After choking down the gruel, the old man lit something rolled in paper, sparked it with flint, and dragged smoke deep into his lungs. The rotten scent crawled across the room before he blew it straight at Alain, who kept his face still.
"Damn it," the man coughed. "Where was I?"
"You were explaining," Alain said quietly. "The women. And the monsters."
"Ah. Right, right. Women." He rubbed his jaw, face souring. "Hard to know where to start. Kid, you sure you don't remember parents? Neighbors? A city? Anything?"
Alain shook his head sharp enough for his hair to fall into his eyes.
"…Figures. My curse to explain everything from scratch." The man groaned, then ground the butt beneath his heel after spitting on it. His eyes sharpened. "Fine. Listen close. Might save you from dying faster. First rule of this world: women are stronger than men. So don't challenge them."
"…What?"
"Are your ears blocked?" The man leaned forward, voice dead serious. "Women. Stronger. Men. Weaker. You pick a fight, your head splatters like a tomato under a boot."
Alain blinked. Hard.
The old man wasn't smirking. He wasn't joking.
Inside, Alain's thoughts burned. Stronger than men? Nonsense. Male bodies carried the edge by nature, strength measured in war and fields alike. Armies, labor, blood. Always men. And yet this dried-up fool said different, with the same casual venom he'd spoken of porridge.
He could only stare.
"Tch. I can see it on your face. You think I'm talking crap. I thought the same when I was young. Thought women looked soft, delicate, fragile as twigs. Mistake big enough to bury a man." He spat again into the dirt. "So remember this. Women run things now. Leaders of houses, generals, monarchs. Men don't."
Alain's voice cut through, trying not to bite too hard. "Why?"
"Because of the ceremony."
"…Ceremony?"
"The coming-of-age. Every girl gets it. Almost none refuse. After that, they're stronger. Simple as that. Stronger than men at everything that matters."
Alain narrowed his gaze, the anger quiet in him. "Only women?"
"Yes. Obvious, isn't it?" The man scoffed loud. "A boy asking about women's secrets, ha. You could hang for less in the wrong company. Don't pretend curiosity, kid. It won't save you."
The words curdled in Alain's stomach. Only women. A ritual, a rite. A construction he hadn't designed, one that warped the world in his absence. His mind coiled, seeking cracks. Find the root, then strike it down. But the old man kept babbling.
"I tried thinking like you when I was young. 'Stop the ceremony,' I thought. Strangle their power before it blooms. Foolish idea. What woman would give up strength? Put yourself in that place. Could you?"
Alain bit his tongue to keep the laugh silent. If he'd sat across half his generals with such a suggestion, they'd have cut his throat without pause. Power was never given back once gripped. The old fool was right about that one truth.
"Not possible," the man muttered on. "Besides, we need them. Monsters, boy. You don't stand against them without women's strength. Without it you can't even wield the weapons."
Weapons. That word carried weight. Spat like lead. Alain rolled it slow in his skull.
He raised his head. "What weapons?"
The old man's lips twitched with disdain at the question, but he offered no answer. Only mutterings, self-pity in the cracks of his tone. Alain studied him in silence. Every crumb mattered. Five hundred years gone. Women ascendant. Monsters still existing. Weapons depending on female strength. That painted a picture, crude but visible.
And underneath, Alain's teeth grit against his own nameless rage. A world flipped. Hierarchies inverted. His empire a relic, his people weeded from memory. Now women rode the thrones.
It felt like mockery. Not from gods, no, he never believed in those. From time. Time twisting the knife, reshaping everything while he slept. And yet, inside, something mean whispered: if women controlled power, then human society would fracture under its own arrogance. Bloat devours itself eventually. And when it did, his chance would crawl out of the ashes.
For now, he would swallow dirt. Play amnesiac fool. Learn where the seams cracked.
His eyes rested on the old man puffing out smoke like a chimney of regret. Alain gave nothing back in return.
He had survived a Hero's blade. He had survived one shallow grave. He would survive this too.
And when the world bent enough to open, he would be waiting.