him over. “Take a look at this!”

The Thief turned to see him pull out a stack of items from the hole—pieces of bark with writing, a quill, a parchment map, and a small whistle. “Huh, looks just like your whistle.”

The Listener thought so too. As he unfolded the map, there was a metallic clink—an iron key fell to the floor. He picked it up, studying the map’s markings. Near a river on the eastern side of the Island of Saints, there was a symbol of a whistle.

“Never mind his business,” The Thief started putting everything back on the desk. “Once we get the salt, we’ll have to return the key. You still need to fetch the holy water from the Tabernacle. Don’t dawdle.”

He was right—time was tight. But the map and whistle were too suspicious. Had The Elder hired two teams? Was The Flagellant also searching for Silver? But the drop-off points were different… The Listener hesitated before putting the items back into the hole. At the last second, he spotted a few words on one of the bark pieces: King, black…

After The Thief finished tidying the desk, he helped him push the bed back into place, patting the hand that held the key. “Hope the Grimoire’s instructions work.”

The Keeper’s Grimoire stated that to suppress a demon, seven inextinguishable white candles were needed. To kill one, it required burning it with salt, fire, and holy water.

The Listener retrieved salt from the Salt Vault behind the Cathedral, took holy water from the Tabernacle in the refectory, returned the iron key to The Flagellant, and was wiping sweat as he headed back to his room when he spotted The Convert standing at his door, scimitar in hand, his bright cat-like eyes sparkling like flowers as they met his.

The Listener should have been more reserved—he’d always managed that well before. But for some reason, this time, he rushed forward like a fool, grabbing The Convert’s arm. He could have just greeted him properly or dragged him inside, but no—he couldn’t hold back any longer. He kissed him recklessly.

The Convert was startled, pressing back against the wall as if trying to escape. This was in the corridor of the dormitory, under the prying eyes of who knew how many onlookers!

“What are you doing?!” he shoved at him. The Listener refused to let go, gripping him tightly. “Maybe… I’ve wanted to do this desperately for a while now, but didn’t dare…” He nuzzled his lips, muttering in complaint. “You tempted me.”

“Tempted…” The Convert murmured, savoring the sweet words, his heart melting. But his tone remained as haughty as ever. “Then keep your temptation to yourself. Why corner me in the hallway for everyone to see?”

The Listener’s face flushed, and he quickly released him. “I—I couldn’t help it.”

The Convert was skeptical. Even now, he found it hard to believe this man had no romantic experience—or that he could be so childish as to lose control in the hallway. “You… either don’t know how to play this game, or you’re way too good at it.”

The ambiguous remark left The Listener baffled. Sheepishly wiping his mouth, he glanced around like a thief. Sure enough, a few monks had their doors ajar, seemingly watching. He pulled out his key, clutching The Convert’s hand, and shamefacedly dragged him inside, slamming the door shut behind them.

Inside, neither spoke. The Listener drank water to soothe his dry throat. When he turned around, The Convert was silently stripping off his robe. His eyelashes fluttered nervously as he set the cup down, blushing as he began undressing too. By then, The Convert was already under the covers, bare and waiting eagerly.

The Listener lowered his head, hands covering his groin, and awkwardly climbed onto the bed. As soon as the blanket touched The Convert’s body, he shivered in sensitivity.

“Hey, you’re making this weird for me,” The Convert said, genuinely uncomfortable—even embarrassed, as if it were his first time.

Thinking the bed was too small and his own bulk was crowding him, The Listener sulkily scooted aside. Now they lay shoulder to shoulder like two children, the blanket tucked neatly under their chins, staring blankly.

“Hey,” The Convert called, boldly grabbing his hand first, urging him to hurry. The Listener understood but was too shy to move, only squeezing back tightly, sweating profusely.

Annoyed, The Convert yanked his hand free and rolled onto his side, facing the wall. The Listener immediately followed, pressing against his shoulder blades from behind.

This time, it was The Convert who shivered as The Listener wrapped his arms around him, tightening his grip until it was almost painful. Though his lower body kept a tentative distance, the unmistakable hardness pressing against him was impossible to ignore.

The Convert bit back a smile, refusing to turn around. Instead, he reached back, fingers curling around The Listener’s length, teasing skillfully. The Listener instantly lost control, pressing him hard against the wall, grinding desperately.

Pressed against the cold wall, his neck bathed in scorching breath, The Convert was caught between extremes, his face twisting in a mix of pleasure and pain. “T-Touch me!”

The Listener’s large hand immediately covered his chest—one nipple pierced with a gold ring, the other bare—and squeezed both, tugging. The Convert moaned through clenched teeth, gritting out, “Lower!”

The Listener’s kisses trailed down his cheek, light and lingering, like a tender lover’s. Just as The Convert lost himself in the sweetness, his lower half was seized abruptly.

His hips jerked, neck arching against The Listener’s shoulder as he let out a short, sharp gasp.

“Turn around…” The Listener’s voice was hoarse, lips grazing his ear, licking incessantly. “Face me!”

The Convert looked up at him, eyes filled with love and resentment. “You dare?” he challenged, slowly, deliberately rolling onto his back, legs spreading wide.

The Listener truly didn’t dare. He stared nervously at The Convert—his stunning face, the gold-ringed pink nipples, the taut abs quivering with excitement, the length in his own grip, and…

He averted his eyes as if avoiding impropriety, blushing furiously as he focused on stroking him. Sensing his cowardice, The Convert grabbed one of his hands and guided it between his thighs. At first, The Listener didn’t resist—perhaps out of curiosity—his fingertips brushing the soft, heated flesh. Then, as they touched the puckered entrance, he yanked his hand back as if burned.

“This isn’t… right,” he stammered.

The Convert’s expression was indescribable—just as shy and fearful, yet unwilling to back down. He spread his legs wider, presenting himself in a shameless display. “This body’s probably been taken many times before,” he said, a hint of bravado in his voice as he prodded the tight ring, testing, preparing to push inside. “Let me show you…”

It was too lewd, too obscene. Whether out of disgust or overwhelming arousal, The Listener couldn’t take it. He pinned The Convert’s wrists to the bed, straddling him fiercely. The blanket slid off his back, leaving them both fully exposed in the daylight, bare and unshielded. Yet The Listener still rutted against him, grinding shamelessly.

The flimsy bedframe creaked. The Convert, whether genuinely or pretending, moaned wantonly, legs wrapping around The Listener’s waist as he thrust upward. “I… I don’t like this!”

Face-to-face, The Listener’s sweat dripped onto The Convert’s cheekbones. “Then what do you like?” he panted, thrusting faster as The Convert’s feet scrabbled against his back. “Being fucked?”

The Convert’s fingers dug into his arms unconsciously, answering without shame. “Mhm…” He turned his head aside, as if embarrassed. “Being taken by you… recklessly.”

“Why?” The Listener brushed sweat-damp hair from his face, baffled. “That’s not normal.”

“I want to be abnormal,” The Convert murmured, eyes slanting toward him with an indescribable allure. “Abnormal with you.” Then, softer, “That way… you can’t shake me off.”

Even a heart of stone would soften at those words. The Listener gradually stilled, cupping The Convert’s chin to turn his face back. This man was too beautiful, too relentless—like a flame, forcing you to see him, love him, throw yourself into him—body and soul.

“I…” The Listener wanted to say something, but the words died on his tongue. The Convert didn’t care. Like a wild animal, he lunged up, biting The Listener’s lips in a fierce, sucking kiss. Then, slowly, like a leopard turning in midair, he rolled onto his stomach.

Back facing The Listener, he gathered his long hair and draped it over one shoulder, whispering, “Don’t make me shamelessly seduce you again, okay?”

The Listener knelt up, gripping his ankles and dragging him down. His hands traveled upward—over feet, calves, knees, thighs, hips, the delicate navel, nipples, gold ring, slender neck, until they reached his chin. He stroked him slowly, like petting a cat. The Convert giggled, ticklish yet delighted. “You’re so perverted…”

This was flirting—something The Listener had never experienced before. The mere thought of doing anything more with the man beneath him was already overwhelming.

Suddenly, he leapt off the bed, gripping The Convert’s waist and pinning him to the edge. He kneaded the slender buttocks and thighs, then pressed his own length between them.

The Convert’s eyes widened, breath hitching. Though he’d asked for it, this was his first time. His teeth sank into his lower lip, fingers clutching the sheets.

The Listener held his hips, making him arch his back. The position felt humiliating, so he soothingly stroked his spine before gripping his shoulders, squeezing firmly—letting him feel his strength.

It was real, masculine power. The Convert stiffened, forehead pressed to the bed as something hard nudged against his tailbone.

Knock, knock, knock.

Someone was at the door.

The Listener snapped out of his daze, releasing The Convert and staring in horror at his own shameless state. Swallowing hard, he pulled on his clothes and went to answer.

Cracking the door open, he found an unfamiliar face. “What is it?”

The man didn’t speak, just braced a hand against the door. Before The Listener could react, seven or eight monks rushed in from behind, forcing the door open and flooding the room.

The Listener was shoved to the floor, immediately pinned down. The Convert, tangled in the sheets, was surrounded just as quickly—naked and trapped.

“What are you doing?!” The Listener couldn’t lift his head, his arms twisted behind his back as he shouted in terror. A pair of finely crafted leather shoes stepped into view—he recognized them. The High Priest.

“Child,” the old man asked slowly, “what were you doing?”

The Listener didn’t answer. The High Priest pressed, “You, and that Easterner on the bed—what were you doing in this room?”

Terrified, The Listener knelt like a sinner, forehead pressed to the floor. “N-Nothing…”

The answer lacked conviction. The High Priest chuckled. “Is that so?” He turned to The Convert. “If it was nothing, then why were you bare-assed?”

Even with so many men restraining him, The Convert remained defiant, sitting boldly on the bed. “Who snitched?!”

“You dared to commit blasphemy in the corridors of the dormitory,” The High Priest stepped toward him. “The Lord’s gaze saw it and commanded me to seize you!”

“The Lord?” The Convert sneered. “The Lord is blind!”

Enraged, The High Priest flicked his sleeve. The men lunged to subdue him, but even without his scimitar, they were no match. The High Priest then ordered them to choke The Listener instead.

The moment coughing sounds erupted, The Convert stopped resisting. He let them pin his limbs, strip away the blanket, and force him onto the bed in humiliation.

The High Priest’s aged eyes lingered on his taut buttocks with a lewd fascination. He gestured, and his men immediately pried apart The Convert’s cheeks, fingers probing his entrance.

The High Priest watched with relish, smacking his lips. “His body hair is so sparse.”

The Listener couldn’t see what they were doing, but the implication was clear. He struggled, teeth gritted, until the men reported in disappointment, “Elder, it’s dry inside. He hasn’t been taken like a woman yet.”

The High Priest nodded. “Not yet…” He turned to The Listener, almost deliberately. “They say the only way to confirm if a man has been used like a woman is to test him yourself…”

“Elder!” The Listener surrendered, prostrating himself in shame. “I brought him here. I tried to force him, but he resisted. I failed.”

The High Priest looked down at him. “Did you touch him?”

“Yes.” The Listener nodded dejectedly. As his shoulders slumped, the men loosened their grip. The High Priest pressed, “Where?”

The Listener understood—these interrogations were just perverse entertainment for them. “His ears, chest, thighs… everywhere.”

“And kissing?” The High Priest crouched before him, a jeweled hand resting on his knee. The Listener glanced at it subtly. “That too…”

“Did you use your tongue?” The High Priest narrowed his eyes. “Or while kissing, did you… indulge in indecency? I mean—”

Before he could finish, The Listener lunged, pinning him down with an arm against his throat. A little more pressure, and he’d be dead. The men surged forward, but The Convert seized the moment. He leapt from the bed, snatched his scimitar from the robe, and with a single motion, cut them down like weeds.

Blood spread across the floor. The High Priest thrashed under The Listener’s grip, then gradually stilled.

Locking the corpses inside, they went to find The Thief and The Archer before fleeing the dormitory to retrieve Silver at the Saints’ Tombs. In broad daylight, their escape drew suspicion. By the time they reached the eastern gate in a carriage, the sky was ablaze with sunset. The gatekeeper emerged from his hut atop the stone cliff, shouting, “Night’s falling! Where are you headed?”

“The High Priest sent us on urgent business,” The Listener replied casually, lounging on the carriage shaft. “You know me—I come and go all the time. Don’t you trust me?”

Silence. The wooden rollers of the gate creaked as they turned. The Listener raised the reins, ready to whip the horses, when a group of men came running from behind, yelling, “Close the gate! Don’t let them leave!”

Without hesitation, The Listener slapped the carriage. “Archer!” He cracked the whip, dust flying as the wheels spun. “Shoot the bastard up there!”

The tarpaulin flipped open. The Archer nocked an arrow and fired in one fluid motion. The gatekeeper collapsed before he could lower the gate.

The carriage burst through. The Convert steadied The Archer by the legs, giving him room to draw. Arrows whistled through the air, cutting down their pursuers. The Archer lowered his bow with a smirk, sitting beside The Convert. “Strong grip, pretty boy!”

The Thief heard it. So did The Listener, who glanced back to see The Archer’s hand resting shamelessly on The Convert’s thigh. The Convert arched a brow, about to swat him away, but caught The Listener’s gaze and instead shoved the hand off, turning away.

“What?” The Archer grinned, intrigued. “Shy now?”

He reached for The Convert’s shoulder, but The Listener cut in, “How many arrows do you have left?” He turned to ask, though his eyes lingered on The Convert—his flustered expression was endearing. “At dawn, we’ve got a dozen wolves to kill.”

Killing wolves, slaughtering red-robed monks, collecting payment—it was routine by now. The tension only mounted when they parked at the spot where The Elder appeared. The Listener pulled out the whistle. The Convert and The Thief stood beside him, oil pouch and holy water flask at their waists, staring grimly at the trees.

The whistle blew. A figure emerged from the woods, draped in a tattered cloak, voice ancient. “I’ve waited long enough.”

The Listener led The Thief and The Archer to lift the chest. The Convert stayed, circling behind The Elder. Suddenly, the old man turned, wheezing, “You’ve received your payment. Now, my property—” He paused, repeating his earlier demand, but with a different tone. “Hand it over!”

It was as if he knew what had happened last time… The Convert hesitated, then struck first—a punch to the jaw, a slash across the throat.

“Wait!” The Listener rushed over, rifling through The Elder’s cloak. The Convert urged impatiently, “Hurry! He’ll wake up!”

“Wake up?” The Archer scoffed, baffled. “He’s dead! What—”

The Listener pulled out a small, slender key. Without pause, The Convert slit The Elder’s belly open, spilling his guts. Oil was poured inside. The Listener struck a spark, tossing the flint into the cavity.

Flames erupted from The Elder’s abdomen, fueled by the oil. The Listener flung handfuls of salt into the fire. The heat made it crackle and pop, the blaze swelling violently.

“What the hell are you doing?!” The Archer recoiled, horrified, wiping blood from his sleeve where The Convert’s blade had splattered.

The Thief unclipped the silver holy water flask, sprinkling its contents into the flames. A corrosive stench filled the air.

“He’s done,” The Listener said, clapping The Convert’s shoulder. He leaned in, eyeing The Archer. “I hate him.”

“Yeah?” The Convert’s tone was knowing, amused. “I’ll handle it.”

He moved to leave, but The Listener grabbed him. “What are you doing?”

The Convert turned, grinning brilliantly. “Making him disappear.”

The Listener wasn’t sure if that meant driving him away or… He watched as The Convert approached the blond, tugging at his bloodstained sleeve. “Hey. There’s a ditch over there.”

The Archer glanced at him, understanding the unspoken invitation instantly. He reached for The Convert’s hand, but The Convert dodged. “Coming?”

Of course he was. Like an eager pup, he followed The Convert into the woods. At the water’s edge, he grabbed The Convert from behind, groping his hair. “You know, everyone wants a turn with you!”

The Convert said nothing, slowly drawing his blade. The Archer pressed against him, murmuring filth, “You’re not new to this, right? I’ll just—”

A swift slash. Warm blood splashed The Convert’s face as The Archer collapsed, coughing crimson foam. The Convert wiped his blade on the dying man’s robe. “Next time you want to fuck ‘The Convert,’ make sure it’s not me.”

The Archer face-planted into the dirt. The Convert stepped over him to wash his face.

By the carriage, The Listener fed Silver bread. Each time, the boy grew healthier—now able to chew on his own. He clutched The Listener’s sleeve through the bars, refusing to let him leave.

“Just the two of them,” The Thief kept glancing toward the ditch. “Aren’t you worried?”

The Listener ignored him. “Where will you go after this?”

The Thief smirked. “Wherever you go, I go.” His eyes gleamed slyly. “Don’t worry—I won’t leave you.”

Not “you.” The Convert. The Listener glared, a new hostility in his gaze—the kind between rival stags, a primal clash of dominance.

“Ah…” Silver tugged at his face, small but insistent.

The Listener relented, kissing his tiny palm with a forced smile. Then The Convert returned. The Thief rushed to him, spotting the fresh blood on his collar. He understood immediately. “Any later, and I’d have gone after you!”

The Convert rolled his eyes. “None of your business.” He bumped The Listener’s shoulder playfully. “Hey. I’m back.”

This time, The Listener’s smile was genuine—uncontainable, foolishly bright. He licked his lips, half-joking as he pointed at The Thief. “I hate him too.”

The Convert froze, conflicted. “Yeah? Then I’ll send him packing.”

The hesitation stung. The Listener turned away, playing with Silver’s fingers. “Your call.”

Silver, done with bread, demanded water. The Listener offered the flask, but Silver grabbed his chin, insisting on mouth-to-mouth. The Convert yanked him back. Annoyed, The Listener took a sip, leaning in—only for The Convert to kick him hard. Then he stormed off to The Thief.

The fire had died to embers. The Thief poked at the ashes. “Should we bury this?”

The Convert didn’t answer, watching The Listener. The Thief followed his gaze. “Hey, there’s a shovel in the carriage, right? Toss it here—”

A rope looped around his neck from behind, tightening instantly.

It was the sash from a monk’s robe. The Thief thrashed in disbelief, pitiful and desperate. The Listener was stunned, frozen as The Convert’s face hardened, his grip unrelenting, eyes locked on him.

Soon, The Thief went limp. The Convert released the rope, letting the body slump like a broken puppet.

The Listener gaped. Even if it was just a game life, the pain and emotions were real. Regret twisted his lips until The Convert embraced him, stroking his back. Only then did he whisper, grief-stricken, “I was just jealous… This is ugly!”

“It’s me,” The Convert said. “I made you ugly.”

The Listener hugged him back, clinging with all his strength—they were free. Him, The Convert, and Silver. Ahead lay a whole new world, unknown and perilous.

“Ah… ah…” Silver stirred restlessly in the cage, his silver eyes wide, suddenly fierce.

“Hey, where’s the key?” The Convert asked. “The cage is a hassle. Ditch it.”

The Listener dodged the question. “Let’s keep it for now. In case of danger. We’ll decide after the woods…”

He went to unhitch the horses. Puzzled, The Convert helped tilt the carriage, shoving the cage aboard before reattaching the team. With a crack of the reins, they set off eastward.

They rode through the night. The Listener urged The Convert to sleep, but he refused, clinging from behind, head on his shoulder as if afraid he’d vanish. The Listener teased him, then nuzzled his hair, muttering clumsy sweet nothings.

Everything was perfect. The Convert couldn’t help but whistle into the night breeze—except for the cage. He kept glancing at it, where a pair of eerie eyes stared unblinkingly at him.

He wasn’t sure when he’d fallen asleep. He jolted awake when the carriage stopped and the horses snorted. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up—it was already dawn, surrounded by the drooping branches of a banyan tree.

The Listener climbed over from the carriage shaft, blushing as he lifted the hem of The Convert’s robe. At first, The Convert was too drowsy to care, but then The Listener bent down and licked his calf.

“Hey, what are you doing?” The Convert giggled, ticklish, kicking his hand away. “Silver’s watching!”

The Listener grabbed his pale foot again, gripping it tightly as he panted. “I covered the cage.”

Only then did The Convert realize he was serious. He shrank back in embarrassment. “No, really—we can’t. This is the wilderness—” Suddenly, he understood why The Listener had parked under the banyan tree—and why he’d refused to unlock Silver’s cage earlier. His face burned as he swallowed nervously.

The Listener impatiently yanked off his robe, stripping him bare. The morning chill raised goosebumps on The Convert’s skin, making him shiver, vulnerable.

The Listener quickly pulled him into his arms, pressing their bodies together. For someone so fierce, he looked pitifully desperate when it came to this.

“Silver’s really watching…” The Convert covered his face with his arm, knowing those silver eyes were peering through some gap in the tarp.

The Listener kissed his face lightly, then firmly, his hands sliding down to grip his hips, kneading with a mix of roughness and lust. “It’s fine. He doesn’t understand.”

Then his fingers pressed in—slick with oil—sliding inside effortlessly.

The Convert gasped, turning his head to see the empty oil pouch, its stopper loose, glistening. He tensed, face twisting as he panted heavily. A second finger pushed in, and the sensation was indescribable—his hips jerked, trembling against the carriage floor. Worst of all was his traitorous body, wet and pliant in no time.

“My God…” Even The Listener understood what that wetness meant. He spread The Convert’s thighs, staring in awe at the twitching hole. “You’re so—”

“N-Not me,” The Convert denied through gritted teeth. “It’s this damn system setting!”

The Listener folded his legs up to his chest, eager yet hesitant. “C-Can I… go in?”

The Convert shut his eyes, refusing to answer. The Listener freed himself, rubbing against that slick entrance until The Convert’s toes curled, whimpering, “Just… try it.”

So he did. Slowly, he pushed in—the tight heat welcoming him effortlessly. The Listener exhaled shakily, frozen in place, terrified that moving would make him lose control.

“Mmm…” The Convert squirmed impatiently. The Listener stroked his hair, prying open his clenched fist—revealing a scar on his palm.

“The Penitent…” He growled, tracing the healing wound. “Just thinking about him seeing you, hurting you—I—”

The Convert couldn’t take it anymore, legs tightening around him shamelessly. “This scar? He told you?” Chest heaving, he laced their fingers together. “I got it playing with a knife.”

The Listener froze. Hadn’t another Convert said the same thing before? Was The Penitent lying? But why? To make him seek out The Convert? But The Penitent wasn’t an NPC—why would every Penitent say that?

The Convert didn’t give him time to think, grabbing his hand and placing it on his arousal, whispering hotly in his ear, “I like it deep… and fast…”

He spoke like someone experienced. The Listener didn’t like that. He yanked The Convert up by the waist. “How do you know?”

This position was deeper. The Convert clutched his hand, cheeks flushed. “Inside… it wants you…”

They say a man’s first time is like an animal’s. The Listener proved it—rough, deep, fast, just as The Convert had asked. The carriage rocked violently, wheels creaking, horses neighing. Soon, The Convert was moaning uncontrollably, breathless and overwhelmed.

Another flaw of first-timers—they don’t last. The Listener was no exception. But after finishing, he didn’t pull out. Instead, he shamelessly spread The Convert’s cheeks, watching their joined flesh, scooping up spilled seed and pushing it back in. Soon, he was hard again.

This time, The Convert suffered. The Listener, like a curious child, experimented with every position—from behind, sideways—until The Convert came untouched, twisting his own nipples and the gold ring, trembling as he begged for mercy.

By the time The Listener finally withdrew, it was noon. The Convert lay sprawled on the carriage, one leg hooked over the edge, lower half exposed. The first thing he saw upon regaining his senses was Silver—peeking under the tarp, staring fixedly at his reddened entrance.

Too weak to move, he could only cover himself with a hand, turning away in shame.

The Listener, catching his breath, finally cleaned him up. After a quick meal, he went to unlock the cage. The Convert couldn’t face Silver, watching from the corner of his eye as The Listener carefully lifted the boy out—only for Silver to suddenly lunge at him.

The Convert instinctively raised an arm to block him. Silver bared his teeth—revealing a mouthful of monstrous fangs.

The Listener tackled The Convert just as Silver hesitated. The Convert grabbed his blade and—slash—decapitated him in one stroke.

“What did you do?!” The Listener roared as Silver’s head rolled away.

The Convert, who would’ve snapped back before, stayed silent, head bowed.

Seeing this, The Listener sighed, pulling him close. “Forget it. Just an accident.”

The Convert looked up skeptically, offering meekly, “Let’s bury him.”

Burying an NPC sounded silly, but they did it anyway. As The Listener peeled off Silver’s rags, he found no gruesome wounds—just a miraculously healed back, with two feathered protrusions near the shoulder blades. Soft. Like… fledgling wings?

──────

The Convert stood naked by the southern window at dawn, meticulously wiping himself down. Usually, he’d rush, but this time, no matter how much he scrubbed, he still felt filthy.

A knock came. He ignored it. Another. Frowning, he asked, “Who is it?”

A familiar voice, low and cautious, slipped through the door. “Me.”

The Convert froze in surprise before hurriedly wiping himself again and opening the door. There he was—short hair, gray eyes. “Why are you here?”

The Listener, embarrassed by his nudity, looked down—then suddenly reached out to inspect his backside.

“Hey—” The Convert dodged, but The Listener stubbornly pushed him against the wall.

“I didn’t even go to the Confessional. Came straight for you.” The Listener gripped his hips, forcing him to turn.

“Not my fault,” The Convert muttered, half-resisting. “I told you—the storyline’s like this—Hey!“

The Listener spread his cheeks. It was still wet—something dripping out. The Archer’s doing. That tight little hole trembled, struggling to close.

Last time, The Listener had only thought him slick and pliant. Now, faced with this obscene aftermath, he felt conflicted. “This… it’s like you’re mine, but you’ve been with someone else—”

“Enough!” The Convert turned, shoving him angrily. “I didn’t want to fuck him! It’s the damn setup—I didn’t like it either!”

Seeing his anger, The Listener quickly hugged him, trying to sound mature despite his inexperience. “You… you were my first. Can’t I be a little jealous?”

The Convert arched a brow haughtily. “You were my first too!” Then, softer, blushing, “Back there…”

The Listener held him tighter, nuzzling his cheek like an overgrown puppy. “Really?”

“I don’t make a habit of getting fucked,” The Convert grumbled, though his heart softened at the affection. “Your virgin complex is not cute. Fix it.”

The Listener, pliant as clay, nodded eagerly. “Okay. I’ll fix it.”

The Convert’s cat-like eyes sparkled, and The Listener melted, blurting out, “These past two days… I missed you so much I couldn’t stand it!”

The Convert smirked, hand sliding down to palm his obvious erection. “What’d you do about it?”

What hadn’t he done? Hands, towels, warm water—lost in fantasies. The Listener buried his face in The Convert’s neck. “N-Nothing. Just thought of you.”

The Convert didn’t buy it. A freshly deflowered man wouldn’t stay idle for two days. But he didn’t call him out, instead teasingly sticking out his tongue.

The Listener stared, mesmerized—like a dog distracted by a butterfly. He leaned in to bite, but The Convert pulled back, giggling.

The more he teased, the more frantic The Listener grew, hands wandering lower, slipping into that still-damp crevice. The Convert’s body, as always, was too sensitive—quivering at the slightest touch, hips rolling shamelessly.

The Listener swept him into a fierce embrace, mimicking his earlier kiss, tongue delving deep. The Convert sighed, gripping his wrist—not to stop him, but to guide him deeper, arching into each thrust.

“I-I’m gonna—” The Listener lifted his robe, pulling out his fingers to hoist The Convert’s leg.

“No,” The Convert teased, expertly playing hard to get. “Morning Prayer’s soon.”

“We have time,” The Listener murmured against his lips, lifting his leg higher, over his shoulder. “Let me come once…”

The Convert bit his shoulder lightly. “Last time, you said we’d figure out Silver’s mystery. Why’re you thinking about this now?”

“Not this,” The Listener lined himself up, pressing into that slick heat. “You. Compared to you, nothing else matters.”

“Really?” The Convert gasped as he was pinned against the wall, legs spread. “Really?”

The Listener didn’t answer, lost in the tight, wet heat, kissing him fiercely—tongue plunging greedily, as if trying to devour his soul.

Compared to that, his thrusts were almost gentle, teasing that quivering ring until The Convert’s hips jerked uncontrollably.

“You like this?” The Listener licked his face like an overexcited dog, watching his cock twitch and his nipples harden. “Feels good inside?”

The Convert whimpered, refusing to admit it. “S-Sort of.”

The Listener squeezed his chest, playfully pinching his nipples in opposite directions until they stood stiff.

“Stop—” The Convert grabbed his hands—not to pull them away, but to join in, cheeks flushed. “So perverted…”

The Listener watched his lust-drunk face, panting as he tugged the gold ring, making The Convert moan. He tugged harder, until the areolas swelled, one side larger than the other—grotesquely erotic.

Finally, The Listener couldn’t hold back. Gripping his hips, he pulled out slightly before slamming back in—rough and fast, just as The Convert had taught him.

Perhaps it was because they had been teasing each other for too long, or maybe the position was just too strenuous, but The Convert began to tremble uncontrollably. With each thrust from The Listener, he let out small, startled gasps, his toes curling and uncurling against the floor in a lewd display of desperation.

Seeing the sweat beading on his eyelids, The Listener realized he was struggling to keep up. So he thrust even harder, the slapping sounds growing louder, before feigning concern and asking, “Not fast enough?”

It was already too fast—painfully so. But The Convert, teeth clenched, couldn’t speak. He just nodded weakly, exhaling sharply.

“Then let’s switch positions?” The Listener licked the sweat from his eyelid, slowly pulling out—agonizingly slow, inch by inch—until The Convert whimpered and slid down the wall, boneless.

Just then, a loud clang echoed from outside—the bell tower. Then came the rhythmic tolling of Morning Prayer.

“N-No,” The Convert protested as he was flipped and pressed against the wall, legs spread. “We’re gonna be late for—” Before he could finish, The Listener slammed back into him, ruthless and deep, kissing his cheek frantically as he pounded into him. “I’ll—I’ll be quick!”

Quick? The Convert lost all sense of time, writhing and crying out before a hand clamped over his mouth. He was lifted, folded in half, then pressed against the windowsill. The bells rang in his skull, metallic and deafening. He clenched around The Listener, red and trembling like a shrimp, before melting into his arms in a shuddering climax.

When the spasms faded, he blinked dazedly to find The Listener stroking his stomach, murmuring, “Hey… can I say something?”

“No.” The Convert struggled up, reaching for his clothes.

“I… came a lot today…”

“Fuck off!” The Convert yanked his robe over his head, hiding his burning face—just as something wet trickled down his thigh.

──────

This time, The Listener didn’t linger in the refectory. After grabbing bread, he and The Convert headed straight for the Saints’ Tombs. Along the long passage, through the narrow path into the circular stone chamber, he didn’t go straight for the cage. Instead, he crouched, brushing dust off the walls.

“What are you doing?” The Convert followed, covering his nose. Suddenly, near the mechanism The Thief had discovered, The Listener pointed to a faint carving at the base of the wall. “Look.”

The Convert knelt. The dust was thick, but after wiping it away, a small, elongated pattern emerged—barely noticeable on the weathered stone.

“Recognize it?” The Listener asked.

The Convert nodded. “Seen it before… but can’t remember where…”

The Listener smiled. “Because you’ve never held that key yourself.”

“Key—” The Convert’s eyes widened. “You mean… the demon’s key?”

The Listener nodded. “Last time I opened the cage, the key’s teeth matched this pattern.” He traced the length with his finger—it fit. “We need to confirm it.”

“How?”

The Listener’s expression darkened. “Make one. Try it.”

The Convert was speechless. “Even if we ignore everything else, how do we replicate this pattern? I’ve never even seen soap in this godforsaken place.”

At first, The Listener didn’t answer. Then, finally, he said, “There’s a way.”

He lay down, holding a torch to the carving, burning it over and over until the white stone blackened and reddened. Then, without hesitation, he pressed his palm against it. A sizzling sound filled the air, followed by the stench of burning flesh.

He’d planned this. The Convert wasn’t exactly worried—men could handle a little pain—but something pricked at his heart, sharp and uncomfortable. He fumbled for a clean cloth to bandage the wound, but The Listener caught his hand. “It’s fine,” he said, smiling. “Compared to ‘death,’ this is nothing.”

Right. They’d “died” so many times already. The Convert squeezed his hand. “Logically, with The Thief’s mechanism, there shouldn’t need to be another key. This doesn’t feel like a system setting. Could a player have carved it?”

The Listener thought for a moment. “Every game reset wipes all data—dead players revive, created objects vanish. If it’s not a system setting, then…”

“Someone hacked into the system and wrote this key into it!” The Convert followed his logic, then immediately shook his head. In unison, they muttered, “Impossible.”

“What now?” The Convert asked.

“Find The Firehand.” The Listener pulled the dry bread from his pocket and handed it over. “Feed Silver first.”

The Convert took the bread but didn’t move, remembering the last time—spread open in the carriage, The Listener pounding into him relentlessly while Silver watched shamelessly. Even if he was just an NPC, The Convert couldn’t shake the humiliation.

“Go on,” The Listener urged. “Chew it soft before feeding him.”

“Ugh.” The Convert scowled, trudging toward the cage.

──────

The Listener pressed his burned palm against smooth beechwood, leaving a bloody imprint. The Firehand examined it. “It’ll work. Come back tomorrow.”

The Convert tossed him a gold coin from his sleeve. “We need it tonight.”

“This isn’t 2050. I’ve only got iron blanks and files.” The Firehand stoked the furnace. “If you’re in a hurry, go to The Thief. He’s got a keyring that opens most locks.”

The Listener had considered that—Plan B. “No. We’ll wait.”

Outside the smithy, The Convert grabbed his hand—the burn had torn off a patch of skin, leaving raw flesh. “Let me lick it. It’ll heal faster.”

The Listener stopped, his gaze turning heavy. “After the hand… lick somewhere else too.” For some reason, he blushed like a teenager. “O-Okay?”

The Convert pretended to be annoyed, but he was secretly thrilled. “Oh, you want me to lick you? Why don’t you lick me sometime?”

The Listener glanced around, then tugged his hand. “Back to the room. I’ll lick you there.”

The Convert grinned, triumphant, slinging an arm over his shoulder as they returned to their quarters like inseparable friends.

Tangled together on the narrow bed, skin to skin, legs entwined, they couldn’t get enough of each other. The Listener seemed addicted, unable to keep his hands off The Convert. If not for Evening Prayer, he might never have gotten dressed.

In the dimly lit refectory, monks chanted prayers, but The Listener’s mind was filled with The Convert’s body—his slender waist, the hollow of his shoulders, his soft lips, his tight ass, so pliant when spread but maddening when clenched…

On the way back, he was distracted, eyes glued to The Convert. Suddenly, he couldn’t take it anymore. This damn game—gold, demons, God—none of it mattered. He just wanted to be with him, to flee through the eastern gate in that carriage, like eloping lovers!

Back in their room, he pinned The Convert to the wall. The Convert pushed weakly at his chest, but The Listener cupped his face, demanding, “Do you like me, or ‘The Listener’?”

The Convert avoided his gaze. “What do you think?”

“I… don’t know.” The Listener gripped him desperately. “I’m scared. I used to know what was game, what was real. But now…”

The Convert looked up. “The system made ‘The Convert’ fall for ‘The Listener’—like love at first sight. But after all this time, I’m still with you, not just any Listener. Who do you think I like?”

Me. The answer burned in The Listener’s chest. You like me! Outwardly calm, his heart was in turmoil. “I don’t want to wait 48 hours to see you every time. I want to change the rules.”

This wasn’t like him. The Convert was surprised—he was always so controlled, almost cold. “Without enough rest, the real ‘you’ won’t last. If your body dies, your consciousness—”

“I don’t care,” The Listener cut in. “If we miss each other even once in-game, we might never meet again. I’d rather—”

A soft knock interrupted them. The Listener tensed. “Who is it?”

A familiar voice: “The Firehand sent me.”

He said tomorrow morning. Suspicious, The Listener opened the door to find The Keeper in white robes, holding up a new key. “This what you wanted?”

The Listener stayed silent. The Convert stepped behind him, shutting the door with a smirk. “Keepers aren’t supposed to leave the Vestment Vault. Naughty.”

The Keeper looked nervous—probably afraid of him. “I’m sick of that damn room. I want out.”

Out—off the Island of Saints. The Listener eyed the key. The shape matched. “If you’re sick of it, just die and respawn. Why come to us?”

“Gold coins,” The Keeper said. “You’ve got money. And I don’t want to die.”

The Listener studied him, trying to place him. “The Firehand said it’d be ready tomorrow. Why should we trust you?”

The Keeper glanced between them, sizing them up. “I made him prioritize it,” he admitted. “He does what I say.”

Right. That kind of relationship. The Convert scoffed. “Does he know you’re leaving?”

The Keeper didn’t answer. The Listener stared at the key. “What if we just take it?”

“Then nobody leaves.” The Keeper sneered. “One shout, and the whole dormitory will come running—the High Priest too!”

The Listener’s lips twitched. The monks and the High Priest had come—and died in this very room.

He glanced at the darkened sky outside, then finally held out his hand. “Fine,” he said, smiling easily. “Deal.”

──────

The Convert packed lightly, and the three set off for the Saints’ Tombs in silence. The Keeper clutched the key until they reached the circular chamber. Then, seeing the half-dead figure in the cage, he scowled. “Where’s the gold?!”

The Convert dropped his bag. “Who said there was gold?”

Before The Keeper could react, clang—The Convert tossed his scabbard to the ground.

“What are you—” The Keeper backed up, finally sensing danger.

“With that IQ, how’d you even get in?” The Convert tapped his temple, raising his blade. “Go on, shout. Let’s see if the High Priest comes.”

“Enough,” The Listener said coldly from behind The Keeper. “No more talking.”

The Keeper turned—just for a second. Before he could look back, The Convert’s blade flashed. A cold sting, then warmth gushed from his neck. He clutched it, blood seeping through his fingers.

“Cut a little crooked…” The Convert mused, crouching as The Keeper choked on his own blood. Trembling, The Keeper raised a finger.

The Convert laughed, nudging it playfully. Then—suddenly—The Keeper pressed that finger to The Convert’s forehead, dragging it upward in a bloody line.

The Convert recoiled, scrambling up. The Listener only then noticed—The Keeper had been muttering something, a curse, until his last breath.

“What was that?” The Convert wiped his forehead. The Listener had never seen this before. “No idea. The Keeper’s the only one who practices witchcraft. Maybe—” He froze. The blood mark wouldn’t wipe off.

The Convert noticed too. Whether he truly didn’t care or just didn’t want to worry The Listener, he shrugged and picked up the scabbard. “Whatever. A curse is a curse. As long as you’re with me, I’ll live with it.”

The Listener yanked him close, but The Convert just grinned, brushing it off. “If it’s death, injury, sickness, or pain—you’ll stick with me, right?”

He opened the cage, lifted Silver out, and tied him to The Listener’s waist with a rope. With that eerie red mark still staining his forehead, they left the Saints’ Tombs, boarded the carriage, and fled eastward through the gate under the cover of night. This time, they didn’t head west but went straight toward the Center of the World. They abandoned their mission, discarded the gold—all for the sake of unraveling the secret hidden within Silver and securing a future for the two of them.

They traveled through the night. By dawn, they had crossed the final mountain ridge. Ahead stretched an endless plain, dotted with swathes of red and purple flowers that burned the eyes like fire. When the sun had climbed halfway up the southeastern sky, they found a river. After some discussion, they carried Silver out of the carriage and began stripping off his robe.

His emaciated back, from shoulder blades to waist, was covered in scars. The Convert leaned in closer to examine them. “First cut with a blade, then burned.”

“They must have cut off his wings,” The Listener murmured, smoothing Silver’s hair. “Could the Island of Saints really be this cruel?”

“At the very least, we’re responsible for imprisoning him,” The Convert said, tracing the hardened scars. “The burning was probably to prevent regrowth.”

“But they grew back anyway,” The Listener mused. “Do you think Silver… might also be a demon? He has wings and fangs, just like that thing.”

“If he really is the same,” The Convert said coldly, turning to him, “we need to deal with him now.”

The Listener lowered his eyes, clearly reluctant. “He’s still so weak. He can’t hurt anyone.”

“By the time he can hurt someone, it’ll be too late,” The Convert muttered, unable to hide a hint of jealousy. “At least he won’t hurt you.”

The Listener seemed oblivious to the implication. He scratched his head shyly and smiled sheepishly. The Convert immediately flared up, grabbing his collar and kissing him fiercely. The Listener shoved him away in shock, shouting, “What are you doing?!”

The Convert froze, watching as he wiped his mouth in horror. “I… what?”

The Listener quickly bundled Silver back up, carried him to the carriage, and untied the reins, ready to leave. The Convert chased after him. “What’s wrong with you?!” He was at a loss. “Did I… did I do something to upset you?”

The Listener placed Silver in the carriage and prepared to drive off. The Convert blocked his path, arms outstretched. “Yesterday!” His voice was fierce, but underneath, he was pleading. “Who was it that asked if I loved them?!”

The Listener didn’t answer, just frowned at him.

“Who was it?!” The Convert gritted his teeth, refusing to beg. “Who pinned me against the wall and shamelessly whispered sweet nothings?” He pointed at The Listener. “You—you bastard, you fuck me and then act like it never happened!”

“What are you talking about?” The Listener stared at him like he was insane. “When did I ever touch you?”

The Convert was speechless. “When did—” He grabbed the horse’s bridle with one hand and yanked at The Listener’s sleeve with the other. “This time, last time, all those times—we—”

He stopped abruptly, realization dawning. He touched his forehead. “The Keeper’s blood… is it still there?”

“Yeah, why?” The Listener looked baffled. “Silver’s free now. We can go our separate ways.”

No—they couldn’t go their separate ways! The Convert forced himself to stay calm. “When you logged in yesterday morning, where did you go first?”

“The Confessional, obviously,” The Listener answered immediately, rummaging in his pocket. “Here’s your share of the gold. Uh… how much did I promise you again?”

Of course, he couldn’t remember. They hadn’t discussed money in ages. Suddenly, The Convert understood. The Keeper’s curse—or skill—wasn’t death, injury, sickness, or pain. It was to make him lose his beloved, to make his beloved lose him.

“Let’s die together!” He vaulted onto the carriage shaft and threw himself into The Listener’s arms, cupping his face. “If we die, you’ll remember me!”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” The Listener twisted away, glaring at him in disgust. “I remember you just fine—strong, seductive, wanton!”

The Convert couldn’t hold back anymore. His proud cat-like eyes shimmered like shattered crescents, tears spilling over. “I am seductive. I am wanton. But I… love you…”

The sound of hoofbeats drowned out his words. He turned to see two horses approaching through a flurry of petals, their riders clad in the Island of Saints’ robes. The Listener immediately shoved him aside, covering Silver with the tarp.

Two horses, three people. Even from a hundred paces away, The Convert recognized them—The Flagellant, The Thief, and someone wrapped head to toe in a cloak. They seemed surprised to see the carriage, stopping at a distance to peer at the tarp-covered Silver.

The Listener suddenly remembered the hole in The Flagellant’s wall—and the map with a whistle symbol near a river east of the Island of Saints.

This river? He stepped down from the carriage just as the others dismounted. The cloaked figure appeared frail, clinging to The Thief’s back. The two groups approached each other cautiously.

The Flagellant spoke first. “We’re all fugitives. No need to explain ourselves.”

The Listener nodded, but before he could speak, The Flagellant added, “But you’re going the wrong way.”

The Convert immediately drew his blade, stepping protectively in front of The Listener, who asked carefully, “Who’s that you’re carrying?”

The Flagellant’s gaze drifted past him to the lump under the tarp. “If you turn back, you might find out.”

Impossible. The Listener reached for The Convert’s shoulder, signaling caution, but The Flagellant noticed. “Don’t bother scheming. It won’t work.”

The Listener’s hand hovered, then clenched into a fist. The Flagellant smiled faintly. “His blade is sharp, but I know how to handle him. Honestly, I’ve done it many times before.”

The Listener stared in shock. The Flagellant turned to The Convert. “Don’t believe me? Try it.” He pointed to the bloodstain on his forehead. “The Keeper’s mark, right?”

The Listener realized—this man was no amateur. He had played longer, died more times—not dozens, but thousands. To trigger so many random variables across countless permutations, his sample size had to be staggeringly large. Could any human life even encompass that much experience? Was he even a player at all?

Once he understood, he froze—like a mortal facing an omniscient god, powerless to do anything but retreat. The Flagellant extended a hand. “Don’t be afraid. We’re all just playing to escape loneliness.”

The Listener didn’t believe him. He stayed silent.

“Before I played this masochist,” The Flagellant tapped his chest, “I spent a long time as The Listener—just like you.” He pointed at The Convert. “Fucking him senseless in the dormitory, the refectory, the Confessional. Oh, and under that big banyan tree to the west. It’s been so long, I almost forgot.”

“You’re mistaken,” The Listener said coldly. “We’re not like that.”

The Flagellant glanced at The Convert, who lowered his eyes sorrowfully, and sighed. “You’ll regret this moment. Because…” He hesitated. “You should know—we’re all trapped here. Chances won’t keep coming. Once you lose it—”

“I’ll make it happen for him,” The Convert snapped, shoving him. “It’s none of your business!”

The Flagellant blinked, then burst out laughing. “What a cute kid. Must be new.” He studied The Convert like a rare specimen. “Such a charming ‘Convert’—I’d love to fuck him once—”

“Fuck off!” The Listener suddenly swore, for no reason he could name. The Flagellant chuckled, shrugging as he signaled The Thief to remount. As their horses thundered past, he turned and shouted to The Listener, “Not this river—the third one up ahead!”

They vanished, leaving behind a trampled path of petals. The Listener stared after The Thief, briefly wondering if the cloaked figure had been another Silver. But from what he’d glimpsed, that person had been much taller.

Suddenly, arms wrapped around him from behind. He didn’t need to turn to know it was The Convert. “Let go.”

“No.”

The Listener struggled briefly, but The Convert held fast. “What do you want?”

“I want you to remember!” The Convert pressed his forehead against The Listener’s shoulder, fingers digging into his arms. “I refuse to believe a single drop of blood could make you forget me!”

The tarp on the carriage shifted. A slender hand emerged—Silver, likely stifling. The Listener immediately broke free and rushed to him.

“Hey!” The Convert shouted, watching as The Listener cradled Silver in his lap, stroking his hair, his belly, even licking his eyes. He couldn’t take it. Blood roared in his ears. Then—impossibly—Silver leaned in and licked The Listener’s lips.

They both froze. The Listener flushed, covering his mouth. “Silver, that tickles…” Before he could finish, Silver licked him again. This time, The Listener was genuinely flustered. He wanted to scold him but couldn’t treat it like an adult kiss. “Silver, behave!”

Something was wrong. They’d only left the Island of Saints a day ago. How had Silver recovered so quickly? And where had he learned to lick lips like that? Stranger still, Silver hugged The Listener’s head. For a split second, his still-clouded eyes flicked toward The Convert—a deliberate glance.

A challenge? The Convert kicked his robe aside and stormed over.

He tore them apart, binding Silver’s wrists with rope. When The Listener tried to intervene, The Convert shoved him to the ground. “You’re next!”

The Listener scrambled up, grabbing at him. “You’ll hurt him—he—”

Once Silver was secured, The Convert grabbed The Listener’s chin and threw him down again. “Damn it.” He planted a foot on his chest, leisurely stripping off his robe. “Guess I’ll have to stimulate your memory!”

The Listener tried to push him off, but The Convert pinned him easily, straddling him amidst the sea of red flowers. The scent of myrrh and oil clung to his hair as he leaned down. The Listener bucked desperately, making The Convert laugh. “Yeah, just like that! Keep going!”

Then his hand slipped into The Listener’s robe—finding its target unerringly.

The Listener froze, face burning, hips still raised awkwardly. “Wh-What are you doing?!”

The Convert gradually increased the pressure, forcing his waist down as he worked him skillfully. “Having sex.”

“N-No!” The Listener recoiled at the word, writhing—but his hips trembled with unfamiliar pleasure. “I don’t want to!”

“You do,” The Convert murmured, bending closer. “You do.” He brushed their lips together, grinding against him impatiently. Then, with humiliating precision, he guided The Listener inside.

The Listener went rigid, staring in shock at where their bodies joined.

“Bastard!” He bit his lip, surrendering to the sensation. The Convert, sweat-drenched, gazed down at him—that unmistakable look of a virgin. He laughed bitterly, as if claiming his first time twice over. Then he sank down completely.

The Listener shuddered violently, hands gripping The Convert’s thighs—whether to push him away or pull him closer, even he didn’t know.

“Tell me,” The Convert panted, barely audible, “your player ID!”

The Listener was drowning in primal sensation, torn between abandon and restraint. “The system will detect it,” he gasped, legs trembling. “What’s the point?”

“Then—your name!” The Convert spread his thighs, riding him shamelessly, the obscene display too much for The Listener to bear.

Fluids spilled as The Convert’s spasms made it impossible to stay upright. He moaned, arching back, hands braced behind him as he rocked on The Listener’s lap, their union fully visible. He glanced at the carriage—Silver was watching, bound hands rubbing between his own thighs in sync.

“Name,” The Convert suddenly choked The Listener, lifting his blade. “Tell me!”

Lost in sinful pleasure, The Listener’s hips jerked uncontrollably. The suffocating grip only heightened his frenzy, toes curling in ecstasy.

“Name!” The Convert pressed the blade to his own throat—

Then everything ended.

Name…

The Listener’s consciousness spiraled into darkness, falling, falling—

Until his back hit something solid.

With a jolt, his eyes flew open.