PART THIRTEEN-HUNDRED-AND NINETY-FOUR

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Saturday

Barris finally found Rory lip-locked with a woman who was straddling his lap with her already short dress hiked up past her hips. Another kissed a line up the back of his neck while Rory curled an arm around her head to keep her there.

He’d only been off the realm-damned phone a minute or two at best!

Barris pocketed his phone to free his hands. “Alright, ladies,” he said, clapping them together once before taking the wrist of Rory’s restraining arm and giving it an extra hard squeeze to get his nephew’s attention. “Party’s over.”

The wince broke the kiss but didn’t shake off the lust-filled, ambrosia-heavy glaze in Barris’ eyes. “Heeey, B2.”

Barris was really going to have to find out what that meant. Later. “Ladies, off.”

 Although the rings prevented the divine command from sticking in their minds, it still carried enough oomph that the woman in his lap lifted up and shuffled half a step back. The woman behind likewise backed up, which was good, because they wouldn’t have enjoyed what would have happened next if they hadn’t.

“Oooh, another Nascerdios,” the woman in front purred.

“No.” Fuck no, to be precise. Despite being unofficially off the market, it’d be a cold day in Antenora before he satisfied himself with any of Rory’s cast-offs. The loss of the woman in Rory’s lap revealed his pants had been unzipped, but they hadn’t gotten so far as to pulling his dick free.

Thank fuck for that.

With all the surprise hybrids that had been turning up lately, they didn’t need another.

He hauled Rory to his feet, wedging himself under the boy’s arm to prevent the drunken fool from faceplanting. It didn’t help that the idiot’s pants started sliding down his legs.

Two steps later, he was back in his office on Ocean Front Walk. Again, he drew on his innate, retrieving his phone and calling his oldest brother.

“What?’ Llyr snapped, which meant things were still tense where Ivy was concerned.

“I need to borrow your basement for a few hours.”

“Why?”

“Rory’s wrecked himself on ambrosia, and unless you want him telling the world about Sam, I need somewhere that can contain him until he sobers up.”

“Fuck.” The growl was no less than he expected. “Fine. Ivy’s in our room upstairs, so make sure he stays down there. I don’t need her finding out about the sublevel.”

“Done.”

Two steps later, they arrived in a room that wouldn’t have been out of place in the dungeon of a medieval castle. Chains hung from the walls, and although there were no instruments of torture to be seen, the atmosphere let it be known that people had screamed in agony down here.

No one would know from the modern multi-storey building above that this basement level even existed. Their mother had raised them to always keep a violent backup in reserve.

“Awww…noo, no-no-no,” Rory dropped his weight and pushed backwards away from the wall Barris dragged him towards.

“Relax, kid,” Barris said, knocking his feet out from under him and helping him to the floor without hurting him too much. Certainly nothing he couldn’t walk off in under a minute. “This is happening.” He then grabbed Rory’s right ankle and hauled it the last few inches to the nearest leg manacle.

Rory rolled onto his stomach and tried to do a combination of crawling away and mule kicking his uncle, neither of which happened. In seconds, the leg iron was clamped and bolted into place. “Aawwwwww!” Rory whined and kicked at the chain, then he pulled on it as hard as he could until Barris pushed him back the other way.

“Stop it!” he commanded, after grabbing his nephew by the lapels and getting into his face. “You’re staying here until you sober up, and if you’re smart, you won’t fuck yourself up so badly that you can’t race next weekend in the process.” He held his nephew’s gaze until the younger man finally relaxed in his grip.

Like with all Mystallians, it took a while.

“Hatechu,” he slurred, turning his head away.

It broke Barris’ heart to hear those words from his nephew, even if it was a childish reaction and not one he actually meant. “I know. Keeping you prisoner here like this goes against everything in me, too. This isn’t just for your Uncle Llyr. It’s for your own good as well.”

Rory tried to glare at him, but it collapsed into a painful squint. “Why?”

“Because if you end up with kids, you’ll be dropping off the racing circuit for at least two decades to raise them.” Barris held his fingers up to emphasise the number. “And you haven’t finished getting your first taste of that fame yet.”

“Mum didn’,” he slurred petulantly.

It always came back to this. No matter how much fame, freedom, or recklessness Rory wrapped around himself, eventually the conversation circled back to the mother who’d left him behind.

It was why they didn’t belong amongst the mortals. Not like this. In divinity, establishment gave them purpose. It stopped them from dwelling on things they couldn’t change. Rory wouldn’t need to make do with the mortal accolades.

Barris sighed and twisted to sit on the floor beside his nephew’s legs with his back against the dungeon wall. “We’ve been over this, Rory. Her innate makes her flighty. If she’d kept you with her, it wouldn’t have ended well for you anyway. Children need stability—the comfort that comes of knowing they’re safe in their own home. She couldn’t give that to you, and she was Mystallian enough to own it. Your innate is racing, and it would cripple you just as hard if you had to stop what you’re doing to raise kids.”

Rory rolled onto his back and stared at the stone ceiling. “’m jus’ like m’ mum,” he said, so quietly that Barris wasn’t sure which of them he was talking to.

“We all carry aspects of those who came before us. It’s the nature of divinity.” Barris patted Rory’s leg. “I need you to stay here for two seconds and not hurt yourself. I’ll go and get you something more comfortable to lie on than the concrete floor.”

“Don’ botha’,” Rory mumbled, draping an arm over his eyes.

Barris frowned. Even drunk, Rory was always over the top and jubilant. The centre of everything, no matter what. Case in point, the scene they’d just left before coming here.

 This…was different.

“Talk to me, kid.”

“No.” But then to contradict his answer, he dropped his arms to his side and struggled to lift his upper half with his elbows. “Go’n look after Un—cle L’rear.” He then squinted. “L...L’relier.” He closed his eyes. L-l—”

“Llyr,” Barris supplied.

Rory dropped his weight to the floor. “Yeah. ’e’s the one who keeps gettin’ shit on by the universe f’r no reason.” 

It was Barris’ turn to squint. “What?”

Rory rolled onto his side, effectively putting his back to Barris. 

Barris was half-inclined to haul him back and finish the conversation, however the position Rory had rolled into was close enough to the recovery position, meaning if he threw up, he wouldn’t choke himself by being on his back.

Without touching Rory again, Barris slid to his feet and realm-stepped away, appearing inside his set of apartments in the Prydelands. He went into his servant’s quarters and stole one of the mattresses from the bed. These were only ever used when he was in permanent residence, and he hadn’t lived there for almost two centuries.

Columbine’s staff kept everything ready to go in the meantime, which meant the mattress was either brand new, or close enough to it.

He also grabbed a clean chamber pot that had also not seen any use in over a century and realm-stepped back to Llyr’s dungeon with both items. “I do not envy the hangover you’re going to be feeling this time tomorrow, boy,” he said, after lifting his nephew into the air and kicking the mattress into place under him. He then laid Rory across the mattress, adjusting his shoulders so that his head stayed tilted enough that he wouldn’t choke if he got sick in his sleep.

Lastly, he placed the chamber pot close to Rory’s head.

 “This is to throw up in,” he said, in case the boy was too far gone to think for himself. “If you throw up on the floor, your Uncle Llyr will make you clean it up, even if he has to take it out on your hide first.”

“F’ck that,” Rory slurred, and draped an arm partially over the pot. His eyes were clenched shut, like he was fighting back tears. “’ll let ’im…y’know,” he added quietly.

“What?”

“When’e…when h’s girl…after. He c’n take it out ’n me, ’f-fee wants.”

Barris closed his eyes, battling his own emotions. Over his immortal body would Rory become Llyr’s punching bag for no reason. “If it happens, it won’t help,” he said quietly.

“I d’n care. No’really. Mum might ev’n see me th’n. Mebbe she’ll shedda tear ‘r two at me fun’r’l.” He huffed a sad snort. “Thad be s’mth’n.”

Barris’ eyes snapped open and he stared down at the forlorn look on his nephew’s face. Oh, hell no! Unfortunately, now wasn’t the time to read Rory the riot act. “Get some rest, Rory. We’ll table this for when you’re sober.”

Rory’s sigh was almost comical. “Joy,” he huffed again, though the weak sarcasm lacked any real bite.

After a minute of silence between them, Barris asked, “Rory, what does B2 mean?”

His nephew’s drunken snicker-snorting did little to instil him with confidence.  

* * *

((All comments welcome. Good or bad, I’d love to hear your thoughts 🥰🤗))

I made a family tree/diagram of the Mystallian family that can be found here

For more of my work, including WPs: r/Angel466 or an index of previous WPS here.

FULL INDEX OF BOB THE HOBO TO DATE CAN BE FOUND HERE!!

It happened on an ordinary evening, the kind that shouldn’t have meant anything.

The club meeting had ended, laughter and chatter spilling into the hallway as people left in small groups. The room smelled faintly of old paper and chalk dust, the air still holding the ghost of poems read aloud. Outside, the corridor hummed with a low, dying energy, laughter tapering off, footsteps fading, the hum of fans spinning lazily above.

Aarna and Aarav lingered, walking slower than the rest, the way they always did. Their steps found a rhythm of their own, unspoken and familiar. The building was mostly empty now, the echo of their voices stretching down the dim corridor.

Aarna was talking about her younger brother, how they’d argued again over music, both too stubborn to back down. Her hands moved as she spoke, animated, alive.

“You’re lucky you don’t have siblings,” she said, bumping his shoulder lightly with hers.

“Yeah,” Aarav replied without thinking, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “But then… I’d never have someone like you either.”

The words slipped out before he realized what he’d said, soft, unguarded, too honest.

They hung between them like a held breath.

Aarna slowed her steps, her brow creasing slightly. “What do you mean?”

The hallway seemed to narrow. The air turned dense. Her eyes found his, curious, unafraid, but something in her gaze made the space between them electric, tender, dangerous. Aarav could hear his pulse in his ears, feel the words rising again, desperate to explain themselves, to mean more than he dared.

For a heartbeat, she looked at him longer than usual, not startled, not smiling, just quiet, as if turning his words over in her mind. Aarav felt the air tremble, fragile as glass.

“I just mean…” he stammered, forcing a laugh that sounded brittle. “You know, you listen to me. You care. It’s nice. Like family.”

Aarna’s expression softened, though something unreadable flickered behind her eyes.

“You say things in such strange ways sometimes, Aarav,” she said quietly, almost amused, almost thoughtful.

He managed a smile, pretending to shrug it off. But inside, panic and warmth tangled together in his chest. He could still feel the weight of the words he hadn’t meant to speak, the truth that had slipped out before he could hide it again.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. The sound of their footsteps filled the air where his confession almost lived. Every few seconds, he replayed the moment, her tone, her look, the breath between question and reply. The silence stretched, not awkward but sharp, cutting through the hum of the evening.

When they reached the gate, she smiled and said goodbye, her voice light again, as if the moment had passed. But for Aarav, it hadn’t. Not really.

On his walk back to the hostel, the air felt heavier. The night hummed with the sound of crickets and the distant chatter of students, but all he could hear was the echo of his own voice, and the quiet that followed it.

Later, alone in his room, he opened his notebook. His hands trembled slightly as he wrote:

The heart is a clumsy keeper of secrets.
It slips,
spilling truths between words
when I least expect it.
And she looks at me,
not unkind,
but as if she hears an echo
she isn’t sure she wants to follow.

He stared at the lines until they blurred.

It hadn’t been a confession, not quite. But it was close enough to remind him how fragile the line was between friendship and something more.

And how easily, with just one wrong word, it could shatter.

Book 1 Chapter 15: A Table with Three Legs

The ceiling had gone pink overnight.

Ray noticed because he was the only one awake, a state of affairs he was beginning to suspect was illegal. It was a patch about the size of a dinner table, directly over the bed, soft and translucent like the inside of a shell held up to a lamp. Something small and round and glowing drifted across it with the bobbing curiosity of a jellyfish that had nowhere to be.

"I'm noting that the ceiling is a different color," Ray whispered.

"It's the lanterns," Ruth said without opening her eyes. Her arm lay across his chest like a fallen log. Scarlet was on his other side with her hair in his mouth and one cold foot wedged between his calves.

"The lanterns are in the baths."

"They were."

The lantern went a shade deeper, regarded him with no face whatsoever, and passed through the plaster with great delicacy.

"I did not consent to being watched by a light fixture," Scarlet mumbled into his ribs.

"It was shy," Ray said.

"It was loitering. Also I'm naked, you're naked, she's naked, and I'd like it on the record that I have the best ass in this bed."

"Objection," Ruth said, eyes still shut. "Size ten feet. Nobody has ever beaten the feet."

"We weren't talking about feet."

"We're always talking about feet, painter boy. You just haven't noticed yet." Ruth rolled toward him, and the arm across his chest became a leg across his hips, and her mouth found the side of his neck. "Husband. I'm resting. It's different. But I'm resting in a way that has started to include you."

"I'm noting that I'm included," Ray said, and his voice cracked in the middle, because Scarlet's hand had gone south under the quilt and wrapped around him like it owned a deed.

"Oh, he's included," Scarlet said into his collarbone, stroking slow. "He's very included. Ruth, look at him, he's trying to narrate and he can't even get through a sentence."

"Don't stop narrating, babe," Ruth said, and slid down the bed, quilt and all, until her hair spilled across his stomach. "I love it when you narrate."

What came after was slow, because nobody had anywhere to be. Ruth took him in her mouth with the lazy, thorough attention of a woman who had finally been given a decent meal, and Scarlet kissed him upside down, ink-stained fingers in his hair, whispering filth against his lips about what she was going to do to the pair of them later. He tried to say something about the ceiling again and Scarlet bit his lip, not gently, and said, "Eyes on me, Raymond. The ceiling's had its turn."

"Make her say it," Ruth said, coming up for air, wet-mouthed and gold-eyed and grinning. "Make her say what she wants. She's been dying to."

"I don't, I'm not," Scarlet started, and went red to the roots of her black hair.

"You've been sketching my ass in the margins of that notebook for three days," Ruth said. "I've seen it. It's very flattering. Come here."

It turned into a tangle. Ruth caught Scarlet by the wrist and pulled her down, and the two of them kissed over Ray's hip like he was a piece of furniture they were both fond of, and then Ruth rolled onto her stomach with her fat perfect ass in the air, looked back over her shoulder at the girl beside her, and said, "Go on. Look as long as you like. Then put your mouth on it."

Scarlet made a sound Ray had never heard from a person before. She put her mouth on it.

Ray sat up against the headboard and watched his wife groan into the pillow with a goth girl's tongue buried in the cleft of her ass, her hips rocking back, her toes curling against the sheet, and he thought, very clearly, that he had been a serial killer's understudy for most of his life and none of it had prepared him for this. Ruth reached back blindly for him. He gave her his hand. She dragged it down between her thighs.

"Fingers," she said into the pillow. "Babe, please, I want you in me and her on me, I want everything at once."

"Bossy," Scarlet said, lifting her head, her chin shining. "I love it. Ray, get the lube out of my side of the nightstand, it's in the drawer under the pencils."

"Why is there lube under the pencils?"

"Because I'm a planner. Hurry up, she's going to start narrating."

It took some doing. There was a moment where the quilt ended up on the goat, who woke at the foot of the bed and gave all three of them a look of weary tolerance before going back to sleep. There was a moment where Scarlet's knee found Ray's kidney and Ruth's elbow found Scarlet's hair and all three of them were laughing too hard to continue. Then Ruth was on her hands and knees, and Ray was behind her with a slick hand on her hip, pushing into her slowly, and she was so warm, so tight, and she said "yes, husband, there you are," in a voice that was not entirely human, and Scarlet slid underneath her and got her mouth between Ruth's thighs.

"Oh, you're both going to kill me," Ruth said. "I'm very old. I'll be a dead field. I'll be a very happy dead field."

"You're not dying," Ray said, gripping her hips and moving harder. "I'm noting that you're clenching around me like you've got something to prove."

"I do have something to prove, I'm proving it, don't stop, don't you dare."

"Scarlet, is she," Ray started.

"She's soaking," Scarlet said, muffled and delighted, between licks. "She tastes like plums, Ray, it's so unfair, I'm going to write a letter to someone."

Ruth came first, with a long shaking cry that made the ceiling lanterns, a whole dozen of them now, drift in through the plaster like moths to a flame. She came on his cock and on Scarlet's tongue at the same time, and her gold eyes went wide and bright and a little frightening, and then she collapsed forward onto Scarlet's stomach, panting, laughing, shaking all over.

Ray held out for about four more seconds. Then Scarlet looked up at him from between Ruth's legs, with her black hair stuck to her cheek and her scarred face shining and her mouth a mess, and said, "Pull out and come on me. Both of us. I want to see it."

He did. It was not elegant. He came across Ruth's lower back and Scarlet's chest and one gloriously unlucky patch of quilt, and the sound he made was something between a groan and an apology, and the two women looked at the mess and then at each other, and Scarlet said, "Well. That's a lot of man."

"It's a lot of man," Ruth agreed, rolling onto her back with a sigh that shook the bed. "Come here, both of you. I want to be the pillow."

Above them the lanterns hung in the pink, a small silent audience, a few of them turning very slowly, politely, to face the wall.

The Day Market opened at noon, and Ruth was at the gate at eleven-forty.

"You're going to carry the bags," she told Scarlet, in the tone of a woman handing down a sentence.

"I am not a bag carrier."

"You've got wrists. Ray, you may come, if you like, but you walk two paces behind and carry the goat."

"I'm noting that I'm being ordered about," Ray said, shifting the goat under his arm. She had put on her paper flower and was riding with her chin on his elbow like a duchess being carried through a fair.

"Noted," Ruth said, delighted. "Is it a good noting?"

"It's the best one I've ever made."

The market ran the whole length of a wide stone street that sloped down to the river, and it was only half awake. Stalls were still putting up their awnings. A small round spirit with a sleepy mustache hung strings of dried persimmons. A woman whose head was a teakettle set out cups. The whole street smelled of charcoal and plum vinegar and something sweet and slightly burnt, like toffee that had been thinking about its life. Scarlet already had her notebook out and was drawing an awning, a hat, a long listening ear, her pencil moving so fast it seemed to be having its own conversation.

Ruth stopped dead in front of the fourth stall.

It was a plain wooden counter with a griddle and a hand-painted sign that said, in uneven red letters, GREASY SPOON (AUTHENTIC). Behind it a very tall, very thin spirit in a paper hat was flipping a patty with a spatula the size of a canoe paddle, and the smell coming off the griddle was so deeply, so perfectly American that Ray felt his knees go slightly.

"Ray," Ruth said, very softly.

"Yeah."

"That is a cheeseburger."

"That's a cheeseburger."

"I've only ever had them with you." She turned to look at him, and her face went soft and a little shy, the way it had once in a diner at two in the morning when she'd poked her fingers together and confessed what she normally ate. "At the Millstone, in the booth, with you across the table. That's all of them. Every burger I've ever eaten, husband, you were there for."

"Okay, so this is the first one without a booth," Scarlet said. "That's a big deal, you can't just order, you have to do it right. Ray, tell her how to do it right."

"Pickles," Ray said. "Extra. And the thing where they melt the cheese on the griddle first."

"Do it," Ruth told the spirit in the paper hat, in the voice of a queen giving an order to a general. "Three. No, five. No, three, I'm sharing, I'm a married woman. Three, extra pickles, the thing with the cheese."

They ate on the stone steps by the river with their feet on the warm step below. Ray, one step down with the goat, got handed things. Ruth took her first bite with her eyes closed and her hands shaking slightly, chewed for a very long time, and said, around a mouthful, "Oh."

"Is it okay?" Scarlet asked.

"Oh, it's sinful," Ruth said, and opened her eyes. "It's the same as the Millstone one and it isn't. It's in daylight. There's a river. There's a goat. Nobody's frozen." She was crying a little, in a tidy gold way. "I want to eat nothing else for a hundred years. I want a burger at every meal. I want to marry the burger."

"You're already married," Ray said. "To me. I'm noting that I've been replaced by a sandwich."

"You haven't been replaced, babe, you've been ranked. You're above the burger. Barely." She leaned over and kissed him, tasting of beef and pickle, and Scarlet made a gagging noise that did not in any way conceal her grin.

"Okay, but I'm going to need a second one," Scarlet said. "And you're going to share, because I've seen you looking at my fries."

"I'm not looking at your fries."

"You're looking at them like a woman about to commit a felony."

"I'm looking at them like a woman who eats felons, darling, it's a different look entirely." Ruth reached across and took a fry. "I'm having one. Out of love. Write it down."

Scarlet wrote it down. Ray watched her do it, a tiny precise line in her notebook that read RUTH TOOK A FRY (LOVE), and found that he had to look at the river.

"Can I tell you something," he said, and both women turned. "I'm, I think I'm about to say something out loud, and you can both tell me to shut up."

"We'd never," Ruth said.

"We would absolutely," Scarlet said.

"I've been trying to find the bit in me that's waiting for this to go wrong. And it's not there." He shrugged, awkward, with a goat under his arm. "There's a stall that sells a thing called a Fictional Hour, which is just an hour, and I'm fine with that. There's a bridge that says Bridge of Stories and it's got tags on it. I used to think the real thing was the only thing worth having. And I'm sitting on some steps, and a ghost gave me a sweet this morning, and you're both here, and it's, I don't know. I'm just really, really happy."

Nobody said anything for a moment.

"You're allowed to be afraid of it," Ruth said eventually, still looking at the river.

"I am."

"Good. It's company. It doesn't go away."

"Did you make that up?"

"Yes," Ruth said. "But I think it's true."

Scarlet had put her pencil down. She was looking at the little black pinkie on the inside of her wrist, the one the customs man had stamped, turning it in the light. "I'm going to ask a weird thing," she said. "And you can say no."

"Of course."

"If I, if I don't know what happens after. If I, if the pocket guide in my head runs out and there's just a blank where the next part goes. Is that okay? Is it okay to not know?"

Ruth took her hand. She took it slowly, and put it on her own knee, and said, "Darling, nobody knows. I've been alive since the first field. I don't know what happens next. I only know what's on the plate."

"It's a burger," Ray said.

"It's a very good burger," Ruth said, and Scarlet laughed, and wiped her nose on her sleeve, and picked her pencil back up.

They walked on, down the long street, past the stall that sold spare shadows and the stall that sold lost buttons and the stall, with a very long queue, that sold people their own names back at a markup in tiny envelopes. Scarlet stopped in front of that one. She stood there longer than she needed to. Ray, two paces behind with the goat, watched her take a small brown envelope off the counter, turn it over in her hands, and tuck it, unopened, into her jacket pocket.

"What's in it?" he asked, when the others had moved on.

"Nothing," Scarlet said. "My name, I think."

"Aren't you going to look?"

"Not yet." She grinned at him, quick and bright, and the grin didn't quite hold. "It's a lot to find out you've had one the whole time."

Ahead of them Ruth had stopped at the bottom of the street, where the market gave out and the river bent away, and stood looking at a bright, shifting patch of silver mist beyond a black iron arch. She stood there a while. Her hands were in her pockets. She did not turn around when they came up behind her, and she did not say what she was looking at, and when Ray finally said her name, she smiled at him, a small tight pretty smile, and asked whether anyone wanted another burger.

Scarlet said yes. Ray said he'd think about it. The goat, under his arm, sighed like a pair of bellows and went to sleep.

Admiral Ghon arrived on Earth a week later. She opened a standard communication channel using the pre-established translation matrix to initiate contact with the locals.

The humans looked rather surprised to see aliens, which wasn’t at all what the Admiral expected after they had defeated her forces just a couple of weeks prior. Nevertheless, they quickly agreed that meeting face-to-face was the best way to handle the situation and hastily designated a neutral meeting location.

---

When they arrived, it turned out that Admiral Ghon stood a full head taller than her human counterpart.

"Welcome to Earth, Admiral Ghon. My name is Ambassador Jacob Smith," the man introduced himself.

"I have come to discuss our unconditional surrender to Earth’s forces, Ambassador. No need for pleasantries," the Admiral answered in a completely flat tone.

"What?" Smith asked, entirely unprofessionally. He was the absolute picture of utter disbelief.

"You heard me correctly. After our disastrous defeat a few weeks ago, the High Council decided that an unconditional surrender is our only viable option." The Admiral was definitely no diplomat - she simply delivered the exact message she had been ordered to give.

"What?" Smith repeated, still unable to comprehend what she was talking about. "What do you mean by a 'defeat' a few weeks ago? This is the first time our species have ever met."

"No, Ambassador. A few weeks ago, I was here to initiate a preemptive strike, but we suffered a devastating rout," she admitted through gritted teeth.

"Can you tell me exactly where this defeat took place, Admiral?" Smith finally asked, trying to clarify the situation.

"Sure, I can. But why does it matter?"

"Because then I can have my staff investigate the area and finally figure out what on Earth is going on," the Ambassador answered patiently.

---

While the Ambassador's background staff scrambled to dig up information, he politely attempted to sustain a conversation with Admiral Ghon. Understandably, the Admiral remained incredibly stiff and formal.

Finally, the staff located the site and returned to the briefing room, accompanied by Jack, to explain the whole mix-up.

"Admiral Ghon, this is Jack Johnson. He might have some relevant information regarding your... strike," the Ambassador said.

"Eeeehm, hello. I just wanted to say, I think your costumes were awesome. Well, maybe they weren't actually costumes, but they were still really cool." Jack was completely babbling. He had never participated in an interspecies diplomatic summit before.

"Jack, can you explain to us what happened three weeks ago at that cosplay-themed paintball match?" Smith prompted.

"Sure. Umm, we had a pretty good game, but your gear was a bit weak. Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude! So, yeah, I guess we won, but we never realized you guys were actual aliens. We just thought you had incredible costumes," Jack explained, getting hit by a wave of enthusiasm. "And you left before we could even hang out or talk about the match! We definitely want a rematch, but you guys seriously need to tweak your equipment."

---

Four weeks later, Admiral Ghon stood before the High Council once again.

"What kind of surrender terms did you manage to negotiate, Admiral?" the Head of the Council inquired.

"Well, I am not entirely sure," Admiral Ghon began. "They don’t really seem to understand why we want to surrender in the first place."

"I think the reason is rather obvious after our crushing defeat, is it not?"

"From their perspective, no, it isn’t," her voice was surprisingly calm and relaxed now. "They viewed our battle as nothing more than a game. Therefore, they do not consider it a valid baseline for a surrender."

"A game, you say?"

"A game. It turns out that what we believed to be a critical tactical engagement was actually a weekly sport played by a local college. They use weapons that function almost identically to our own service rifles. They were just playing."

The Admiral paused and looked around the chamber, ensuring everyone fully absorbed the staggering weight of her next words.

"Our elite vanguard fought a serious, life-or-death battle against a college sports team. And lost."

"And they do not believe that warrants a surrender?" asked one of the stunned council members.

"No. Furthermore, the captain of the team we engaged actually invited us back for a rematch," she continued. "I was hesitant to accept, but Ambassador Smith was adamant that we should experience the game the way it was meant to be played. This Jack character was incredibly open and friendly. He insisted that we upgrade our equipment before playing again, because they 'didn't want to hurt us'."

The Admiral looked as though she still couldn't quite believe what had happened next.

"They freely gifted us a massive upgrade to our armor - strictly refusing to play with us until we wore it for safety - and vastly improved our weapons. I returned with the highest-quality armor and firearms we have ever laid eyes on. They gave them to us without asking for a single thing in return, because to them, it is only a hobby. For us, however, it represents a monumental technological leap forward."

She scanned the room one last time to ensure everyone was hanging on her every word. She needn't have worried; the entire council was listening in dead, paralyzed silence.

"They have invited a formal diplomatic envoy back to Earth to officially establish peaceful relations - and to make sure we forget all about this 'surrender' nonsense."

---

First | Previous | Next

EIGHT

FOUND

It merely waited, the way all old places do, for the next story to add to its secrets.

The night air was cool, fragrant with wet earth and spring blossoms. Castor lingered at the edge of town, half-shrouded among the trees. The adventurers’ laughter carried faintly from the streets ahead, mingling with the clatter of hooves and the murmur of townsfolk. For a long while, he stood in the dark.

Invisible. Safe within Noxlor’s shadows. His hands clenched at his sides. He could turn around. There were forests enough in Eldmar. Mountains. Ruins. Histories that asked nothing of him except to be read. Silky purred against his neck and rubbed her fuzzy head beneath his jaw.

At last, Castor asked Noxlor to withdraw his magic. The shadows loosened reluctantly from around him. Noxlor remained hidden within Castor’s own shadow, watching as he always did. Then Castor reached for the mask hanging at his side. Wood. Smooth and worn. Heavy with its strange enchantment.

Another gift from the Pixies, as cruel as it was useful. He fitted it over his face. Magic seeped through him like another person’s story. To every mortal eye, he would appear different. One might see short brown hair and soft features. Another, a pale and forgettable blond.

Someone else might remember darker skin, lighter eyes, a narrower jaw. Whatever each viewer considered most ordinary. Most unremarkable. Most easily forgotten. No longer Castor the half-breed. The mongrel. The unclean. Only an illusion of mediocrity. A face that blurred even while someone tried to remember it.

Good, he thought. No one can really see me. For the first time since his release, Castor stepped into the stream of mortal life. Inside the guildhall, noise and warmth struck him like a tide. Adventurers crowded around tables, boasting, laughing, trading stories over mugs and maps. Boots scraped floorboards. Coins rang against counters. Someone shouted over the price of a troll tooth.

Castor stayed close to the wall. Across the hall, the five adventurers stood before the guildmaster, a stout woman with iron-gray hair, giving their report.

“The delve is sealed again for now,” Anise said, calm but firm. “Artifacts recovered, threat neutralized. But…”

She hesitated.

“We weren’t alone.”

The guildmaster frowned.

“Explain.”

Kevrik spoke before anyone else could.

“Some skulking mage bastard was in there with us. Hiding. Watching. Maybe helping, maybe waiting. Don’t know which. I say it’s trouble.”

Bram’s voice came low and steady.

“Whoever it was saved us. More than once. That deserves thanks, not suspicion.”

“Thanks?” Kevrik scoffed. “Or a dagger in the dark once we’re asleep?”

The guildmaster raised one hand. Both men quieted.

“No proof either way. But if someone is exploring delves outside the Guild, they’re breaking the law. Write up the report and keep sharp.”

The writ was stamped. Coins clinked. The company dispersed into the bustle. Unease followed them like smoke. Across the square, Castor stood very still. His mask had made him an utterly ordinary young man. Exposed to the world. Hidden all the same. He let mortals flow around him.

Their chatter. Their laughter. Their lives. Five hundred years had passed since he had last walked among them. They had not been kind then. The noise pressed into him like an avalanche. Silky twined tighter around his neck, humming uneasily. A low growl trembled from the shadow beneath Castor’s feet.

“I’m all right,” he whispered.

He wasn’t certain whether he meant himself or Noxlor. His gaze remained fixed on the guildhall’s warm windows. Why am I doing this? Why not disappear into the night? Return to wandering through the histories of the world? His feet did not move. Not until he saw the adventurers leave the guildhall and enter a rowdy tavern across the way.

Castor followed. He paced outside the place for several minutes, a restless wind given human shape. Then he went in. Every inn in Eldmar drowned in name, if nowhere else. The Drowned Mug swallowed him whole. Heat from the hearth. Stew and smoke. Spilled ale. Bodies packed too close. Laughter too sharp. Mugs clattering like stones inside his skull.

Castor took a corner seat. When the hearthmaid approached, he nearly rose again.

“What’ll you have?”

His throat tightened. He knew the answer. He had read the words a hundred times. Speaking them to another person was different.

“…Mead.”

She moved on without a second glance. Castor stared after her. He had spoken to a stranger. No punishment came. The mug arrived moments later. He had no intention of drinking it. He leaned into shadow and clutched his cloak across his chest, bunching the fabric between his fingers until it twisted into knots.

The adventurers had claimed a side table. Their voices were lowered into that peculiar guarded tone that somehow traveled farther than shouting. Kevrik broke the silence first.

“We all felt it. Someone was with us in that delve. Hells, I’d bet good coin they’re watching still. I can feel those eyes on us.”

His gaze cut across the tavern. Sharp. Restless. Castor became very interested in his untouched mead. Bram shook his head.

“If so, they’re not a foe. We’d likely be corpses if they hadn’t been there.”

“They weren’t some hedge wizard either,” Anise added. “Those counters were surgical. Hazards averted at precisely the right moment. That was a mage of skill.”

She considered.

“Discipline too.”

Kevrik scoffed into his drink.

“Or a coward too craven to show their face.”

Lazarian leaned forward. His voice remained mild.

“Or perhaps there is another answer for their silence. A powerful mage who hides their name probably has a reason.”

Serenya lifted her hands. Small fingers formed a single word. Anise watched.

“Trust,” she translated.

The table fell quiet. Castor stopped breathing. Their eyes moved across the crowded tavern, wary and searching. And there, only a few tables away, sat an utterly average young man with an untouched drink. To every eye, something different. Hair. Eyes. Skin. Features. Each person’s private definition of someone not worth remembering.

A mask within a mask. Castor had heard every word. Silky purred at his throat. Beneath his chair, Noxlor stirred. The shadows spilled outward like ink across the floorboards. Not now. Castor lowered one hand and brushed his fingers through phantom fur. The darkness stilled.

The threat in it did not. He told himself he was only observing. Studying mortals as he once had in books. Bravery. Humor. Kindness. Suspicion. He wanted to understand all of it. It was too fascinating. Then he noticed the absence. Warmth was missing from his throat.

No fuzzy coil. No steady hum. Silky was gone. Castor’s heart stopped. Then lurched. Panic struck hard enough to hollow him. He shoved his chair backward. It shrieked against the floor. Heads turned. Castor twisted around frantically. No Silky. His breath broke. No. His cloak swirled around him as he stumbled upright.

The mask remained cool against his face, hiding everything except what mattered most. The ragged breathing. The shaking hands. The terror. Patrons began to stare.

“Drunk,” someone jeered.

A few people laughed. Castor staggered against the wall. The tavern pressed inward. Too many faces. Too much light. Too much noise. Laughter sharpened into something older. Crueler. His chest locked. Air came only in shallow gasps. Across the room, Serenya felt something nudge her sleeve.

She looked down. A small fuzzy serpent had climbed beside her, striped tan and cream, bright green eyes fixed on Serenya as she hummed. Serenya’s face brightened. Her hand moved instinctively, gentle fingers stroking down the creature’s fuzzy back. Silky melted into the touch. Serenya signed to her, secret and certain.

[Friend.]

Then Castor saw them. Relief crashed into terror. Silky. Safe. With them. He stumbled forward. His cloak brushed chairs and shoulders, drawing more attention. People muttered. Someone whispered bad luck. Another repeated it. The words moved through the room like bracken catching wind.

“Had too much, eh?” someone laughed.

Castor stopped. His knees gave. He struck the wall and slid down it, shaking, half-swallowed by shadow. A hearthmaid approached carefully.

“Are you all right, sir?”

By then, the adventurers had noticed. Chairs scraped back. Boots struck the floor. And suddenly they were around him. Concern. Suspicion. Curiosity. All of it pressing down at once. Bram’s hand hovered near his sword. Kevrik’s eyes narrowed, searching Castor’s impossible face. Anise stared with the concentration of someone already collecting questions.

Laz reached out a hand. Too many. Too close. The patrons laughed again. Castor’s chest clenched. Trapped. Exposed. Silky had left him. Strangers surrounded him. The room tilted. And then came darkness. His body folded in upon itself. Castor collapsed, silent as a falling leaf.

The tavern went quiet. Silky’s head snapped up. She hissed. Then launched herself from Serenya’s arms. A fuzzy ribbon shot across the room and landed against Castor’s chest. Silky coiled tightly around him, humming frantically, tongue flicking against his jaw in quick desperate touches. The room erupted.

“Shrines, it’s attacking him!”

“Monster!”

“Snake!”

Someone screamed. Kevrik’s hand went to his knife. Anise’s lips began shaping a spell. Laz pulled back, uncertain. Bram moved first. His broad frame planted itself between Castor and the rising commotion. Serenya’s hands flashed furiously.

[Protecting. Not hurting. Sick. Not drunk.]

Anise looked again. Really looked.

“Wait.”

Her spell died unfinished.

“The creature’s behavior is protective, not predatory. It’s probably his pet.”

Serenya nodded hard.

[Yes!]

The hearth flame guttered. Across the rafters, shadows stretched long and smothering. Noxlor. Nothing emerged. No body. No teeth. The darkness simply leaned nearer. Patrons fell quiet. A few muttered prayers against ill luck. Then the innkeep broke the silence, voice blunt as a hammer.

“No sick men on my floor. You want him, take him to the kitchen. Away from my paying folk.”

Bram stooped without question. Castor’s limp body lifted easily in his arms. Laz steadied him from the other side. Kevrik cleared a path with one hard stare. Anise ushered Serenya after them. Silky clung stubbornly to Castor’s chest, her hum a low protective thrum. The kitchen was warmer.

Gentler. Copper pots hung overhead like little moons. They laid Castor on a bench near the cooking hearth. Laz knelt beside him. His hands hovered over Castor without touching. Empathic magic stirred softly between his fingers.

“No wound,” Laz said.

His brow furrowed.

“No spirits on his breath. No sign of drunkenness.”

Another moment.

“Just…”

His expression softened.

“Exhaustion. Panic.”

Silky slithered across Castor’s chest and curled beneath his jaw. Her hum softened into something almost like a lullaby. Within the shadows thrown by the hearth, Noxlor prowled unseen. Two ember eyes burned briefly in the dark. The cook folded her arms.

“He lives, then?”

“He lives.”

“Good. Then he can lie there until he stops frightening the patrons.”

She pointed a flour-covered finger at the room.

“Anyone touches my knives, you’d better start counting your fingers.”

Then she returned to her cookery with imperial disdain. Bram stayed near the door. Steady as stone. Kevrik leaned against the wall, eyes still sharp. Anise watched Castor with curiosity softened now by concern. Serenya approached Silky carefully. She reached out and touched the serpent’s head.

Serenya smiled. The mask showed only an ordinary young man sleeping shallowly. Someone forgettable. Someone no one could truly see. Yet around him moved low voices. Warmth. Hands that adjusted him without restraining him. People who had carried him somewhere safe rather than taking advantage of his helplessness.

Castor drifted somewhere between waking and sleep. And for the first time in centuries, helplessness brought something other than pain. Not cruelty. Not scorn.

The care of hands that did not hurt.

Next: Neverbound #7, Chapter Nine “Touched,” Sunday October 18. Book One is complete.

The car started.

First turn.

No click.

No hesitation.

I left it running for a moment anyway.

Then remembered Takahashi would probably approve of that and became slightly annoyed.

The battery light stayed off.

Engine steady.

I drove to the temple.

Nothing happened.

That was the desired result.

At eight seventeen, I sent:

Car started normally.

Takahashi replied:

I assumed.

Then:

You didn’t turn it off immediately this time?

I wrote:

No.

Growth.

I did not answer.

The morning had a different problem.

Newsletters.

Four hundred and twenty.

Folded once.

Inserted into envelopes.

Not urgent, but due before the end of the week.

At nine, Kondo’s mother arrived carrying a cloth bag.

She stood in the entrance.

“I came to be useful.”

There.

Not:

I came to grieve.

Not:

I came because the house is quiet.

Not:

Tell me what happens next.

Useful.

“You called first.”

“Yes.”

That mattered.

Yesterday she had asked Kondo whether there was temple work.

I had said:

Come when there is actual work.

Today there was.

She removed her shoes.

“What do I do?”

I showed her the newsletters.

“Fold along this line.”

“Only that?”

“For now.”

“Four hundred?”

“Four hundred and twenty.”

She stared.

“You saved them for me.”

“No.”

“Convenient answer.”

“It is true.”

She sat at the long table.

I demonstrated one fold.

She copied it.

Too far left.

She unfolded.

Tried again.

“Like this?”

“Yes.”

Then she looked at me.

“No religious significance?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Her word.

She began folding.

For twenty minutes, the room contained paper sounds.

Fold.

Stack.

Fold.

Stack.

I worked at the desk nearby.

Mail.

Telephone.

One receipt.

One memorial date.

Kondo’s mother did not talk about her husband.

Neither did I.

At twenty-six minutes, she said:

“My back hurts.”

“Stop.”

She looked at the stack.

“I’ve only done forty.”

“Then forty are done.”

“There are three hundred and eighty.”

“Yes.”

“You’re terrible at motivation.”

“I am not asking you to injure yourself for newsletters.”

She stood.

Stretched.

Then sat again.

“I can do ten more.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes.”

“Then ten.”

She folded ten.

Exactly.

Then stopped.

“Fifty.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll come again tomorrow.”

“If you want.”

She gave me the look people had begun giving me when I added that phrase.

“I just said I’m coming.”

“Tomorrow is tomorrow.”

She pointed at me.

“Kondo warned me about this.”

I smiled.

She packed nothing.

The folded newsletters stayed at the temple.

Her work had become temple work.

No custody problem.

No memorial meaning.

Fifty folded sheets.

Then she went home.

At ten thirty, Sato called.

“She brought it back.”

I knew.

“Emiko’s paper?”

“Yes.”

“Today as agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Anything happen?”

“No.”

“Did your sister ask to keep it longer?”

“No.”

“Did you ask what she did with it at home?”

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

Sato was quiet.

“No.”

There.

“What did she say when she returned it?”

“‘Here.’”

“And you?”

“‘Thanks.’”

“Then?”

“She went to work.”

That was all.

Temporary custody ended as agreed.

No argument.

No request for extension.

No revelation.

Trust had not required a dramatic test.

Sato asked:

“You’re not going to ask whether I checked for copies?”

“No.”

She laughed.

“I did think about it.”

“Did you ask her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I trust her.”

There.

Same answer as before.

This time with the paper back in her hand.

“Then what do you need from me?”

“Nothing.”

“Why call?”

“Habit.”

“Accepted.”

She laughed.

We ended.

No file note.

The paper returned to Sato’s drawer later, probably.

I did not ask.

At noon, the mail helper came in.

She saw the folded newsletter stack.

“Kondo-san?”

“Yes.”

“She came?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

No.

Her word.

“She said she wanted something to do.”

“She folded fifty.”

“That’s more than I expected.”

“Why?”

“She talks a lot.”

I looked at her.

“That does not prevent folding.”

“No.”

She smiled.

Then began preparing the envelopes.

No one asked whether Kondo’s mother was healing.

No one used the work to prove anything.

Fifty newsletters were folded.

That was useful enough.

At three fifty-eight, Takahashi arrived.

He had called first.

Of course.

I was in the entrance speaking with a delivery driver.

The driver had brought printer toner.

Takahashi waited behind him.

The driver handed me the receipt.

I signed.

Then he looked past me.

“Your staff?”

“No.”

Takahashi raised an eyebrow.

The driver tried again.

“Family?”

“No.”

Then he smiled apologetically.

“Friend?”

I answered before thinking.

“Yes.”

The word left cleanly.

No pause.

No internal review.

Yes.

My friend.

Takahashi said nothing.

The driver nodded as if the classification had practical value.

Maybe it did.

He left.

I carried the toner inside.

Takahashi followed.

At the office door he said:

“Friend?”

There it was.

I put the toner on the floor.

“You heard.”

“Yes.”

“Problem?”

“No.”

He looked almost too pleased.

That made me suspicious.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re smiling.”

“So?”

“You object when I smile at things.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

He sat in the wall chair.

Then:

“You answered quickly.”

I knew what he meant.

“Yes.”

“No investigation.”

“No.”

“No ‘what do you mean by friend?’”

“No.”

“No evidence review?”

“No.”

He nodded slowly.

“That is concerning.”

I laughed.

“You called yourself my friend yesterday.”

“I said friendship tax.”

“Yes.”

“That was taxation language.”

“You also said I was punishing you for friendship.”

“That could have been rhetorical.”

“Do you want to appeal the classification?”

He stopped.

Then laughed.

“No.”

“There.”

We left it.

Almost.

Then he said:

“My friend makes terrible tea.”

I pointed toward the door.

“You can leave.”

“No.”

He smiled.

“See? Friendship survived.”

I made coffee.

Not tea.

He approved.

We drank at the desk.

The toner remained on the floor.

No one opened it.

Takahashi asked:

“What did Kondo-san do?”

“How do you know she was here?”

“Stack.”

He pointed at the newsletters.

“Fifty.”

“Only fifty?”

“Her back hurt.”

“So she stopped.”

“Yes.”

“And comes tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

He looked at me.

“She said she is.”

“Yes.”

“But?”

“Tomorrow is tomorrow.”

He shook his head.

“I understand why people want to hit you.”

“No one has.”

“Yet.”

We drank.

After a while, Takahashi said:

“I need help Saturday.”

There.

Different from coffee.

“What kind?”

“Bookshelf.”

I waited.

He laughed.

“You look disappointed.”

“I’m trying to understand how a bookshelf needs help.”

“My sister bought one.”

“Keiko-san?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you involved?”

“Because she thinks owning a brother means free labor.”

“That sounds familiar.”

“She says husband’s back is bad.”

“Is it?”

“Apparently.”

“And you?”

“I can carry one side.”

“Other side?”

He pointed at me.

There.

“Where?”

“Her house.”

“When?”

“Saturday morning.”

I checked the calendar.

One service at two.

Morning free.

“How large?”

“Not enormous.”

“That is not a measurement.”

“One hundred eighty centimeters.”

“Wide?”

“Ninety.”

“Weight?”

“I don’t know.”

“Stairs?”

“Yes.”

He looked guilty.

“How many?”

“Second floor.”

“How narrow?”

“I don’t know.”

“You want me to agree before you know whether it fits?”

“Yes.”

“That sounds badly planned.”

“It is already purchased.”

“Worse.”

He drank coffee.

Then:

“Will you help?”

There.

Direct.

Did he need me?

Yes.

Could he ask someone else?

Probably.

Did I want to?

I imagined Saturday morning.

Keiko.

Fujita.

A large box.

Stairs.

Likely arguments.

Yes.

“I’ll help.”

Takahashi nodded.

“Thank you.”

No surprise.

No philosophical observation.

Just thanks.

I asked:

“Does Keiko know I’m coming?”

“No.”

I stared.

He smiled.

“I wanted to ask you first.”

That was actually sensible.

“Tell her.”

“I will.”

“And measure the stairs.”

“I will.”

“And the bookshelf.”

“Specification sheet exists.”

“Send it.”

“You’re making this work.”

“It is literally work.”

He laughed.

He sent the product dimensions while sitting three feet from me.

I opened them.

Width.

Height.

Depth.

Weight.

Thirty-eight kilograms.

“Not terrible.”

“I told you.”

“Box dimensions?”

He scrolled.

Larger.

“Stair landing?”

“I’ll measure.”

“Door width?”

“I’ll measure.”

Takahashi stared at me.

“Do you enjoy this?”

“A problem with numbers is pleasant.”

“That is deeply strange.”

“It fits or it doesn’t.”

“Usually.”

“If it does not fit, there are options.”

“Balcony.”

“No.”

“Window.”

“No.”

“Disassemble.”

“Probably.”

“There.”

I realized I was already solving Saturday.

Not because asked?

He had asked for help.

This was within it.

Fine.

No boundary crisis.

Bookshelf.

At four forty, the mail helper came back for something she had forgotten.

She saw Takahashi.

Then looked at me.

“The friend.”

Takahashi nearly choked on coffee.

She looked alarmed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I said:

“He is having difficulty with a classification.”

She looked between us.

Then decided not to ask.

Smart.

She retrieved her bag.

At the door she said:

“See you tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

Then to Takahashi:

“Nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

After she left, Takahashi said:

“This is spreading.”

“You are publicly identified now.”

“Can I withdraw consent?”

“From being my friend?”

He stopped.

No joke for a moment.

Then:

“No.”

There.

Soft.

I nodded.

No need to make more.

We finished the coffee.

He stood.

“Saturday, nine?”

“Keiko’s?”

“Yes.”

“Send address again.”

“You’ve been there.”

“I deleted nothing. Send anyway.”

“You audit friendships too?”

“No. Logistics.”

“Same thing with you.”

He put on his coat.

At the entrance:

“Do you need anything else for the car?”

“No.”

“Started normally?”

“Yes.”

“Terminal checked?”

“Yes.”

“Then good.”

He paused.

“No.”

We both laughed.

Then he left.

The office was quiet.

The word friend remained in it.

Not physically.

No.

That was exactly the kind of sentence I needed to stop writing in my head.

The office was quiet.

That was all.

I opened the toner box.

Installed the cartridge.

Printed one test page.

Black.

Clear.

Success.

No metaphor.

At five thirty, Kondo called.

“My mother says her back is fine.”

“She said it hurt.”

“She says that was sitting pain.”

“I don’t know what distinction she is making.”

“Neither do I.”

“She wants to come tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“What does she want to do?”

“More newsletters.”

“Then she can fold more newsletters.”

“She wants one hundred.”

“No target.”

I heard her mother in the background.

Why?

I answered loud enough:

“Because stopping when your back hurts is more important than reaching a round number.”

She said something.

Kondo translated:

“She says seventy-five.”

“No target.”

“Sixty?”

“No.”

Kondo laughed.

Her mother laughed too.

“Come when she wants. Stop when she wants.”

Kondo said:

“She says you are no fun.”

“Understood.”

We ended.

No Morita email arrived.

That was fine.

No old priest message.

Also fine.

The day did not require witnesses to every development.

I completed work.

Closed the brown folder.

Put away my glasses.

Then went home.

At home, the small desk drawer was closed.

Dinner first.

Rice.

Soup.

Leftovers from Keiko’s dinner still?

No.

Finished yesterday.

I cooked vegetables.

Ate.

Washed dishes.

Then my phone buzzed.

Takahashi.

A photograph.

Staircase.

Tape measure across narrowest point.

Then another.

Landing dimensions.

Then:

Enough?

I looked at the measurements.

Compared with box.

It would fit, barely, if turned.

I wrote:

Probably.

He replied:

Probably?

Angles matter.

You are ruining Saturday.

Better before Saturday.

Pause.

Then:

Keiko says thank you for agreeing.

I wrote:

Tell her she owes us coffee.

She says yes.

There.

A Saturday already becoming ordinary.

I opened the desk drawer for the charging cable.

Card.

Postcards.

Keys.

Cable.

I took the cable.

For a moment I thought of the delivery driver.

Staff?

No.

Family?

No.

Friend?

Yes.

The card had once been necessary to explain why Takahashi was in my office.

No.

Not even then.

It had explained the reconnection.

Today, a stranger had needed only one word.

Friend.

That word covered less detail than the card.

And more of the present.

I closed the drawer.

Later that evening, the widower from earlier called.

“I told my daughter no.”

I remembered the weekend visit.

“How did she respond?”

“She said okay.”

“And?”

“She asked about next month.”

“What did you say?”

“Yes.”

There.

He laughed before I could.

“Apparently I can do both.”

“Yes.”

“I’m still tired.”

“Then rest.”

“She said the same thing.”

“She is faster than me.”

“My wife was faster than both of you.”

We laughed.

Then he said:

“I thought saying no would hurt her.”

“Did it?”

“She said she was disappointed.”

There.

Not nothing.

“And?”

“She still asked about next month.”

“Yes.”

“She can be disappointed and still call me?”

“Yes.”

He was quiet.

“I know that sounds stupid.”

“No.”

“It feels new.”

“Then maybe it is.”

No sermon.

We ended.

I returned to my book.

Read twelve pages.

Then the phone buzzed again.

Keiko this time.

First direct message she had ever sent me.

Thank you for helping Saturday.
He didn’t tell you there are 14 boxes of books too, did he?

I stared.

Then called Takahashi immediately.

He answered laughing.

“You found out.”

“Fourteen?”

“Small boxes.”

“That was not the request.”

“Bookshelf first.”

“What happens to the boxes?”

“Books go on shelf.”

“That sounds like additional work.”

“Yes.”

“You asked me to carry a bookshelf.”

“Yes.”

“You did not ask me to move fourteen boxes.”

“No.”

“Are you asking now?”

Silence.

Then:

“Will you help with some of the boxes?”

There.

Fresh request.

I thought.

Saturday morning.

Service at two.

Time limited.

“How many?”

“Until noon?”

“That is not a number.”

“Whatever we can do before noon.”

Better.

Could I?

Yes.

Did I want to?

Less enthusiastically than the bookshelf.

Still yes.

“I’ll help until noon.”

“Thank you.”

“Then I leave.”

“Yes.”

“Even if boxes remain.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“No.”

We laughed.

Then I said:

“You were going to let me discover them.”

“Yes.”

“That is dishonest.”

“Strategic disclosure.”

“No.”

“Fine. Bad.”

“Saturday, nine.”

“Saturday.”

We hung up.

There.

Friendship did not eliminate terms.

It did not mean:

Whatever you need.

Whenever.

Until finished.

It could mean:

Yes, I will help.

Until noon.

Some boxes may remain.

That did not make the help less real.

Maybe more usable.

Before bed, I checked the calendar.

Saturday:

9:00 Keiko — bookshelf / boxes until 12.

2:00 service.

I looked at the entry.

Could have written:

Takahashi.

Could have written:

friend.

No need.

The calendar needed the work.

I knew the relationship.

The card stayed in the drawer.

I did not read it.

Takahashi’s card stayed wherever he kept it.

No discussion.

No need.

Somewhere between those cards and Saturday’s bookshelf, the relationship had stopped requiring explanation every time it appeared.

That was not because the cards no longer mattered.

They did.

But now there were other records.

Not written ones.

Coffee.

Fishing.

Dinner.

A dead battery.

A delivery driver asking one ordinary question.

Friend?

Yes.

The answer had come before I had time to protect myself from it.

And when Takahashi heard it, he did not ask me to take it back.

Saturday, I would help him carry a bookshelf up a staircase.

Fourteen boxes waited after that.

Until noon.

Then I would leave for work.

A friend could help.

A friend could stop.

A friend could ask.

A friend could say yes.

And apparently, a friend could also fail to mention fourteen boxes until his sister exposed him.

12

Tieshu encountered the woman, who looked to be only in her twenties or thirties, again in a bar. She chatted with a strange man for nearly an hour and a half before he happily left with her. Tieshu finished his work at the bar, pushed open the door, and walked out. Just then, a man ran past him. Because the man was running very fast, Tieshu couldn't see his face clearly, only that he vaguely recognized him as the man who had just left the bar with the woman. Tieshu wasn't interested. He continued walking until he exited the alley, then turned left. As he walked, a woman suddenly darted out from behind him. Looking closely, he recognized the face he was used to seeing, but now she looked panicked and frightened, her eyes tired and weary, her lips dry and pale. Her breathing was unusually rough and wild, as if she had just run a marathon, or as if she were the protagonist of a horror movie who had seen a ghost. Upon seeing that it was Tieshu, she immediately stepped forward and grabbed his collar, saying, "Please help me find a place to hide!" Tieshu did not immediately respond to her request. He was puzzled and did not want to get involved in other people's affairs.

Seeing that Tieshu did not respond, she thought he did not understand her request. Despair welled up in her heart, and she knelt down on the ground with a thud.

"Oh God! Are you trying to kill me here?" she wailed. Then Tie Shu heard footsteps, growing increasingly hurried. Seeing this, she suddenly stood up, grabbed Tie Shu's wrist, and began to run for her life. Tie Shu could only follow her, bewildered, until they reached a hotel. She pushed open the hotel door and went straight to the front desk. Calming herself, she asked the receptionist, "Are there any rooms available?"

"Yes, we do," the waiter replied casually.

How much per night?

"15,000 yuan a night."

"Alright then, please get me a room."

"Okay, give me your identification information so I can register it."

She handed over her electronic ID card.

"And what about him?" the waiter asked, looking at Tieshu.

"He is my robot."

"Oh?" The waiter took out an electronic measuring device that looked like a vacuum cleaner from the drawer, then walked from the front desk to the iron tree and used it to scan the information on the iron tree's arm.

After all the information was collected, the waiter took out a key from the drawer. There was an LCD screen on it that read "Room 306".

“Your room is the innermost one on the third floor,” the waiter handed her the key. “Go ahead.”

Then she dragged the iron tree along and quickly went up to the third floor. When she got to the third floor, her pace slowed down. She walked to the innermost room, opened the door with the key, and breathed a sigh of relief the moment she entered the room.

She turned on the light and immediately lay back on the bed, breathing heavily.

"Phew," she exclaimed, "I'm exhausted!"

Iron Tree stood by, at a loss. He still didn't know what her purpose was. He wanted to ask, but he was afraid of seeming unnatural and alerting her. So he could only obediently watch what she would do next.

After a while, she rested and got up from the bed. She walked to the iron tree and said, "What bad luck! Today I not only ran into my enemy, but I also thought I had finally found someone I could rely on. But it turns out he's just a useless robot. But oh well, it's fine this way. If he dares to come, I'll let the robot lead the charge and cover the rear while I take the opportunity to slip away."

Iron Tree was both amused and exasperated; so that was exactly what she was planning!

"However," she continued to mutter to herself, "it's so exquisitely designed, it must have cost a fortune. It's obviously a robot from a wealthy family. I just don't know why it has to work. If it suffers a loss because of me, will it ask me to compensate it? Can I afford to compensate it?"

"As long as I don't say anything, no one should know, right..." She shook her head, retorting to herself, "In this day and age, it's incredibly easy to find out what someone has done. Besides, many wealthy people have real-time recording devices installed on their machines... Maybe my every word and action right now is being recorded by them..."

"Oh..." She exaggeratedly hugged herself with both arms and swayed slightly, "It's like going from a mountain of knives to a sea of ​​fire!"

“No,” she said calmly, “we should find out its identity first.”

"Huh?" she tried asking the iron tree, "What's your name? Where does your owner live?"

Iron Tree thought about it and decided it was best not to answer.

“I’m asking you a question,” she said, closing the distance between herself and the iron tree. “What’s your name?”

Iron Tree remained silent.

"Logically speaking, even if it's not a learning robot that can answer fluently, it should still be able to have basic conversations. It should know what this question means, right? Is it broken?" She kicked it with her foot, left and right, but the iron tree didn't react. So she went around behind it and kicked it left and right again, but still no reaction.

"Oh, this is really strange," she said, slightly frustrated. "Could it really be broken?"

She sat down on the edge of the bed. "I knew it! Robots that look so expensive shouldn't be out working. They don't even earn enough to repair it now that it's broken. Looking at it like this (she glanced at the iron tree again), the repair cost might be something I wouldn't even dare to dream of..."

"Huh?" She suddenly stood up again, as if she had discovered something, and went to the iron tree, then reached her hand towards his genitals.

"Don't do this!" Tie Shu suddenly shouted, and then quickly moved away from where he was standing.

She did indeed touch an object, confirming—or rather, believing she had confirmed—her conjecture.

"Ah!?" She screamed and immediately jumped to the corner of the room. "You...you...what is your purpose in pretending to be a robot?" In an instant, all sorts of guesses and conspiracies flooded her mind.

Seeing that he could no longer hide it, Tieshu honestly said, "I am a robot, but a conscious robot."

"Huh? What? Are you kidding me? Scientists proved as early as the beginning of the 22nd century that robots cannot have self-awareness. Since then, all kinds of experiments on robot consciousness, whether formal or informal, have ended in failure. No matter what kind of robot or what form a robot takes, it is absolutely impossible for it to have consciousness. This is common knowledge now. Are you still trying to fool me?"

“I really am a robot. If I weren’t, how would I have the identity information on my arm?” He took off his blue work clothes, and to her surprise, he was still wearing a black sweater. Then he pulled down his collar to reveal his robot identity information verification. “Look, and this information verification just passed robot verification.”

"Hmph," she scoffed, "It's so easy to forge an identity these days. Don't even mention robots, it's so easy to create a person out of thin air! You still want to fool me?"

In a moment of desperation, Tie Shu tried to twist his arm off to prove he was a robot. This action terrified her, who thought he was going to pull out a weapon to kill her and silence her. She kept screaming "Ahhh!" and repeatedly asking, "What are you doing? What are you doing?" At the same time, she took out her phone from her pocket and dialed the police. Just as she dialed, Tie Shu finally managed to twist his arm off. His left arm slid out of his black sweater and fell to the ground. Tie Shu bent down and picked up his left arm with her right hand.

"Now do you believe me?" Tie Shu said, raising his arm. "How else do you want me to prove it?"

She slowly and cautiously approached the iron tree from the corner of the wall. The iron tree stood there motionless, and she observed him for a while before lifting up the cuff of his "severed arm" to examine it closely.

After confirming that it wasn't a magic trick, or that he had simply curled up his arm, or that he was actually missing an arm, she breathed a sigh of relief and finally said calmly, "So you really are a robot?"

"Yes."

"Then what was the purpose of your master creating you? Was it to conquer the world?" she asked sarcastically. "And how did you come to have consciousness? And why did you come out to work? Were you originally a sex robot? Otherwise, how would you have that thing? And what are your skills? How many sex positions do you know?"

Iron Tree was not annoyed or evasive when faced with her rapid-fire and clearly ill-intentioned questions. Instead, he responded to each one without hesitation.

"Yu didn't create me to conquer the world; it was just what she wanted to do, and I wanted to be with her in reality. As for how I gained consciousness, I can only say that she painstakingly found a way to output consciousness, then painstakingly created me and instilled the consciousness of her imagined personality into me. The reason I came out to work was to bring her out of the orphanage and show her the world. I am not a sex robot; she never intended to make me one. The reason I have that feature is because it came with the shell of a sex robot that I picked up from the robot junkyard, and it cannot be removed. I can say that I don't have any special skills; these are skills I need to learn later, and I don't have time to do that."

"Hmm..." she continued dismissively, "Why did you go to the junkyard to collect the casings of other defective machines? And who is this 'Jade' you mentioned? Why is she in the orphanage?"

"Because she was out of money at the time, and because she lived far from a large landfill, she had no choice but to create me using various makeshift materials, which makes me look like a robot that has been abandoned for a long time... I saw you on my way to the landfill, do you remember?"

"Ah!" she suddenly realized, "The robot back then was you?"

“Yes… As for who Yu is, I have no comment, and even if I told you, you certainly wouldn’t believe me…” He lowered his head, then looked up again. “Anyway, I have no ill intentions; I just want to live on in this world with her…”

"Hmm..."

13

Tieshu stopped in front of a door. He pressed the doorbell, which rang twice. The person inside slowly walked to the door, looked through the peephole, and opened the door after confirming that the person outside was a familiar face.

"Why are you only arriving now?" the hostess said in a tone that sounded rather reproachful.

Tieshu ignored them and went straight to the kitchen, where he put on an apron embroidered with peonies. Then he went to the living room, picked up a broom and dustpan, and began cleaning the room.

As expected, the woman's house was just as chaotic as when he first arrived. The living room was a mess of trash, scattered haphazardly across the sofa and coffee table, with piles of garbage forming veritable mountains in the gaps. Iron Tree was used to this scene; she would use every last inch of clean space on the sofa. After a while, Iron Tree finally cleared the mess. Then he shook out all the cushions on the sofa, removing all the dust and ash, and carefully rearranged them. Seeing that he had finished with the sofa, the woman eagerly sprawled out, exclaiming, "So comfortable! So comfortable!"

Afterward, Tieshu cleaned up the other trash in the living room. Once he had finished, he reported to the lady of the house, "I've cleaned up the living room. Is there anything else to do?"

"Of course, the living room is clean, and there's also a bedroom."

"Okay, I understand..."

Tieshu agreed and went to the bedroom. The bedroom was just as messy as the living room, even more so. Snack wrappers were scattered everywhere, shoes, socks, clothes, and underwear were strewn about in every corner and area, and various sizes of trash, decorations, and cosmetics were carelessly discarded—a scene that would make one gasp and gasp, but Tieshu was already used to it. He silently and without a trace of complaint gradually cleaned up, placing each item, each pair of shoes and socks, each piece of clothing, back in its proper place. If the clothes were dirty, he would throw them into the washing machine, wash them himself, and dry them in the sun. If they were just useless trash, he would pack them up and throw them into the smart trash can… He spent nearly two hours cleaning the bedroom spotless. When the lady of the house came to inspect the bedroom, she was overjoyed to see how tidy it was, but a second later, she feigned composure and lay down on the bed.

"Iron Tree," she called Iron Tree's name, "come here."

"What are you up to now?"

Tell me a story.

What story would you like to hear?

"Your story."

"What story of mine?" Tieshu stopped by the bed.

The woman before him was undoubtedly the woman he had repeatedly encountered. That night, in that hotel, he learned her name for the first time—her name was Chen Caihua. From the name alone, the reader should know that she was likely from the countryside, and indeed she was. She told him that because her family was very poor, she had dropped out of school around the age of 16 or 17 to enter the workforce. She also told him why she always seemed to be chased; due to the nature of her work, she had incurred the wrath of those people. Whenever they encountered her, they would harass her for a long time, finding amusement in it. She had moved several times and even moved to several cities because of this, but as the saying goes, enemies are bound to meet again; within months, or even days, they would encounter her and find her. However, it's important to note that on the night she and Tieshu first had a frank conversation, it wasn't those people chasing her, but her ex-boyfriend—a point Chen Caihua made clear to Tieshu.

"Why did he still pursue you after the breakup?" Tie Shu asked.

"Because he's a pervert."

As for what she actually did for a living, she was vague and unwilling to elaborate, which was quite natural. Seeing this, Tie Shu knew he couldn't press her for details. However, she had seized Tie Shu's weakness. If she were to reveal that Tie Shu was the world's first conscious robot, and if the world believed it, one could imagine the impact it would have on Tie Shu. Although her words might seem like a dream to people today, just in case, Tie Shu made a concession. In other words, he became her machine servant at her beck and call.

"Hmm... well..." She began to think about what other stories he had that she hadn't heard before.

Ever since Tieshu agreed to give her his "built-in phone information," she would send him countless messages every day. Sometimes, Tieshu would receive more than a hundred messages from her in a single day. The general meaning of these messages was nothing more than satisfying her curiosity. She asked him: Do you eat? Do you sleep like a human? Do you get tired? Do you have desires? Are you dissatisfied with the current state of robot laborers? Have you ever thought about awakening other robots to fight against human tyranny, like in novels or movies? ...and so on and so forth, tirelessly.

Sometimes, Tie Shu was so annoyed that he hated himself for not being able to turn off the necessary "built-in phone" of his work robot registered for external tasks. He even banged his head against the wall, trying to malfunction and stop receiving messages. Fortunately, there was no one or any machine around when he did these self-harming acts, otherwise he might have been considered genuinely malfunctioning and forcibly taken for repairs. But strangely, one day she stopped sending messages, and Tie Shu started missing her. At that moment, he suddenly realized how similar he and she, Tie Shu and Cai Hua, even Yu and Hua, were. They were all marginalized among the 14.4 billion people in this world, they were all accidents thrown into the world, and they were all utterly lonely.

“Tell me what ‘imaginary personality’ is, yes—” she nodded, “you haven’t told me about it yet.”

"Can you understand what I'm saying?"

"Hey! You dare doubt my intelligence? Besides, even if I don't understand it, it's worth it to learn a little about the world's first conscious robot!"

"You have a real thirst for novelty."

"Who made you so special?"

Iron Tree had protested about this issue before, and her answer was exactly the same.

"You're so special, but people aren't allowed to be curious about you?"

"What special thing do I have to do with you?"

“It’s okay,” she said with a grin. “I’m just curious about you, is that any of your business?”

"..." Tie Shu had no way to deal with her shamelessness, so he had no choice but to go along with her and answer her questions, otherwise she would keep asking until she annoyed him to death.

"Do you know Freud?" Iron Tree asked.

"Huh? Him again?" Chen Caihua curled her lip in disdain. "Why is it always him whenever we talk about consciousness-related topics? Can't we talk about something else? Besides, wasn't his theory completely refuted back in the 22nd century? Why bring him up again?"

“Yes,” Iron Tree said calmly and slowly, “However, although his theories have long been completely refuted, he was, after all, the first to propose that consciousness is not a singular whole, but rather may have multiple natures. This has been rigorously proven by experiments and supported by numerous indications in the 20th and 21st centuries. For example, in the early 21st century, some books described consciousness in this way.”

I believe the brain has various localized systems of consciousness that combine to create consciousness. Although you may seem to have a unified sense of awareness, these feelings originate from very different systems. Whatever concept you have at a particular moment, it's a concept that suddenly emerges and becomes dominant. Your brain is a dog-eat-dog world, with different systems competing with each other, all vying to emerge and win the grand prize of conscious recognition. ①

Studies on depersonalization, the living dead, schizophrenia, and most importantly, multiple personality disorder have all confirmed that consciousness is a multifaceted whole.

At the beginning of the 21st century, it was said that consciousness is the pathway for information exchange throughout the brain. This means that in the long course of human evolution, in order to better coordinate with the various challenges of survival, humans have developed a sense of self-awareness. This self-awareness is not unique to humans; it is not uncommon in animals either. However, it is impossible for machines to generate themselves, nor can it be achieved, even if current machines have achieved it.Stanislas Dehaene's so-called seamless information sharing via machinery is also impossible③, because a crucial discovery was made through 22nd generation fMRI scans of the human brain, which can be said to have unlocked the long-standing question of 'what is consciousness?' This substance was named 'bio-discharge factor'④. It is indeed a substance, but it is not simply equivalent to electric current, nor is it a particle form. Later, it was discovered that the bio-discharge factor also manifests in the animal kingdom, but in the human brain, especially in certain pathological brains, it is particularly pronounced. Current science cannot explain this substance, and therefore cannot replicate or manipulate it. This is why machines cannot develop biological consciousness.”

“Oh dear,” Chen Caihua stretched, then said dismissively, “After all that talk, you still haven’t explained what ‘imaginary personality’ actually is?”

"Don't rush," Tie Shu's face softened with nostalgia. He stared intently at Chen Caihua, but Chen Caihua felt that he was looking at something else entirely, something that didn't exist between them. He was thinking of Xiao Yu. He recalled her tireless search for a way to make him a reality, and the excited smile on her face in his arms. "I'll tell you now." Through research on bio-electrical factors in the brain, people have completely overturned Freud's theory of sexual consciousness, dividing consciousness into primary and secondary consciousness. Primary consciousness is formed based on the subject's autonomy, experiential perception, homeostatic bio-electrical factors, and a stable brain structure. Secondary consciousness is more complex; currently, people haven't fully understood it. At present, we only know that the relationship between primary and secondary consciousness is extremely complex and contradictory. They are both common and opposite, mutually supportive and mutually exclusive, mutually supportive and mutually opposing—that is, they are intertwined, yet mutually exclusive. People have also discovered that the main basis for the existence of secondary consciousness is based on people's imagination… I wonder if you've ever had this experience: you're going to a place for the first time, but it feels very familiar, like you've been there before—a feeling of déjà vu?

"Yes, I have."

"In the 21st century, it was already discovered that this is related to imagination. People have also found that when a person imagines a scene or a story, the triggered brain activity is far higher than average. This isn't hard to see; we can't imagine something without conscious thought. Conscious intervention is necessary for imagination. This might sound obvious, but understanding this is crucial. That's why I'm talking to you here. Whether you're dreaming, creating, calculating, reasoning, thinking, or even grasping the probability of an inspiration, imagination plays a role. Imagination is divided into subconscious imagination, conscious imagination, and post-conscious imagination. Subconscious imagination is imagination that subtly influences the subconscious, is always ready, and can be activated at any time. Post-conscious imagination mainly consists of latent memories experienced by the conscious mind, which are then integrated by the brain and presented when needed according to the subject's will. This is why déjà vu is experienced. This is clearly explained in Ms. Luo Jie's book, *Post-Psychoanalysis*."

This is how 'imaginary personality' arises. According to research from the 23rd generation fMRI, when people imagine something, the activity level of electrical activity in the brain is more than three times higher than normal, demonstrating the importance of imagination in the realm of human consciousness. This is not unique to humans; elephants also exhibit this behavior. When research equipment is placed on elephants that have witnessed and experienced death, the elephants' electrical activity levels, like humans, are several times higher than the average. This indicates that elephants can not only sense death but also imagine it.

You must have imagined your future before, some pessimistic, some optimistic. These imaginings may have an impact on your future, subtly influencing your life—this is what's called 'imaginary personality.' During her research, Yu surprisingly discovered that when imagining an object, the more complete the imagination, the higher and more active the level of electrical activity in the brain, even multiplying and intensifying it. This increased electrical activity is a kind of independent subconsciousness. Therefore, she wondered if these extra electrical activity could be transferred to machinery…

"This isn't a story at all, okay?" Chen Caihua said wearily and embarrassedly.

“There’s nothing I can do, Yu just loves doing these things,” Tieshu said with a helpless tone, but his eyes were full of affection and fascination. “She has never been good at telling stories, especially stories about herself, and her stories are indeed only these theoretical studies. I have inherited this habit of hers.”

"Oh, I see..." Chen Caihua yawned, then pointed to the quilt in the corner of the bed and said to Tieshu, "Cover me up, quickly."

Following her instructions, Tieshu lifted the quilt and then spread out the blankets like a sheet, covering most of her body.

"Hey, hey..." Chen Caihua exclaimed, "It's not completely covered up yet..."

Tieshu bent down, lifting the corner of the blanket with both hands towards her face, about to cover her neck, when suddenly she hooked her arms around Tieshu's neck, causing Tieshu to stumble and almost fall onto her bed.

"What are you doing..." Tie Shu was about to protest when he suddenly noticed how beautiful and lonely she looked in the remaining light from the window. For a moment, he froze, his heart filled with only pity and tenderness for her.

However, when she spoke, those feelings for her vanished from his heart.

She asked with a tacky, playful tone, "Do you have a sex drive?"

The question made Tieshu feel extremely embarrassed, but he still answered it.

"No……"

"Um...really?"

"Although I have human consciousness, my body is still mechanical, so I do not have sexual desire in the human male sense."

"Then why did you react so strongly when I touched your testicles in the hotel that day? You know, if you had held back, I might have thought that your owner had inserted something into your body without your permission. Even though it's illegal and against regulations, there are still a few people who modify their machines without authorization."

"I...I have dignity too!"

"Ha..." Chen Caihua scoffed. "What I've learned most from my experiences out there is that dignity, face, morality, conscience, love, and hate are all meaningless and useless. Nowadays, people have to resort to any means necessary to get money, power, and the survival issues that come with them. They have to trample others underfoot just to have a chance to get a share, but that's only a possibility. If you get too caught up in these messy things, you won't have any chance at all, let alone survive. That's why you'll become my servant, understand?"

"I...I..." Tieshu couldn't speak. He had suddenly been plunged into a dark realm, and his expression turned grim. If a machine expert were present and saw his silent expression, they would surely think he had malfunctioned.

"Holy crap!" Chen Caihua exclaimed as if she suddenly understood what he was thinking. "You're not planning to turn into a human using a third-rate science fiction plot, are you?"

"I……"

"Haha..." She suddenly burst into laughter, then said, half seriously and half jokingly, "When I was a child, I always couldn't understand why robot stories always ended up with the robots wanting to become human. It disgusted and baffled me. It's probably because the anthropocentric concept is so deeply ingrained that robot stories always have to be centered on humans. But as of today, there's absolutely nothing noble about humanity, because people have long since become corpses tearing each other apart!"

“No,” Iron Tree realized, then said calmly and slowly, “the point isn’t the anthropocentric concept. Admittedly, anthropocentric views do play a significant role in those science fiction works, but the more crucial point is that unbearable intermediate state, or ‘the third kind,’ there’s no room for an intermediate state of ‘the third kind’ species to survive in nature. That is, incompletely evolved biological forms cannot survive. A living being is either a horse or a donkey, and forcibly creating a mule, which is somewhere in between, will be punished (loss of fertility). And that’s why the plots in those science fiction novels either involve conflict between humans and machines or machines becoming humans.”

"So, have you ever thought about becoming human?"

"Um……"

"Ha!" She then released her grip on his neck and shoved him away from her.

Iron Tree stumbled backward and sat down against the wall. Regarding her question, his diary contained the following: "...Whenever I'm idle and feel my mechanical body, I always feel a similar sense of disharmony to her (Xiao Yu). That feeling makes me constantly doubt myself. Am I a machine? Or a human? Or just a 'robot' under a general term?...The exclusion and discrimination people show me don't hurt me. What truly hurts me is this desolate feeling of instability. What am I?...I want to become human, of course, because becoming human brings many conveniences and privileges, especially the ability to excel at work, earn more money, and thus be able to take Yu out of the orphanage sooner and give her a better life. But that's the problem. If I become human, will my soul, my purpose, my motivation change? Will I still be me? Or will I become a stranger to her...?"

"You can go now," Chen Caihua turned over, "I need to rest."

Iron Tree stood up and then left her home.

14

The curtains were not drawn on the bedroom window facing the bed. If the clock on the wall was not mistaken, it should be exactly midnight. For some reason, Chen Caihua was very resistant to drawing the curtains today, so much so that the moonlight slanted straight down from the window. The cold yet calming milky white light of the moonlight shone on Tie Shu, exposing half of his body to the milky white light. He sat on her bed, facing the moonlight, and behind him lay Chen Caihua. Today was the third anniversary of their first meeting, and one year, one month, and one day since their first honest encounter at the hotel. Tie Shu had come not only to fulfill his duties as a machine servant, but also to tell her, or rather, to ask her for a favor. This was crucial, yet it troubled him, and he didn't know how to say it. She vaguely sensed this, and she was infected by his emotions, becoming unusually irritable and anxious today. She had revealed this to him before, causing Tie Shu a lot of suffering, but at the same time, it made Tie Shu sigh that her hatred, persistence, and jealousy were really like her (Xiao Yu). Although they were women from two completely different worlds, Tie Shu also knew that their actions and love and hate were not only because of him, but also because of their resistance and hatred against fate.

“I finally have a house,” Iron Tree said from the shadows. “It’s old and run-down, but habitable, so… I’m planning to pick her up from the orphanage in a week. I hope you…” As Iron Tree spoke, he heard a rustling sound of blankets behind him. In the quiet night, the sound was loud and expansive, amplified to the point of being comparable to thunder. Iron Tree sensed the jealousy behind the sound, but he chose to continue, “Don’t come looking for me anymore. I don’t want her to misunderstand…”

"Ha!" she said with a half-smile. "Congratulations! But could you please stop talking to me like that 'I want you to live without me' tone? Who do you think you are? You're nothing but a lowly robot!"

“Yes,” Tieshu turned to face her. The moonlight shifted away from his face, leaving it half-lit and half-shadowed like a crescent moon. “I’m sorry,” Tieshu apologized to her, whose back was turned to him.

“This damn moonlight is keeping me awake,” Chen Caihua yelled. “You block it out for me!”

Tie Shu stood up to draw the curtains, but Chen Caihua behind him yelled, "Where are you going? Don't touch the curtains! I need you to cover me with your body, understand?"

Helpless, Tie Shu could only grunt in agreement, then turned around and raised his hands to make himself as large as possible to block the moonlight from her view. He remained there for twelve hours. Twelve hours later, Chen Caihua finally sat up in bed. Seeing him still standing there like a goalkeeper, she felt a mixture of surprise, astonishment, and amusement. For the first time since yesterday, she laughed and said, "You didn't just stand here all night, did you?...Hey! Do you still have electricity?"

"Yes," the iron tree replied.

"Really?" Chen Caihua got off the bed, went around behind Tieshu, opened her arms, and hugged Tieshu, who was still in the goalkeeper position. She whispered in his ear, "I said, I'm still a virgin, do you believe me?"

Tie Shu ignored her words; he clearly didn't understand their meaning. But she interpreted his indifference as—"Haha…I know you won't believe me, and nobody in the world will. They might even mock me, using me as a joke, a meme, like that 21st-century AV actress who claimed to be a virgin and was ridiculed!" Chen Caihua released him, then paced around him, muttering to herself like a madwoman, "But they'll never understand, our sex has never truly been ours…They've been thrusting in and out of my body, making me maintain various positions, forcing me to perform, to make them think their dicks are awesome…They've finished, they've had their pleasure, and they never care about me, sometimes even resorting to violence!" She clenched her hands tightly. Tie Shu turned to look at her, just in time to see a tear fall to the ground. She lowered her clenched hands, and through the blurry tears, said, "I know…I deserve it. Who told me I have no ability, no skills, no money, no power…who told me…" "Girl, it's because I'm not my brother, it's because I can't finish my studies like him... My family, they gave him all their resources, leaving me to fend for myself... When they found out what I'd done, they blamed me for disgracing them and kicked me out... This line of work is shameful, but it's also fiercely cutthroat. The first time you met me, I fell for it, ruining my body and not even earning any money..." Her body suddenly bent, she squatted down, and wiped away tears with one hand, "Ha... haha... The wages in this line of work aren't actually high, especially after sex robots became widespread. Rich people can use one high-end model for over ten years, while those who use us are mostly poor people with little money, so the wages are naturally low... Of course, there are exceptions. Rich people have had their fill of playing with robots, or they don't like doing it with robots, or they still want to do it with real people, or they're anti-robots... But generally speaking, they have their own exclusive spaces and people, which people like me at the bottom of society can never access..."

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” She looked up at him. “Ha! Sorry, I’ve said too much, but I only mean one thing…” She stood up and gave him another nonchalant smile. “I want to teach you some sex positions… (She leaned closer to him and lowered her voice) Once you learn them, you can have lots of fun with her…”

Iron Tree lowered his head. If he were human, he would have blushed crimson with embarrassment. But strangely, he didn't want to refuse her. He followed her lead, taking off his clothes together, getting into bed together, and making love together...

About half an hour later, Tie Shu got up, and she watched him with satisfaction. He put on his clothes and prepared to leave. At this moment, Chen Caihua suddenly spoke in a gentle tone, "You... will come again, right?"

Iron Tree paused for a moment, then left without answering.

①; This description is from "Who Decides? A Psychological Interpretation of Free Will".

②; Depersonalization refers to a patient's experience of a split between their self and personality, or a severe sense of incongruity; while "living dead syndrome" is a syndrome caused by severe depression, in which the patient is clearly alive but claims to be dead. For more details, please refer to the book *The Non-Existent Person*.

③; According to the hypothesis of the author of "Brain and Consciousness", consciousness is a kind of information sharing. As long as machines can achieve information sharing like living organisms, they can achieve conscious autonomous movement.

④; This part is purely fictional and created for the sake of the plot.

 

⑤; "Déjà vu, a physiological phenomenon, also known as hallucinatory memory, means déjà vu, referring to the feeling of having experienced something or a scene before, which is not experienced before, as if it were experienced at some time and place. It is also called the hippocampal effect. [1]

 

Déjà vu is a real phenomenon with a scientific explanation; it does not belong to the category of déjà vu. Paranormal events are just a part of the brain. Similar images have surfaced in my imagination before. It's just a scene . Or rather, the sense of déjà vu comes from... " The brain

 makes associations; it conjures up this image." — From Baidu Baike's entry on "Déjà Vu" (or "Déjà Vu").

8

The main significance of the cycad's name lies in the symbolism of "the cycad blooming," and it did indeed bloom as she wished. However, this bloom was destined to be fleeting. Whether it was beautiful or not is subjective, depending on the person experiencing it and the observer. To me, the flower wasn't inherently beautiful; the key was that it displayed its own color, but that was all. No one cheered for it, no one offered blessings, and no one even appreciated it. But what did it matter? In their world, they were interdependent, mutually dependent, and that was enough. The following content is based on information from the cycad's diary. I have deliberately omitted the tedious details and selected only the important people, events, and things to describe.

After leaving the orphanage, Tieshu first went to a junkyard that recycled robot parts. On the way, he passed through a village, and it was there that he met the second woman in his life. As he walked to the door of a house, suddenly, a woman fell down in front of him. Inside the door was a disheveled man, cursing loudly. He was probably cursing the woman in front of Tieshu. Passersby stopped to watch the commotion. Tieshu went forward to help her up, but she stood up on her own.

"If you're broke, just rub against the wall, what are you pretending to be, acting all high and mighty!" After cursing, she spat on the ground.

Everyone around them burst into laughter at their shouts and curses, except for Tieshu, who stood there bewildered. Then, she saw him.

"Ugh!" she exclaimed. "How can there be robots here? And they're so ugly!"

"Never mind," she said, "I guess I'm just unlucky today." Then she walked away.

As the female protagonist left the center of the commotion, they gradually dispersed, and Tieshu continued towards the junkyard.

After nearly a month of travel, Tieshu finally arrived at a large dump where robots were processed. At night, when all was quiet and deserted, Tieshu emerged from the bushes surrounding the dump and headed to the right. The right side of the robot dump was often where humanoid robots were processed. There were nanny-type, work-type, learning-type, bodyguard-type, and even sex-type scrap robots. A normal person coming here at night might feel a chill. By the dim light of the ever-burning lights in the dump, you could see a dense, mountain-like mass of what looked like naked bodies, creating a scene resembling a man-made hell. Moreover, some robots still had some battery power left; they would occasionally emit subtle noises to remind their owners that it was time to recharge, eat, sleep, rest, get up, or work. They would occasionally emit such ghostly echoes in the quiet night, causing all who heard them to tremble with fear. As a result, there were hardly any human dwellings around such garbage dumps.

When dealing with humanoid robots, people face a moral dilemma because they look too much like humans, especially sex robots. These types of robots are often designed to be endearing, more human-like than other types of humanoid robots, and include both male and female, even children, with the majority being female or teenage (some feminists once worried that an increase in feminine sex robots would incite greater prejudice and misunderstanding about female sexuality, but despite these controversies, sex robots have been legalized in most countries). Therefore, these humanoid robots are often dealt with by other robots, and this junkyard is no exception; the iron tree needs to avoid and be wary of them.

Iron Tree cautiously approached a pile of scrap machines, and then saw a complete, fair, and perfect male robot arm. Excitedly, Iron Tree tried to pull it out, but unexpectedly, along with the arm, he also pulled out half of a girl robot's body. As a result, Iron Tree stumbled and fell, and the girl robot's head rolled to the side of him.

"Master, is there anything else you need?"

"Master, are you comfortable?"

“Master…Master…Master…person…person…person…”

The cycad quickly closed it.

Silence returned to the surroundings.

The scene just now would have terrified anyone, but Tieshu only felt sorrow and desolation.

Iron Tree looked at the arm; it was the left one. So, he placed his right hand on his left arm, pulled hard, and ripped off his left arm. Then he reattached the arm he had just acquired.

After replacing the arm, Tieshu found a right arm nearby that was similar to the left arm he had just replaced. This time, he pulled hard and then put it back on, and a brand new arm was on his body. In this way, except for the head and upper body, he replaced everything else.

Iron Tree left the junkyard just before dawn. After leaving, he had new limbs. In addition, he took the skin he had peeled off from other scrap robots. In short, he was going to create a version of himself that was exactly the same as the image Xiaoyu had imagined.

9

A year later, through his own efforts and some skills, Iron Tree acquired an identity. On his right arm was engraved a red flag and a row of letters and numbers forming his identification information—ZTA11504. This was a unique ID card for robots; only with this information could people confirm he was a robot, as well as his production date, type, country of origin, and the company or individual that manufactured him. (For those unfamiliar with the level of technological development in the 23rd century—although the following is now common knowledge—since the mid-21st century, science and technology have not seen major breakthroughs—at least, so far, the theoretical framework and basic structure of science remain at the level of the mid-21st century. This has affected artificial intelligence, robotics, and other related technologies, which is far from the expected level of future technology and falls short of the expectations of all scientists (even the most conservative ones). The structural framework of scientific theory directly determines the pace and level of technological development, while technological development determines humanity's extraction of matter and...) Most importantly, the extraction and control of energy directly impacts the development of human society and naturally influences economic prosperity. In fact, the current severe global economic crisis is largely due to scientific stagnation. Scientific development fundamentally affects the economy. Everyone should understand this, yet no one seems to be able to change it. There will never be another Einstein. This is the argument of all pessimists. "If scientific progress is too rapid, it might be the end of humanity; if it's too slow, it's a slow suicide," one scientist said. In this context, naturally, most countries, except for cutting-edge technologies, don't need to achieve complete technological monopoly. Small inventions, discoveries, or even creating a robot are acceptable, or at least within reasonable limits. Some developed countries even encourage individual invention, although in most cases, individual inventions are vastly different from those of companies or nations. However, sometimes individual inventions are indeed beneficial to human society as a whole. (The iron tree also went through a great deal of trouble to obtain this identity.) Because the identity information he took from Xiaoyu was not enough for him to obtain legal robot identity certification. To obtain robot identity certification, he had to be accompanied by the creator and fill out a lot of documents and submit a lot of legal proof. However, it was obvious that Xiaoyu could not accompany him to fill out the forms. So, during this process, Tieshu was extremely frustrated and went through many twists and turns. Fortunately, after half a year, he finally gained the world's recognition of his robot identity through his efforts and the use of some tricks.

As for why he needed an identity, the reason was simple: only with this identity could he find a job in human society and have a foothold. He was indeed lucky. After obtaining his identity, he immediately found a job. Robots working in human society earn only one-fifteenth of a human's salary, and can only do manual labor—shoveling latrines, carrying bricks, unclogging sewers, etc.—without human welfare benefits or personal safety, and must endure potential exploitation and violence from human colleagues. Therefore, it's difficult for working robots to survive without breaking down within two or three years. Even so, some people still protest against granting robots human-like work privileges, because in this era, every job, even the most insignificant, is extremely precious. Ironically, the power to decide whether to pay robots is actually entirely for the benefit of humanity itself, because many people who cannot care for themselves rely on working robots bought for them by their families to earn meager incomes and survive. But these facts are consciously ignored by the protesters. In fact, there is an even deeper reason—humans seem to have an innate aversion to interference from those who are different from them, let alone robots, which are not even considered to be different from them.

Once, in an online social group, I revealed my disability. At the time, most people in the group remained silent; they probably hadn't even considered my identity. However, one person suddenly posted a message that read, "You disabled people should all be euthanized! You are useless to society, make no contribution, and waste today's precious food... What are you living for? You parasites!" After seeing this message, I didn't reply or express my opinion. Some people in the group argued with him, replying with things like, "How can you say that?" and "Are you starving to death? Are you starving to death?" As I have already stated, such arguments are all too common in this century to be surprising. Moreover, this rhetoric is not only coming from able-bodied people, but also from us disabled people. We support neo-Malthusian views, and I would even say that the proportion of disabled people who support it is far higher than that of able-bodied people. This is not only because disabled people are a minority in society, so their proportion naturally appears higher than that of able-bodied people, but also because disabled people understand their own suffering and despair better. Therefore, it is not surprising that they would agree with neo-Malthusianism more than able-bodied people.

We disabled people, in a society of able-bodied people, are like robots in human society—they are "others." (This term was coined by a thinker who advocated for granting robots some human rights; its meaning is clear: because robots are ultimately different from humans, our general concept of "others" does not apply to them. Therefore, that thinker created this term to define the status and role of robots in human society. Although the creation of this term is controversial, it is now widely used.) Although this may surprise or even disgust some, I believe that the current understanding of marginalized people can no longer be summarized by the term "others." Perhaps each of us is a marginalized member of a larger society; we are all "others." In the torrent of history, era, society, and technology, there are no innocent victims, and no survivors.

Iron Tree was a conscious robot, a fact known only to himself. He also knew he couldn't let human society know he was a robot with independent consciousness; this was unimaginable and unacceptable to people in the 23rd century. Back in the 22nd century, science had already determined that robots could possess intelligence, but not consciousness—at least not the ability to generate consciousness autonomously. Before Xiaoyu's idea, this scientific view was accepted. Therefore, if Iron Tree were to reveal that he was a robot with human consciousness, it would undoubtedly cause unforeseen shocks to people today. Thus, Iron Tree remained lonely until he met her again.

10

Two and a half years after starting his job, Tie Shu received a work order: to go with several other work robots to a nightclub to unclog the sewers. Unexpectedly, Tie Shu encountered that woman again there.

After finishing his work, Tie Shu was already past 1 a.m. He left the nightclub, heading back to his company. Halfway there, he saw several men shoving a woman; the scene seemed chaotic. Tie Shu quickened his pace, trying to pass them quickly. However, once again, she fell in his path. Even after she fell, the men persisted, their malicious smiles and cold anger driving them closer. Seeing the situation was dire, Tie Shu had no choice but to take a few steps back. Fortunately, a police car passed by that night. Hearing the police siren, Tie Shu mustered his courage and stood between her and the men. Seeing the situation was unfavorable, the men had no choice but to leave.

After watching them walk away, Tie Shu turned back and helped the woman, who was still on the ground, to her feet. "Thank you, young man," the woman said. Only under the streetlight did Tie Shu realize that this woman was the same one he had met in the village before. Tie Shu carefully examined her; she looked to be only in her twenties or thirties, with short, mushroom-cut hair and a clean, oval face. Her eyes were large and bright, her nose small and delicate, and the thickness and size of her lips were just right—in short, her features were perfectly proportioned, a typical modern beauty. However, what impressed Tie Shu most was her natural charm. This wasn't something that could be faked.

Tieshu grunted in agreement and prepared to head home. The company had a rule that employees had to be at the company by a certain time, or they might miss tomorrow's work schedule.

However, the woman wouldn't let him go, staying close to him as if something threatening was following her. Tie Shu also sensed the threat, so he allowed her to stay by his side. After walking for about 10 minutes, perhaps the awkward atmosphere between them made her uncomfortable, or perhaps it was the innate human need for communication, she started a conversation with him, "It's so late, why are you still wandering around here?"

“I’m not just wandering around,” Iron Tree replied. “I just finished work and am heading back to the company.”

"So you're a robot!?" The woman's mouth gaped open, showing her surprise.

"Yes."

"But you've been made so exquisitely that you really don't look like a working robot!"

Tieshu ignored his words and continued walking, while the woman quickened her pace to keep up with him.

"Your master must be very rich, so why would he make you work? Is it because he's afraid you'll break too slowly?" the woman said jokingly.

“I have no master,” the iron tree said patiently.

"No owner? How is that possible?" the woman said in disbelief. "Then why are you working? Who do you give your money to? Do you mean to women?"

The woman chuckled.

Iron Tree seemed somewhat noncommittal to her barrage of questions, but he didn't seem to find her offensive. He ignored her and quickened his pace, and they walked together for another 15 minutes. During those 15 minutes, the woman asked him many more questions, to which Iron Tree either answered or ignored them.

“Ah,” the woman stopped in front of a residential complex, “I’m almost home. Thank you for saving me. Although you probably don’t even know what you did.” The woman smiled and quickly walked into the complex.

After seeing her enter the residential area, Tieshu turned and left.

11

Work-oriented robots are generally divided into two types: purely work-oriented and purely functional. These are specialized robots used by large companies for production and technological development. They don't receive a salary, receive excellent maintenance, but their average lifespan is only 7-8 years. The other type, like the iron tree robot, integrates into human workplaces, earns a salary like humans, and can even live alongside them. Iron tree robots sometimes work with humans (because some delicate tasks still require human intervention), but most of the time they work with other robots. After completing their work, if they don't have a home or their owners don't want to live with them, they can reside at the company. The company has dedicated facilities to house them, saving space and providing convenience.

One day, Irontree was assigned a job cleaning a department store, a task he needed to complete with a man. They took a company car to the department store, went straight to the restrooms, and began working. Around noon, they stopped for a short break. Robots like Irontree don't have rest periods, but humans do. So, they walked out of the department store together; the man with him was eating a sandwich. Once outside, they saw a large, conspicuous sales company across the street, much taller than the department store. Irontree couldn't make out its logo from the side, so he couldn't identify the company. However, from his companion's conversation with the man, he learned that the CEO was likely a young woman. As their conversation deepened and their language became increasingly vulgar, Irontree left them and sat down on the sidewalk.

Tieshu took a photograph from his pocket. The photograph showed a five-year-old girl standing strangely in a walker, with a woman in her fifties carefully supporting her. Undoubtedly, this was Xiaoyu. The photograph was taken free of charge by a charity team, and it was Xiaoyu's only photograph. After looking at it for a while, Tieshu prepared to put the photograph away. At that moment, he suddenly saw a woman standing outside the sales company, talking to someone.

That was definitely the most beautiful woman Iron Tree had ever seen.

She wore a tight-fitting black women's suit, revealing her near-perfect silhouette to the world. Her long, black, pearl-like hair flowed lightly down her back, swaying with her head as she shook it, like willow branches in March, captivating the soul. Due to his position, Tieshu couldn't see her entire face, only half of it, but even that was enough to enchant and captivate, perhaps even more so, for a half-concealed face is always more alluring than a full view. Her features were also exceptional; her eyebrows, nose, and eyes were like those in a romantic painting, so exaggeratedly beautiful it seemed unreal.

Iron Tree was somewhat stunned. He stood there, admiring the woman who was truly like a poem or a painting, and he didn't even notice the person who appeared behind him.

"Hey! We've started work. What are you doing here?" The man followed the iron tree's gaze and saw the woman. "Seriously? You're not looking at women, are you? Haha... You robot can look at pretty girls too?"

Iron Tree realized what was happening, but instead of answering, he walked straight towards the work area. The man said with a hint of regret, "Of course, robots would never appreciate beautiful women... It's a pity that my goal in life was to find a beautiful wife and sit in an office where more people would submit to me. I never thought that after half a lifetime of hard work, I'd end up shoveling manure here! Sigh..."

Iron Tree returned to the department store's restroom and began working.

Part 1

The endless white world remained perfectly, motionlessly still.

Jinwoo lowered his gaze. The old wooden bow was still clutched tightly in his hands. Its polished grip bore faint, weathered scratches carved deep by years of rigorous practice. It should have felt utterly foreign to his touch. Instead, it rested naturally against his palm, his fingers curling around it without an ounce of hesitation, as though they had repeated the motion tens of thousands of times before.

Jinwoo stared down at his own hands in disbelief. "...What is this?"

He hadn't consciously commanded them to move. Yet his body already knew what to do.

His left foot instinctively shifted forward into stance. His shoulders aligned. His spine straightened. His breathing slowed down smoothly, each inhale perfectly matching each exhale. Every single movement flowed seamlessly into the next, requiring no thought, no effort—only pure instinct.

Jinwoo frowned, a deep confusion clouding his face. "I’ve never learned how to do this..."

The other Jinwoo watched him quietly, his expression serene. "No. You haven't."

"Then why..." Jinwoo slowly raised the bow up. "...does my body already know?"

The answer came with an absolute, calm certainty. "Memory."

Silence stretched heavily between them. Jinwoo’s eyes narrowed slightly. "What kind of memory?"

A brief pause hung in the air before the reply arrived: "Memories… that could have been yours."

The words made very little sense on the surface. Yet something deep inside Jinwoo reacted before his rational mind could even attempt to resist. His fingers settled firmly against the taut bowstring. His breathing adjusted once more, and the bow felt less like an object and more like a natural extension of his own body.

It wasn't because he intellectually understood it. It was because, buried deep within countless forgotten memories, someone else had repeated this exact movement tens of thousands of times.

The sensation defied all logical explanation. It wasn't like recalling a story or a lesson. It felt like remembering how to walk, how to breathe, how to stand upright. Knowledge had completely transformed into instinct.

Jinwoo lowered his gaze back to the bow. "...This shouldn’t feel familiar to me. But it does."

The other Jinwoo gave a faint, understanding nod. "Your mind is still trying to understand. But your body already has."

Suddenly, the pristine white space rippled like still water disturbed by a falling stone. Targets materialized out of nowhere. One appeared close by. Another emerged further away. Then dozens more flickered into existence around them.

Some targets stood only a few steps away. Others floated far out into the infinite distance, shrinking into tiny, distant circles. Some remained completely, rigidly still, while others drifted slowly and unpredictably from side to side.

In a matter of moments, the empty void transformed into an endless field of targets. Every direction offered a new choice, another shot, another possibility.

The other Jinwoo stepped aside, his voice steady and calm. "Shoot."

Jinwoo instinctively lifted the bow. His fingers drew back the string. The motion felt slightly awkward, yet strangely, beautifully natural. The bowstring tightened to its limit. His breathing steadied into a rhythm. His eyes locked onto the nearest target.

For one brief, suspended moment, everything became perfectly still.

Then, he released.

The arrow sliced through the silent world with a sharp, piercing whistle. It flew clean, straight, and true.

Until—it passed just a hair's breadth outside the outer ring, vanishing entirely into the endless white beyond.

Silence rushed back in. Jinwoo slowly lowered the bow, his shoulders slumping. "...I missed."

The other Jinwoo didn't react at all. There was no disappointment in his eyes, no sign of surprise—only a profound, quiet patience. As though the very first shot had never truly mattered to begin with.

Part 2

The arrow vanished completely into the endless white. No sound marked its landing. No target shattered into pieces. No reward appeared in the air. Only heavy, lingering silence.

Jinwoo lowered the bow, exhaling a long, frustrated breath. "...I missed."

For a brief second, he braced himself for criticism or mockery. Instead, the other Jinwoo simply asked, "Why?"

Jinwoo frowned, annoyed. "What do you mean, why? I’ve never fired a bow in my life. Of course I missed."

The other Jinwoo shook his head slowly. "No."

Jinwoo’s grip tightened sharply around the wooden handle. "No?"

"You missed… because you were aiming at the result."

Silence stretched out between them. Jinwoo’s eyes drifted back toward the distant target. "I was aiming at the target."

"They’re the same thing."

"No," Jinwoo replied quietly. "They’re not."

The other Jinwoo walked forward toward the trajectory where the arrow had flown. "When you released that string… what were you actually thinking about?"

Jinwoo hesitated. He replayed the fleeting moment inside his mind: The target waiting in the distance. The exact distance to cover. The internal demand that he couldn't afford to miss. The quiet, nagging fear that another failure would prove once and for all that he wasn't ready.

His expression shifted as the truth hit him.

The other Jinwoo nodded even before Jinwoo could speak. "You wanted to hit it. But more than that… you were desperate to avoid missing."

Jinwoo remained dead silent because every word was true. Even before letting go of the string, he had already anticipated and feared failure.

The other Jinwoo continued, unyielding. "You still believe that every single mistake defines who you are. That is why your hands hesitate."

The bow suddenly felt heavier in his grip. Not because of its physical weight, but because of the emotional baggage he was carrying with it.

The other Jinwoo gently touched the polished wood of the bow. "This weapon doesn't judge you. The target doesn't judge you. Only you judge yourself."

Silence settled once more, the words lingering long after they had been spoken into the void.

Far away across the expanse, another muffled voice echoed through the emptiness. Hanul.

"Damn it!" A heavy impact followed, sounding as though something had crashed violently to the ground.

The other Hanul spoke with calm detachment. "Still trying to solve every problem with raw strength? Still believing you can force every answer into submission?"

Hanul snapped back immediately. "Shut up!" But even his fierce anger carried an unmistakable undercurrent of uncertainty.

Another voice reached Jinwoo’s ears. Darin.

"Can’t I just laugh?" Her words trembled with raw frustration.

The other Darin replied gently, "You laugh… because you're terrified that people will see you cry."

Silence followed. No laughter came to cover it up this time.

Then came another voice—Soyeon, quiet and steady.

The other Soyeon asked, "How long… are you going to keep carrying everyone else’s burdens entirely by yourself?"

No answer came. Only deep, resonant silence.

Each of them stood trapped in their own isolated white world. Each faced a different reflection. Each fought a totally different internal battle. Yet every single one of those battles was leading toward the exact same truth: Not one of them had ever been held back by a lack of natural talent. They had only ever been stopped by the lingering fears they carried silently within themselves.

Jinwoo lowered his gaze back to the bow in his hands. For the very first time, he realized that the target out there had never been his real opponent.

Part 3

Jinwoo stood completely motionless. The bow rested quietly in his hands.

For the first time, he wasn't staring obsessively at the distant target. Instead, he was simply listening. Listening to the sound of his own breathing. Tuning into the steady, rhythmic beating of his heart. Feeling the built-up tension leaving his shoulders. Noticing the fear he had carried around for so long that it had become a second skin, entirely unnoticed until now.

The white world remained wrapped in silence. The other Jinwoo spoke only after several moments had passed. "What do you see now?"

Jinwoo glanced briefly at the nearest target, then lowered the bow entirely. "...Not the target."

The other Jinwoo waited patiently.

"I see myself."

Silence. A faint, approving smile touched the corners of the other Jinwoo’s mouth. "Good. Now look again."

Jinwoo raised the bow once more. This time, he didn't obsess over hitting the exact center. He didn't waste energy imagining a glorious success, nor did he dread a shameful failure. He simply stood there in the present.

He felt the solid ground resting firmly beneath his feet. He felt the natural weight of the bow in his palm. He felt the gentle, familiar pull of the string against his fingertips.

A slow breath entered his lungs. Another slipped quietly out into the open air.

The entire world grew perfectly still around him. No anxiety. No hesitation. Only the immediate, flowing movement.

He drew the string back. There was no internal struggle this time. No trembling in his muscles. The countless memories flowing through him no longer felt like a foreign burden belonging to someone else. They blended seamlessly with his own identity—not replacing who he was, but supporting him.

Far away, voices still echoed through the white expanse.

Hanul shouting in frustration, followed by the other Hanul’s calm observation: "You’ve always believed strength alone could solve everything."

Darin asking if she could smile, and her reflection replying, "You smile because you're afraid people will see your pain."

Then Soyeon’s quiet voice, followed by the soft prompt: "When will you finally trust someone to stand beside you?"

Each battle continued its course. Each heart confronted its own raw truth.

Back in his own space, Jinwoo focused entirely on the bow. The target no longer looked intimidating or distant. The wind, the distance, the angle—everything clicked into a state of crystal-clear perfection.

Not because the outside world had suddenly changed. But because he had.

He released the string.

Snap.

The arrow flew. No hesitation. No desperate, wishful hope. No underlying fear of missing the mark. It traveled through the silent white space with absolute, unwavering confidence.

A heartbeat later—

Thunk.

The arrow struck dead center of the target. Perfect.

The endless white remained still, but a gentle, radiant blue light suddenly spread across the wooden bow, flowing smoothly around Jinwoo’s body.

A glowing system display materialized right before him:

[Archery Synchronization: 61%]

The numbers ticked upward steadily before locking firmly into place.

Jinwoo stared at the display in quiet, stunned disbelief. "...It increased."

The other Jinwoo smiled gently. It wasn't a proud or triumphant grin, but a look of quiet, genuine approval.

"It was never about the arrow," he said softly. "It was always about the person who released it."

The blue light grew brighter and warmer. The figure of the other Jinwoo slowly turned translucent, his outline dissolving into countless drifting particles of light.

Before fading away completely into nothingness, he spoke one final time. "Good." A gentle pause. "Now… the real beginning."

The white world trembled softly around him.

Jinwoo looked down at the bow resting in his hands, and at last, he truly understood. The memories of archery had never been forcefully thrust upon him. They had simply been waiting—patiently waiting for the exact moment he would finally stop fighting against himself.

Only then… could they truly become his own.

Riding hard day and night through the blood-red mire outside the capital, Jaun and the Bear Tribe warriors finally set foot upon their long-awaited homeland in the eastern tribal territory. Yet the moment they entered the village entrance, the heavy fatigue in the warriors' eyes—which should have been replaced by the relief of survival—sank once more into grim despair.

The tribal village they returned to was no safe haven either.

The wooden palisades surrounding the village were caked with blackened blood, and the acrid stench of burning corpses hung thick in the air alongside billowing smoke. The fallout of the empire's collapse had already reached this distant eastern frontier.

"Jaun, you've returned! But the village's situation is dire..."

Elder warriors guarding the village greeted Jaun's party with exhausted faces. Following the great flood that swallowed the capital, mutant monsters stripped of hive-mind control had scattered across the entire continent, extending their predatory claws even to this peaceful settlement.

Most terrifying of all was the frequency of their incursions. At first, it had been a mere trickle of starving stragglers emerging from the forest once every few days, but recently that interval had shortened drastically. Just hours before, a desperate field battle had broken out against monsters scaling the palisades, and now, with bizarre screeches echoing day and night without warning, the villagers spent their days in terror, unable to set down their weapons for even a single moment.

At this rate, the entire tribe would slowly starve or be hunted to extinction. Desperate, the tribal elders and warriors convened a blood-chilling strategy meeting to figure out how to survive the coming night.

Inside the dim chieftain's tent, amid flickering torches, elders shouted competing opinions.

"We must double the height of the palisades and dig more traps!"

"No, our supply lines are cut! We should retreat into the southern fortress instead!"

When the tent overheated with endless debate, Jaun, who had been silently staring down at the map, slammed his fist onto the table. With a heavy thud, every eye in the tent turned toward him.

Having personally lived through the empire's collapse, the apocalyptic flood, and the continental ruin witnessed in the Hojok cave, Jaun's gaze possessed an overwhelming warrior's dignity that none could dare defy.

"Raising palisades and hiding in fortresses is foolish. That merely delays the day of our death. The empire's defense lines have fallen, and hundreds of thousands of mutants are roaming wild in every direction. This territory has already become a giant hunting ground for them."

At Jaun's cold, realistic denunciation, the tent fell silent as if drenched in cold water. Jaun pressed his index finger firmly against the far right edge of the map, pointing toward uncharted realms beyond rugged mountains and the sea.

"We must leave. We must migrate the entire tribe further east, away from the epicenter of this threat, to a place where the monsters' footsteps cannot reach."

"Further east? But that is nothing more than treacherous poisonous mountains and an endless, unknown wilderness!" an elder cried out in shock. Yet Jaun's resolute determination did not waver.

"Harsh nature can be overcome, but rampaging hordes of hundreds of thousands of monsters cannot. We must escape this blood-soaked path where the monsters strike, taking shelter behind the massive natural barrier beyond the east to forge a new home if we are to pass down the blood of our tribe. This is the only path left for our survival."

Jaun's resolute, epic declaration hammered fiercely against the hearts of the warriors inside the tent. The Bear Tribe warriors who had fought the death-defying battle outside the capital were the first to slam their spears against the floor in agreement. *Thud, thud, thud!* The heavy footfalls breaking the silence signaled the prologue to the Bear Tribe's grand 'Great Migration for Survival,' departing their ancient homeland to head toward the unknown eastern continent.