Chapter 9 – Island of Saints λ

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

From every wall, from every crack in the stone, came the undulating sound of hymns and the continuous Mass: He that is wounded in the stones, or hath his privy member cut off, shall not enter into the congregation of the LORD…

The Listener carried a bag of silverware, clad in a dark brown monk’s robe, the coarse hemp scratching his skin. He tugged at the collar, then suddenly dropped the bag and ran back.

The Convert! He had to find him, immediately, right now! For the forty-eight hours of waiting, for the foolish version of himself at their parting, for the chance to be together… He rushed into the dormitory, recklessly knocking on the door of that infidel’s room.

“Me!” Without waiting for a response from inside, he called out urgently.

After a moment of silence, the door clicked open, and the familiar voice spoke again, but this time it asked, “Who are you?”

The Listener’s smile froze on his face. The door slowly opened, revealing the same face—long curly hair, cat-like eyes, a small black mole on the bridge of the nose—but the light in those eyes was unfamiliar, dark and alien.

The Convert was barefoot, his monk’s robe hastily thrown on. The Listener knew he had been wiping himself down. Hesitating, he stepped inside. The beautiful scimitar lay on the table, gently bathed in the dawn light.

The Flagellant’s words suddenly made sense to him: “You’ll regret this moment.”

Clenching his fists, he felt a panic like never before. Had they simply been assigned to different instances, or had that guy not even entered at all? Whatever the reason, this was a domino that had fallen in the wrong direction. One misstep, and there might be no future left.

He swayed, barely managing to steady himself against the table. The Convert handed him water from behind: “What’s the matter?”

“I…” The Listener choked. “I’m looking for my lover,” he said, gripping the scimitar, carefully tracing its engravings. “I might not find him.”

The Convert laughed. “The Listener’s lover… isn’t that me?”

You? The Listener laughed along with him, then turned halfway, suddenly—like Othello in the moment of drawing his blade—slashed his own throat in one fierce motion. The Convert cried out as blood gushed forth.

──────

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

The Listener carried a bag of silverware, clad in a dark brown monk’s robe, the coarse hemp scratching his skin. He tugged at his collar, then suddenly dropped the bag and ran back.

The Convert. He repeated the words as if possessed, his mind filled with the image of that person desperately pressing a blade to his own neck, his ears ringing with the endless cries: “Name!”

He rushed into the dormitory, recklessly knocking on the door. A lazy voice answered from inside: “Who is it?”

The Listener found his throat trembling, almost unable to speak. The door opened, revealing a naked beauty standing there. Seeing him, the person giggled: “Oh, The Listener. What do you want?”

Not him. The Listener pushed past him, barging inside, heading straight for the table. He grabbed the scimitar and in one swift motion—

…

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

The Listener dropped the bag of silverware and stumbled back down the narrow path toward the dormitory, staggering as he knocked on that unknown door. He knocked for a long time, but no one answered. Sliding down against the door, he covered his face with his hands.

The Convert wasn’t here. Where else could he be? He looked up blankly at the ancient stone vault above—maybe in The Archer’s bed.

His heart felt like it was being wrung out. He pushed himself up and dragged his exhausted body out. It was still early. He wandered alone to the Refectory, pushed open the door—that usually bustling place now dead silent. Sitting down on his little stool by the Tabernacle, he hung his head, silently wiping away tears.

As the sunlight grew and the bells tolled, the monks arrived in twos and threes. Like a lost child, he clung to an unrealistic hope—that the person he sought had chosen someone else this round, whoever it was, as long as he came to find him.

After the prayer of “The Israelites Demand a King” ended, the monks lined up to receive their bread. No one came for him. He stood there helplessly, feeling loneliness for the first time.

Following the crowd out of the Refectory, he brushed past The Archer, The Swordsman, The Thief, The Pious One—all familiar faces, yet none of them his. He no longer had the strength to die again; his spirit couldn’t withstand another disappointment. He went to the Saints’ Tombs alone, made a rubbing of the key, asked The Firehand to forge a blood mold, and waited for The Keeper to come—perhaps his only teammate this round.

But The Keeper never came. The next morning, he took the key, gathered the silver, and as the last of the dawn faded, he left the Island of Saints.

Still heading east, under a bright sun and through fields of flowers, he took his time, walking slowly. Now and then, he thought of The Convert—how he had sat on this rock, rested under that shade, until the river. Here, they had encountered The Flagellant. Here, they had truly parted…

Silver hugged him from behind, as if sensing his sorrow, nuzzling his forehead against his shoulder, humming softly. The Convert had done the same to him once. The Listener gritted his teeth and ruffled Silver’s hair.

He waited by the river for a day, but The Flagellant never came. Maybe they weren’t doing well this round. He continued his journey, passing through a peach grove and a second river, arriving at the bend of a third river. He stopped his horse upstream, took out a whistle from his pocket, and blew it experimentally. Only the wind answered, brushing past his ears.

“Silver,” he reached back, and the mysterious figure immediately pressed his cheek into his palm—so sweet, so obedient. “Let’s stay here tonight, alright?”

Of course, anything he said was fine. Silver gazed at him with eyes as pale as water, blinking, then took his fingers into his mouth, sucking gently.

This guy had changed. In less than seven days, his hair had grown from ear-length to chest-length—silver, with a silky sheen. His teeth were small and sharp, his nails slender yet strong. That night in the carriage, The Listener slipped a hand under his robe, feeling the smooth skin of his back, where tiny nubs of flesh had begun to form. At the touch, Silver shivered and burrowed into his arms.

He was growing healthier, more sensitive. When The Listener tried to pull his hand away, Silver clung to him, whining, even pressing his hips forward suggestively. The Listener had been through this before. Awkwardly, he pushed him away and turned over.

But his body betrayed him. Frustrated, he thought—every night was like this. The Convert had turned him into this, a mess of desire. He touched himself furtively—hot and hard, like some lust-driven bastard. Then, suddenly, a small, soft hand reached around from behind and grabbed him.

The Listener shuddered. “Silver!” He tried to pull the hand away, but despite its smallness, it held tight, rubbing and teasing. He arched his back, glaring into the darkness, weakly scolding, “D-don’t mess around!”

Silver wasn’t playing. He pressed his entire body against The Listener’s back, rocking his hips in time with his ragged breaths. The Listener felt something wet and slippery against his ear—Silver’s tongue.

What was he doing? Where had he learned this? He—

With a gasp, he came, a hot spill—partly from pent-up need, partly from shock. Even as he softened, Silver kept playing with him. The Listener panted heavily, gripping Silver’s hand—those fingers sticky, for some reason reminding him of The Convert. Just the thought made him hard again.

His mind filled with that person’s face—angry, happy, pleading, arrogant. The glint of the gold ring against his chest, the sensation of his hair sliding over his arm—everything pierced his heart like an arrow. Shamelessly, he grabbed Silver’s hand and stroked himself desperately.

──────

At dawn, The Listener forced Silver to sit facing him. Silver squirmed, trying to lie down, but The Listener held him, his face flushed as he scolded, “You can’t do this anymore, understand?”

It was unclear if Silver understood. He looked around absentmindedly, avoiding eye contact. The Listener raised a hand, ready to scare him, when suddenly something swooped down from the sky, aiming straight for Silver’s head.

Silver shrieked. The Listener quickly pulled him into his arms, just as his robe and hood were torn open—not just the fabric, but his skin stung sharply.

It was a hawk, or a falcon—small but with sharp talons. The Listener threw stones at it, but missed. The bird circled for a while before flying off.

Probably Silver’s hair, shimmering in the light, had caught the hawk’s eye. The Listener took off his robe, craning his neck to check his back—several wounds, but none too deep. Silver blinked up at him, then grabbed his arm, licking the injuries with his tongue.

Let me lick it, it’ll heal faster!

The Listener shut his eyes abruptly—not from physical pain, but an indescribable ache in his heart. “No need—” Just as he tried to pull Silver’s arm away, he spotted a figure in a headscarf crawling toward them rapidly.

He glanced around—seven or eight of them, all in headscarves, surrounding him and Silver.

He had only a small razor, clenched tightly in his hand. The men approached swiftly, wearing upturned boots and wielding scimitars—infidels! The Listener threw himself over Silver just as blades came down, slashing his shoulders twice. They flipped him over, hacking wildly until blood soaked his body. He couldn’t find Silver—only saw the men heading for the carriage, looting and unhitching the horses. Bandits.

“Heh…” He chuckled. It was a system setting. This was a mission area designed for The Flagellant. Anyone not part of the questline couldn’t linger—stay, and you’d vanish.

Blood bubbled from his lips. He wasn’t afraid, even craving “death.” Here, “death” wasn’t the end—just another beginning. That hope let him wait quietly for the darkness and the familiar sensation of falling.

“Ahh…” Someone whimpered beside him. He turned his head with difficulty, seeing Silver’s face—covered in blood, desperately pushing at him, trying to make him get up.

Hoofbeats echoed as the bandits rode off with their spoils.

The Listener reached out, gently smoothing Silver’s messy hair. “I can’t… stay with you… for the rest of this journey. We’ll…” On a whim, he chose a word, “…meet again in the next life.”

Silver didn’t seem to understand “next life” or death. He stubbornly touched The Listener’s body, found the blood, studied it curiously, then tugged at his pants.

At first, The Listener didn’t pay attention—until his pants were pulled down and his cock was grabbed, stroked insistently. “What are you—” He forced his eyes open, seeing Silver, bloody, straddling him, his tattered robe discarded, a slender little thing jutting out, swaying lewdly as he imitated The Convert.

The Listener froze. Despite his shock, his body responded to the friction. He resisted weakly, but Silver ignored his wounds, gripping his erection and trying to push it into himself.

This was disgusting, absurd! He didn’t know what horrified him more—being forced while barely alive, or being forced by Silver. Panicked, he struggled, only to realize Silver couldn’t manage it, whining for help.

“Good boy, get down…” he murmured weakly. Silver pouted, as if giving up, then plopped onto his hard cock, grinding clumsily before grabbing The Listener’s hand and wrapping it around his own small length.

Silver guided his hand in frantic strokes—a childlike thing, barely developed, just smooth skin over tender flesh. He moaned, his voice rising, his body growing hotter.

The Listener’s consciousness faded. All he felt was the heat in his hand, trembling, slippery. On the edge of life and death, Silver screamed—but nothing came.

“Dying” felt slow, so slow he saw countless points of light burning beneath Silver’s skin, as if a fire raged inside him, cracking his flesh, shattering it into fragments before erupting into a blazing sphere.

So hot… That was The Listener’s last sensation before darkness swallowed him.