The young man had just come back from the brink of death. Anyone else would have rejoiced, but Deacon was pale, his hands trembling uncontrollably.
"My name is Laitra. You are still alive, and I saved you."
"Th-thank you. Mr. Laitra, thank you so much."
Deacon's tongue was stiff, like a thief caught in the act, desperately trying to excuse himself. For a long while, he couldn't form a complete sentence. It was impossible to say he wasn't terrified to the core, especially since he had almost forgotten—in his fright—that he hadn't even stated his name yet, a terribly impolite oversight. Yet, etiquette was the least of Deacon's worries. An important realization had just settled in his mind: Mr. Laitra must be the Possessor. And if Laitra was an enemy...
The squire's hand tightened hard around his crossbow. The reality of the situation was absurd: one second someone felt immense gratitude, and the next, they wanted to kill their savior. From the turmoil in Deacon's mind, Laitra could glimpse a deep-seated contradiction and complexity. It wasn't Deacon's fault; the entire environment had shaped him. Goodness knows how foolish Deacon was, pinning his final hope on a weapon that couldn't even kill a bear, struggling there without the courage to pull the trigger.
"I am not from Namela," Laitra pressed down on the squire's hand. "In a way, I am not."
Figuring out the exact meaning of "in a way" was no easy task, but hearing Mr. Laitra admit he wasn't from Namela was simple enough. For Deacon, he chose to believe such a statement was absolute truth. It was a strange conviction, and under its influence, his body instantly relaxed, a mix of embarrassment and lingering joy coming over him.
"Sir, I'm sorry, I was just terrified. My name is Deacon, Deacon Etos."
Deacon cleaned out his pack—checking the dried cornflowers and the letter for Leila to make sure he hadn't lost anything vital—before standing up. Finally, he had the mood to closely examine Laitra's mysterious air. It wasn't just his attire: the mask devoid of excessive color, the black cloak with no superfluous hues; it was also his actions: a lone man walking through the woods at night with a lantern. Mystery always bore a dual nature—either an extraordinary identity or an extraordinary hobby. Regardless of the type or degree of this extraordinarity, it was something never yet observed through the magnifying glass of imagination. In the eyes of a knight's squire, mystery meant something distant, so distant it inspired awe and the urge to flee.
Deacon fidgeted and said, "Sir, I want to know..."
"I am waiting for my friend. He has some business to attend to at the camp."
Was Laitra a mind reader? Deacon thought with a start. But so what? The squire was feeling quite pleased right then. He had never considered wandering in and out of the camp a privilege; such things were mundane. Yet Mr. Laitra had been stumped by this simple matter. Deacon figured he had finally found a way to repay him. "I can take you there, but I need to get some water first."
Laitra didn't refuse, following Deacon with a pace that wasn't particularly eager. The swaying lantern occasionally emitted a harsh, grating noise, like the dying wail of a stag. Yet Deacon grew somewhat fond of this terrifying sound and light; it proved that Mr. Laitra was right beside him. By extension, no one ever needed to worry about bears or other beasts again.
"You haven't answered my question. Is Leila your wife?" Laitra asked suddenly.
"She is my fiancée."
"You love her."
Deacon froze for a few seconds, unable to tell whether the sentence was a question or a statement. He chose to treat it as a question and answered: "Yes, more than anything."
"What does this love mean to you?"
What did this love mean to him? For the first time, Deacon confronted this question. He thought of Leila's smile, her smooth lips parted slightly, two rows of beautiful teeth, and her long hair combed smoother than a mirror, setting off the lovely curve of her back and chest. She was as enchanting as the goddess of love, making the hairs on his arms stand on end. Ever since Leila, he had stopped dreaming of other women—in fact, he didn't want to at all. The woods were dead silent before Deacon realized he hadn't answered yet. He couldn't sum it up in a single sentence, nor could he explain why he couldn't explain it.
"Sir, it's a rather long story, if you care to listen."
And so, he told Laitra everything he could: his relationship with Leila, their shared experiences. At the end of the story, he said: "I want to become a knight, to give Leila the life she longs for."
The listener said nothing, as if an answer was unnecessary.
The two reached the spring, and Deacon crouched down to fetch water. The silence made Deacon wonder if his love story hadn't stirred the slightest bit of interest in this gentleman, or perhaps because the one thing the story lacked was an aspiration for power. After his accidental, painful encounter with powerful people and beasts, he fully understood how easily he yielded to fear and how cowardly his nature truly was. He began to doubt himself, thinking he was the least deserving squire to ever become a knight, and even dreading the thought of Leila seeing him as he truly was—so fragile and weak.
Deacon lost to reality, living entirely in a present without illusions. He asked dejectedly, "Mr. Laitra, do you think I'm simply unfit to be a knight?"
"Every human has things they are good at and things they are bad at." This could perhaps be considered comfort—of the briefest kind.
Deacon continued, "I'm not good at knightly things, but I want to grow powerful, just like you."
"Powerful?" (Laitra said:) "I cannot comprehend that word."
(Note: A portion of the text is missing here, omitting Deacon's reply.)
(Laitra asked:) "Are you willing to pay the price? Are you willing to bear the duties and responsibilities that such power brings?"
When asking these two questions, Lester was very earnest, devoid of his previous strange casualness. He seemed to want to probe Deacon's determination and conviction, yet at the same time, he didn't seem to care a whit about the young man's ideals. He seemed to realize he could no longer view Deacon the way he viewed ordinary humans, yet he also seemed to categorize him simply as an idealistic young man. When all was said and done, these were human affairs—love or hope, all full of desire, unfulfilled, complex, fickle, and hard to understand, yet not entirely incomprehensible.
All around was quiet. Witnessed by the ghostly green light, accompanied by the gurgling water and chirping insects, the atmosphere took on a hint of mysticism, making the scene all the more solemn. Mr. Deacon Etos set his waterskin aside, raised his head, and looked up at Laitra as if undergoing an investiture, the next words on his lips a solemn oath. We know this young man was more than willing to pay the price, even if he didn't yet understand why power brings duty and responsibility, and even if his hazy notions didn't make him refuse the opportunity Mr. Laitra offered. One could say his mind was entirely consumed by the single word "power," leaving no room for any other thought.
"Yes, I am willing," Deacon said.
Laitra produced a ring and told the seeker of power: "Wear it."
It was a gold ring. People knew that mystical items were never ordinary, and this one could even be called priceless. Yet in an instant, all of Deacon's desires receded, leaving his mind in absolute calm. He wasn't stunned, nor was he overwhelmed by panic; he simply couldn't believe that a long-held wish could be granted in the very next second. That tangible, close-at-hand feeling seemed like a false reality.
"I seem to sense that you aren't sure you want this?"
Laitra's inquiry shattered the illusion of reality. Deacon could no longer recall what he had felt in that moment. He only felt that he had been captured by something grand and staggering, the golden light akin to a dawn bearing hope. Following Laitra's instructions, he slipped the ring onto the middle finger of his right hand and muttered a spell. Afterward, the ring began to heat up. The ritual was completed with such simplicity—no bizarre phenomena, no earth-shattering spectacles.
Deacon was excited yet uneasy. However, that feeling was fleeting; Mr. Laitra's next words terrified him, because Deacon instantly and clearly realized he could not bear this responsibility and duty: "It is yours. When you use it, recite once: 'Every malice wins hate in Heaven.' Be sure your right hand points at your enemy, and afterward, both your enemy and you will die."
"Mr. Laitra, I want to..." The young man panicked. He wanted to take the ring off immediately, to rid himself of such power at once, but human strength alone couldn't do it. Deacon hadn't treated this transaction like shopping at a store, thinking he could return the item at any whim; rather, upon realizing the potential hardships looming ahead, his desire to run away was stronger than ever. He cast a pleading look at Laitra and said, "I might, I might not be suited to be its master."
With a tone of genuine bewilderment, Laitra asked as if unable to understand, "You do not want formidable power?"
"No, it's not like that."
"You want a free lunch." That was obvious.
"No, that's not it." Terrified to his core, the boy instinctively defended himself: "Using it means I will die. This—this is not what I wanted."
"If you do not want the responsibilities and duties it brings, you can choose not to use it. That is your choice." Having apparently witnessed too many similar scenes—nothing more than an ordinary human doing an ordinary thing—Laitra returned to his previous emotionless state, which ought to have been his default, completely devoid of color. "Yet you must bear every consequence of your choice, until you die. Only death will part you and it."
From every perspective, death must be the most ordinary affair for humanity. Strangely enough, toward this most ordinary affair, humans held an attitude of absolute refusal. Perhaps it was because they did not know what state they would be in after death, or whether they could make it to heaven. Deacon was precisely this kind of person: on one hand, invoking the Holy Light; on the other, terrified and worried that the heavenly inn might be fully booked. He neither wanted nor dared to talk about death; the word was simply too heavy, and this ring reminded him of "death" every single moment. An incomparably heavy word bound him fast, and this terrifying connection would only end when death finally arrived.
Deacon looked troubled—of course he was troubled. He hadn't even brought the filled waterskin back yet, and more importantly, one glance at the ring on his hand told him he couldn't escape. Deacon always found a way to guide his mind away from unhappiness and grim states—to put it nicely, he was a natural optimist; to put it bluntly, he lived in unrealistic daydreams. He consoled himself by thinking he wouldn't overthink it, that a situation requiring its use would never arise, and that Sir Raburdan wouldn't allow such circumstances to happen. This self-consolation counteracted a portion of his negative thoughts, making life hopeful once more.
Let the elders wait a few extra hours; Deacon trusted that Knight Igexi wouldn't die of dehydration.
The return journey to the camp was spent in complete silence. The forest remained pitch black, but something had changed. The closer they got to the camp, the easier it was to sense that shift. It was the sound—or rather, the absence of it. Once the music, songs, shouts, and conversations vanished, the sounds of nature grew all the more distinct. As they neared the camp, Deacon caught sight of a sentry collapsed on the ground, thinking to himself that as a soldier, getting dead drunk after a victorious battle was perfectly reasonable. Perhaps the others were all drunk and asleep, and tonight was no different from any other. Deacon spoke up to explain: "I suppose many people drank themselves silly tonight. They aren't usually like this, but today is a big day."
"I think you are mistaken. Humans are dying."
This statement struck like a bolt from the blue, stunning Deacon into silence for a long moment before he managed to react. "Pardon me, Mr. Laitra, are you joking? What did you say?"
"Humans. Are. Dying." Laitra repeated simply. "I don't think you fail to recognize these words."
Deacon was no illiterate, but he simply couldn't bring himself to apply belief to Laitra's words—especially when they described such a stark reality. As Laitra hammered away at his hope word by word, Deacon wanted to flee, as he always did. No, perhaps there was still a way. As long as he proved Laitra wrong, as long as he shook the drunkard on the ground awake, he would know nothing out of the ordinary had happened here.
"No, no, Mr. Laitra, you're wrong about this," he forced an ugly, strained smile and said, "They're just asleep. I know it, they drank too much. Alcohol can't kill Anieta's warriors. Let me prove it to you."
Deacon hurried forward, his body completely rigid, desperately wanting to confirm that the men were still alive. He crouched down and laboriously grabbed a soldier's shoulder. The fellow was sturdy, but his body was far from supple—one could say it was already stiff. Putting in a great deal of effort, Deacon rolled the soldier over. The man's eyes were wide open, his complexion completely pale. Deacon didn't want to linger on that sight; it was too pitiful. *Hurry, I need to wake him up quickly.* He slapped the poor man's cheeks with his hand and shouted, "Wake up! Wake up!"
He wanted to wake this good man, the kind soul who had warned him to watch out for brown bears, but there was nothing he could do. He peered ahead, searching for anyone else to help, and roared, "Is anyone there? Help!" Deacon spent two or three minutes shouting, during which time no one came—not a single soul. No one told him what he ought to do. He kept repeating the motion, his palms throbbing, his shoulders starting to cramp. "Mr. Laitra, I need your help," he said, his voice carrying a trace of a sob.
"I do not know how to help you. He is already dead," Laitra said calmly. "Nearly all the humans here are dead."
The young man stood up, at a loss, not daring to spare a single second to ponder the current situation or its cause—even though he desperately wanted to know what on earth was going on—for fear that knowing the answer would turn his legs to jelly and render him unable to take another step. No one offered him an embrace; his mind went blank, tears rolled down his cheeks, and he muttered foolishly, "Impossible, impossible."
*Someone's notes: In truth, the real reason he wept was the terror that death would come for him, that one day he too would die so miserably, stripped of all vitality.*
"Sir, sir, we—we have to go inside, we have to go inside," he thought of Knight Raburdan. This respected knight was Deacon's last shred of hope for escaping his agonizing state. He looked at Laitra and stammered, "Raburdan, yes, he's still inside. He's a knight of the Church; you must, you simply must save him."
Laitra gave a light wave of his lantern toward the direction of the camp and muttered an incomprehensible spell, as if shooing away something invisible. Afterward, he shook his head and refused: "I must wait for my friend here. It is a promise."
Deacon grew frantic, wanting nothing more than to scream at this slow-witted gentleman: *Your friend is dead! He's dead!* Then Laitra would surely take the situation seriously, unleash his formidable powers to fix everything, wave his hand, cast a spell, and perform a ritual. Whether reversing time or raising the dead, there had to be some way to make this problem go away. Unfortunately, that future was impossible. Deacon knew in his heart that the only thing Laitra would do was remain mechanically bound to the spot by his promise, doing absolutely nothing. The thought even made him resent Mr. Laitra.
"Wait, you will need this," Laitra called out, stopping Deacon, and handed him a card. On the card, a man and a woman stood on opposite sides; the woman held a blue flower, gazing intently at the armored man, while the man turned his back to her. "In your parlance, it is an amulet."
Deacon couldn't take in Laitra's explanation; resentment and grief made it impossible for him to concentrate. Without even offering a word of thanks, he shoved the card haphazardly into his cloth pouch and walked into the place where death had made its visit.
There were no dying groans in this land, no continuous wails—only silence. The path to the knight's tent was long, requiring him to step over corpses one after another, their expressions in death serene. As his gaze swept over familiar and unfamiliar faces, Deacon's mind was subjected to a cruel torture that pushed the young man to the brink of collapse. Weak and drowsy, his consciousness grew sluggish. He could barely feel that his shivers were still real. All sorts of thoughts tumbled through his mind one after another; he had experienced this not long ago, and he knew death had its eyes on him. At that moment, thinking of the nameless gold ring, Deacon told himself to concentrate, not to give up, and to find Raburdan.
*(Note: The following paragraphs show heavy marks of deletion and revision)*
Deacon forced his way to the tent with all his might, only to find a strange beast standing inside. It had ten horns and seven heads, bearing ten crowns upon its horns and blasphemous names upon its heads. Knight Raburdan did not worship it, Knight Igexi did not worship it, and the soldiers of the camp did not worship it. Everyone had been slaughtered. Deacon pointed his right hand at it and bravely recited the spell. The beast died.
*(Note: The above paragraphs show heavy marks of deletion and revision)*
(?.?) False Memories of Unknown Page Numbers
(Fragments of a Book Page)
"No, no, please, no, don't..." Deacon pleaded.
"(Some text missing), the wrath of Namela salutes you." The world is not simply black and white, but war is—it always has been. The wooden sword pierced Raburdan's heart and twisted, blood spilling out like a red serpent burrowing into the soil. Everything was nearly at an end. For Deacon, the finest hopes had also been torn to shreds; wherever the young man looked, he saw only deep despair. Raburdan had been killed right before his eyes.
Deacon had nowhere to run. A blade pressed against his throat. He offered no resistance. A wash of absolute red.
2022-3-30 to 2022-4-6 Rest
That's how it is
2022-4-7 to 2022-4-14 Rest
T. said he has other matters to handle. If possible, this week's draft will be handed over to me before 2022-4-11.
(2.7.2) 656-4-22 George and Antonio in the Outskirts of Vordubu
(2.7.2) 656-4-22 George and Antonio in the Outskirts of Vordubu
To avoid the tide schedule, I sailed back to Rijeka early. In truth, Webster (Note: the Magistrate) hadn't set a strict deadline, but I couldn't shake the strange feeling that something bad was going to happen in Vordubu. The succession of deaths, coupled with my dreams of Raburdan and Antonio's ambiguous attitudes, were the most unsettling omens. Everything was saying the hour had come. It filled me with a sense of urgency.
I sat alone by the patch of cornflowers. Few people ever came to this place, and no one dropped by to offer casual greetings. I turned thoughts over and over in my mind, pondering endlessly. An hour passed, then another. No matter how I wracked my brain, I couldn't figure out a way to connect the various mysteries. Until I caught a familiar scent, and a familiar voice said: "Good afternoon, sir."