Chapter 50

He came to his senses feeling a scorching heat like being burned.

Reflexively, he raised his upper body and fumbled around his surroundings.

Bedding touched his hand, and his fingertips caught on the stone used to mark dates.

“……”

What the hell kind of dream was that?

Pigs walking on two legs, Drich cracking tasteless jokes, and Twella telling him not to die.

Quilbion pressed his forehead.

The kaleidoscopic dream drenched in vivid, brilliant colors—there seemed to be something more after that.

Even when he concentrated, it wouldn’t come to mind.

Dreams were always like that. Once you came to your senses, they lost their clarity remarkably fast and faded away.

What was it?

After pondering for a while, tapping his forehead with his fist, he finally managed to recall the dream’s tail end.

A world dyed gray.

A woman whose age he couldn’t gauge.

And.

“I’m sorry.”

He repeated those words that were no different from a curse.

The pigs, Drich, Twella—he could understand those things strutting around in his dream.

But what meaning did that woman alone in a world of nothing but gray hold?

He covered his face with both hands and let out a long sigh.

The moments when he’d struggled, unable to wake from the dream, came back to him. The boundaries would blur, then soon he’d reach the point where he couldn’t even distinguish objects.

“Thought you were dead.”

Twella’s fantasy sat perched on the bed. Unlike what he’d seen in the dream, this was young Twella. The Twella he knew well.

“You slept forever. Were you tired?”

Quilbion chuckled.

“I’m getting attached to you. Seeing you here and seeing you in dreams.”

“What? You saw me in your dream too? How much do you love me, really?”

It was Twella, grinning broadly as she approached and leaned against his shoulder. The touch felt tangible, as if she had substance.

As time passed, the fantasy was increasingly merging into reality.

What a horrifying thing.

It was proof his head was properly broken.

He got out of bed. He moved his left foot to find the string installed on the floor, but something caught on it.

He bent down and fumbled around.

“……What the?”

There was food everywhere. Apples and various vegetables were rolling around under the bed.

It was strange. The number of times the bird brought food was two to three times per day.

Since he’d slept for one night, one apple rolling around would be normal.

“I told you, didn’t I? That I thought you were dead.”

Twella spoke with a laugh.

“What happened?”

“What do you mean what? You really slept for a long time.”

“That can’t be.”

He crawled across the floor counting the food. Just within arm’s reach, there were dozens of apples, potatoes, and the like.

Only then did he notice the stench assaulting his nose. The number of rotted ones was countless too.

It didn’t make sense. When he’d only slept one night, this much food was left abandoned?

Had Winte brought it?

But why?

Quilbion checked his body’s condition. He didn’t feel hungry, let alone thirsty. His joints were fine too.

Wait a minute.

He recalled what he’d done before falling asleep. Right, he’d fought a goblin, half-staking his life.

His body’s condition after sleeping one night wasn’t something that would fully recover.

The remarkably comfortable physical state was strange instead.

Quilbion raised his head while coaxing his nark. His nark creaked and moved.

Golden light caught in his vision that had been submerged in darkness. Winte was on the rooftop.

Relying on the string, he quickly left the room.

He made his way up with precarious steps and arrived at the rooftop.

“Winte!”

In his haste, his feet tangled. He collapsed right in front of the golden light. His knees stung, but that wasn’t what mattered.

“Coffee.”

“I’ll bring it later. So hear me out first.”

“Your habits are getting worse. But since you’ve started brewing pretty decent coffee, I’ll listen.”

Quilbion wore a hollow smile and began speaking.

“Listen. I know this sounds absurd, but I’m asking just in case. So……”

“70 days by Human Tribe standards.”

“What?”

“The time you were stuck down there in that bed.”

70 days.

Quilbion felt his face crumpling. Independent of his will, his muscles went wild on their own.

“Don’t joke with me. You’re pulling something right now to mess with me, aren’t you?”

“I always say this, but why? What could I possibly gain from messing with you?”

“You’re seriously saying I was asleep for 70 days? Me?”

“Yes. Ah, though I’m not sure if that should be called sleep.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. That’s my answer.”

“You claim to be a god.”

“I said I’m close to being one. Your memory is truly terrible.”

Something struck his forehead. It stung enough that Quilbion squinted and rubbed his skin.

“Coffee.”

“You’re bringing up coffee now? Someone was sprawled out for over two months!”

“By my standards, it was time to catch a single breath.”

To expect common sense was his sin.

It was when Quilbion grumbled and tried to stand. Scree, with a cry, the bird perched on his shoulder.

He reached out his hand toward the bird gladly. Its sharp beak pecked his hand.

He thought it was a mistake, but it wasn’t. It flapped its wings and flew up slightly, then pecked all over his body including his head.

“Why, why are you doing this!”

He cried out in confusion, but the bird just kept pecking away.

“Stop it since he’s back.”

Winte spoke. The bird immediately became docile. As if nothing had happened, it burrowed into his embrace and rubbed its head.

He quietly stroked the bird and asked.

“You know this one well, right, Winte? Don’t you?”

“To some extent.”

“Who’s its owner?”

“You want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Then……”

The bird that had been staying quiet spread its wings wide and took flight. Quilbion looked up at the bird glowing green, then looked at Winte.

“Bring me coffee.”

“I knew it.”

Before going down from the rooftop, he asked one more time.

“But did I really lie down for over two months?”

“Why are you so full of doubt?”

“Even if you were in my position, you’d be the same, wouldn’t you, Winte? There has to be something believable.”

His body was suddenly lifted. He screamed at the velocity that felt like it would snap his limbs.

Soon after, along with a sensation of his body sinking down, he collapsed below.

Even without seeing, he could tell.

That crazy bastard had thrown him off the rooftop.

Still, he didn’t seem intent on killing him, dropping him lightly on the ground. He massaged his tingling forearm and looked at the golden light far away.

“Damn it, you crazy bastard!”

“Coffee.”

His booming voice struck all around like thunder. Quilbion plugged his ears while moving his body.

One way or another, he had to make coffee in the end. Only then would the ‘man close to being a god’ bestow mercy.

“If he loses interest in you, that thing will kill you like stepping on an ant.”

Twella, who’d risen from the ground, spoke.

Quilbion retorted while setting the coffee cup in front of him.

“Better than dying with a knife in the back.”

“Let’s run away. I’ll show you the way.”

“As if.”

“It’s true! Believe me.”

Ignoring the whining Twella, he brewed the coffee.

Had he really lain in bed for over two months? Was that even possible? Without eating or shitting that whole time?

He ran his hands over himself from head to toe.

For an ‘ordinary person,’ they would have died long ago. Because no human could survive over two months without eating.

Far from withering away, his arms and legs had actually become sturdier. Though only his eyes were blind, his body seemed better than before.

“……Am I crazy?”

Maybe all of this was an illusion?

The thought struck Quilbion. A strange world, goblins, sorcery, nark, that woman, a man claiming to be close to a god. What if everything he’d seen, felt, and experienced was actually fake?

What if he’d gone insane long ago, lying in bed giggling to himself while seeing fantasies?

Would that be better instead?

Quilbion gave a hollow laugh and reached out his hand. There should be a heated kettle around here.

Hiss—his hand touched the metal surface. His hand cooked as dizzying pain rose, but he didn’t let go.

After enduring about 10 seconds, he released his grip while spewing curses. It was filthily hot and painful.

How maddening. When everything was this vivid, there was a possibility all of it was illusion?

What the hell am I supposed to believe?

His head became a mess with nothing organizing itself, but his body was faithfully brewing coffee.

Before he knew it, he was in front of Winte. He offered the brewed coffee.

“Hmm.”

The sound of drinking coffee came repeatedly. Usually he’d take one sip and deliver harsh criticism.

Quilbion looked at the rippling golden light. The light that normally looked hazy was now undulating.

Does he like it?

Somehow he got that feeling.

“There’s a stage that all sentient beings inevitably go through.”

“What?”

“What you’re experiencing right now. When you reach a state where you can’t trust even your own senses, what the hell should you rely on?”

“Since you read my mind, answer me. What should I really believe?”

“Yourself—even if I said that, it wouldn’t resonate. Even if that’s the truth, what use is it to you right now? Right?”

“Yes. Honestly, even you, Winte, in front of me seems like a fantasy created by my broken head.”

“That might be so.”

Something touched his calf. A hard sensation.

“Sit down.”

“What’s the occasion, giving me a chair too?”

Since he told me to sit, he sat down. He didn’t think about where the chair came from or such trivialities. It was a monster who could lift people and send them flying into the sky—what couldn’t it do?

“Why do you think you were born?”

“As a result of my old man vigorously shaking his hips. There can’t be any other reason than that.”

“Let me change the question. Why do you think the chair you’re sitting on was made?”

“Why ask something obvious? It was made to sit on.”

“Obvious. You Human Tribe use this difficult word far too easily. How irresponsible, pathetic, yet simultaneously remarkable it is.”

The sound of drinking coffee continued.

“Does today’s coffee suit your taste?”

“Yes. It’s truly good.”

“……Saying it like that makes me oddly embarrassed.”

“What’s done well should be acknowledged. The 70 days you wandered in that place seem to have helped quite a bit.”

That place.

Quilbion wore a blank expression. He’d been sprawled in bed for 70 days. Without budging from the same spot.

But ‘that place’?

“A chair is made to be sat on. Sentient beings, including the Human Tribe, were born to run this world well.”

“To run it?”

“Yes. Regardless of form, to make the world sustainable. That’s part of the mandate given to you all.”

“What do you mean, given?”

“Don’t ask interrogatively. I wasn’t the one who decided it.”

“Then who decided it?”

“Who do you think?”

Quilbion squinted.

“Are you religious too, Winte?”

“Your expression is truly cheap.”

“I’m sick of all that god-this-god-that nonsense. Especially fate. Because of that bullshit, I……”

“To borrow your expression, that bullshit fate does exist. Though it seems about to collapse.”

“This too—it’s all decided by that fate, right? That I’m sitting here rambling with you, Winte?”

“It wasn’t decided, but through someone’s efforts, this state was fixed. Let me ask you one thing. How much do you think your efforts influenced your survival?”

“……I just got lucky and survived. No, not even lucky. My eyes became crippled.”

“Lucky enough to survive, I see. Dozens of Human Tribe died right in front of you, yet mysteriously you alone were lucky enough to survive.”

Clap clap clap, Winte applauded.

“Being simple is a good thing.”

“Then who saved me?”

Instead of answering the question, Winte brought up something else.

“Starting tomorrow, prepare yourself.”

“For what?”

Winte continued with amusement in his voice.

“To not die.”