On the 100th floor, Kachisabi is in a furniture store, lying on a bed and staring at the ceiling while Ninsun sits on a chair, bored, pretending to read a book.
– Kachisabi, why are the letters in all the books blurred? asks Ninsun.
– Everything in this city is a replica of your mind. Things you had little or no contact with, objects you didn't care much about, aren't so clear in your memory, which makes it impossible for me to replicate the content of the book. replies Kachisabi.
– I get it, but damn, I just want something to do. says Ninsun.
– We can do another training session. says Kachisabi.
– If I train one more time today, I'm gonna go crazy. says Ninsun.
The two let out a big sigh, both staring at the ceiling. Ninsun, thinking about nothing, suddenly gets a simple and obvious idea to cure her boredom. She gets up from the chair and jumps onto the bed where Kachisabi is. Ninsun lies on her side, facing him.
– Hey, tell me a story. says Ninsun.
– A story?. asks Kachisabi.
– Yeah! Any story of yours. You once said someone reached the last floor, but when a new floor is reached, the system alerts all adventurers, and yet there's no record of it ever happening. says Ninsun.
– So, you want to know about the person who came here? It's a hard story to tell, not only because I don't remember it clearly, but also because he wouldn't want me to tell you. says Kachisabi.
– He? Who are you talking about? asks Ninsun.
– Doesn't matter. The less you know, the better. But if you want to hear a story, I can show you one. says Kachisabi.
Kachisabi gets up and walks outside the chair shop, extending his hand forward. The space in front of him begins to distort, opening into a rift. Ninsun is surprised to see a portal forming. Thinking it might take her home, she stands up and approaches Kachisabi.
– This portal… where will it take us? asks Ninsun, a hopeful look on her face.
– Sorry to disappoint you, but this isn't a portal that takes us to a place, it's a portal to a memory. I can only enter memories of people from the tower. replies Kachisabi.
– But why would you take me into someone's memory? asks Ninsun.
– I'll show you the story and then the battles that person witnessed. You're bored, aren't you? Just follow me. After saying that, Kachisabi walks toward the portal, and Ninsun holds on to him as they step through. Upon entering, Ninsun feels herself merging with another being; she sees a boy and fuses with him as if they were one. Her memories are quickly replaced by the boy's, but instead of fear, she feels comfort, as if forgetting herself brings peace. She grows sleepy and relaxed until, finally, she just falls asleep.
I am Erick. My mom always said walking at night was dangerous. Everyone says that, especially on rainy nights in the city. They say the Lonely Man, or the Bloody Wanderer, could kill me. They say he always comes to town on rainy nights, dragging his sword on the ground as a warning that he's hunting.
But that's not true, because I know him. Well, not personally, but he always stops in front of my house and sits beside a half-open window. For about three years, it was always the same thing: on rainy days, he'd come to the house across the street, sit by the window, and the window would open.
I was scared, even if just a little, but what really scared me was the thought that he might not be human.
But one day, there was a storm. Lightning and thunder lit up the whole city. That night, as always, I watched the Lonely Man from my room—and I could finally see he was human, and young too.
That night, I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to know everything about him. I felt like maybe I could be his friend. So I left my house and went to the alley beside the building where he always stayed. I was about to introduce myself when I heard him talking to someone.
– I don't have money to buy information, only a few jewels with me. said the Lonely Man.
– You know I only take money, but there's something I value more than money, and you know what that is. says the Man in the Window.
– Tell me why you want to know my story so badly? asks the Lonely Man.
– I like hearing stories. After all, people only stay alive because of them. Stories are memories, proof that someone truly existed. replies the Man in the Window.
– I see. Coming from you, that's surprising. Okay, if that's the only way to get what I need, I'll tell you the story of my life. – says the Lonely Man.
When I was about seven years old, I lived in a large village. It looked like a city, even though it was completely isolated. But one day, people from a church came to us. They made a deal to build a church in the village.
My parents were never fans of religion; they believed it stripped people of their freedom. I disagreed with them. I thought faith didn't take anyone's freedom away.
But I found out they were right. I found out the worst way possible.
I was part of the church, preaching the god of their faith. I liked believing there was someone powerful protecting me. That's why I wanted to become a knight—to protect people the same way I thought that god protected me.
From the age of seven, I spent five years in the church.
You know... I always loved the night. The sky looks beautiful at night. Watching the stars always gave me hope. I always thought the night was beautiful.
But one night, during one of my walks, I saw movement in the church. The church was built in front of a mountain, and one of the prayer rooms was carved inside it. I entered the church—the door that was always locked was open that night. I couldn't hold my curiosity and stepped inside.
There was an event in that church where every child who turned six would travel to another city to spread the faith. I could never go because I was already too old.
Haha... a "trip," my ass!
The kids who were supposed to leave the next day were tied to tables, a pentagram drawn beneath them. Stevam, July, Maelle, Gustave, and Natham—they were good kids.
As soon as I stepped into the room, the pentagram cracked. Their faces changed. Animal parts grew out of their bodies.
I ran. As fast as I could. Terrified. When I saw the exit, the priest stood in front of the door, his face blank. He shut it. There was no way out.
When I realized it, those kids—twisted into demonic forms—were behind me. I drew my sword, the one I always carried, but my hands were shaking. Then one of them attacked...
I don't remember much after that, but when I woke up, sunlight was hitting my face. The church was drenched in blood. The door that had been locked was wide open. The sword in my hand was covered in blood.
The children who'd turned into horrific creatures were normal again—but covered in blood.
That's when I understood: I had killed them.
The priest who had locked the door to keep me trapped entered the church with several people, screaming in horror, pointing at me as the murderer.
I ran. No one would have believed me. Finally, I understood why my parents hated religions.
I lived taking any job I could—killing, stealing, whatever it took to survive.
– Yo, kid, did you like my story?
– says the Lonely Man.
The boy steps out of the alley where he'd been hiding.
– You really killed those kids? asks Erick.
The Lonely Man smiles and nods.
– What's your name? – asks Erick.
– Nice to meet you, I'm Diletante.
I walked out of the alley slowly, tasting the rain in the air. My shoes were soaked; the city breathed heavy. His words spun around in my head. The image of the Lonely Man had changed—it wasn't just a tale anymore; he had memories and guilt.
I looked at his face and saw a young man marked by what he had told me. There was something in the calmness of his voice that hurt more than any scream.
– You really killed those kids? I asked again, because I needed to hear the confession leave his mouth, needed to see the sound of the syllables turn into solid responsibility.
He tilted his head slightly and looked at the blade resting on the ground, as if remembering the weight that sword carried beyond the metal.
– Yeah. he said, and the word hit the silence like a rock.
– They attacked me. I... I don't know how else to put it. I defended myself, and it... got out of control.
I felt a strange cold emptiness. The image I had of the Lonely Man—built slowly through stories, rumors, and nighttime fears—crumbled and rebuilt itself into something more human and more terrifying: the idea that monsters can just be people who went wrong.
My grandpa always said there's no heart without scars, but this was something else—memories that burned and reshaped.
Diletante. The name felt like a label, odd for someone who dragged a sword and carried silence.
My mind went straight to the questions: why always come to my window? What was he looking for on those rainy nights?
– You came just to tell me that? – I asked, searching for clarity.
He gave a short, humorless smile.
– Telling is just the start. Listening too. Sometimes we need someone to listen. You've seen me looking at your house all this time. There are things you don't say to the living, Erick. And when it rains, I remember. Rain doesn't wash away. Rain keeps.
Hearing my name from his mouth startled me; it was like the bond I'd denied was suddenly real.
The nights when I'd watched him by the window flashed back—the dragging sword on the street, the silhouette on the bench, the way he seemed tuned to the darkness itself.
Now, face to face, his stories had a voice and a weight. His suffering filled space, and I realized the fear my mother had taught me was one thing, but the compassion I felt now was another.
The streets around the alley shimmered with puddles reflecting the light of the streetlamps; the world kept going, indifferent to the whisper between two people and a heavy secret.
People walked by under umbrellas, rushing, as if nothing important happened beyond their own paths. That indifference hurt a little—it felt like the whole city had forgotten that stories are people too.
– Why do you sit by my window? I asked finally, because it was the question that had burned in me since I was a kid.
He touched the blade with a finger, almost ritualistically.
– Because that house reminds me of what I lost, and because sometimes I like to listen. Open windows are shortcuts to stories. He looked at me with eyes that had cried silently.
– And you, kid, why do you watch so much from your room? Fear or courage?
I didn't know what to say. Maybe both. Maybe just curiosity.
The rain started falling again, softly, tapping on the cobblestones with a sound that seemed to wash and fill everything at once. I felt something different, small but real: his presence didn't terrify me anymore—it hurt in another way.
Diletante wasn't just a legend dragging a sword closer through the rain; he was someone who'd carried too many nights.
– So you... – I began, unsure whether I was finishing the sentence for myself or for him. He just nodded, and in that nod there was a silent invitation—to keep listening, to accept that the city's shadows aren't only monsters; sometimes they're people who fell and are still trying to stand.
– Nice to meet you, I'm Diletante.