The sound of a fire crackling. It's gentle, a soothing melody to my ears. The rest of the world is quiet, save for my breathing.
My arms feel tight.
Finally, I decide to raise my eyelids.
The world itself isn't much brighter than when my eyes were closed. I'm met with the ceiling of a cave, rocks wrapped around each other in a rigid, yet strangely smooth pattern.
The left side of the ceiling is illuminated by an orange light, most likely from the fire I heard earlier. Everything else is silent now that even my breathing has settled. Well, there's still that crackling, though.
I lift my arm toward my face, trying to observe the source of the tightness present in my arm. As it enters my view, I see what's been done to it.
It's a surprisingly clean job.
My entire arm is wrapped neatly and tightly in bandages, save for my fingers. The pain's still there, lingering under the surface, but it's dulled now, no longer intense.
"Hm?"
I raise my other arm to check it as well. Same thing. Bandaged with care.
Once I finish my inspection, I let them fall.
Who did this? Kyros? He's really got a solid foundation in medical expertise, if that's the case.
Turning toward the fire, I see a familiar figure. The grey goblin sitting by the flames, his left arm resting on his thigh. Judging by the way his shoulders hang, he's exhausted. His body trembles faintly, like it's fighting to stay upright.
His clawed hand jerks slightly, striking himself in the thigh.
Is he trying to keep himself awake?
A small smile slowly creeps up my face, something I can't help at this point. This creature, despite not being human, feels more human than I am. It's obvious now. He's been here all this time, treating our wounds, pushing his body past its limits for two people he barely knows.
He could've left us. Left us behind and continued on. That would've been smarter, even. Two injured travelers are nothing but liabilities.
But he didn't leave.
To stay and help, despite having every reason not to… that's something rare. A major testament to someone's goodwill.
And it's not just me he's helped.
I glance down, or try to. My head shifts downward slightly, the motion dragging a dull ache along my skull. The only reason I'm even able to move like this is because I'm resting on something soft. A makeshift pillow. My shirt, most likely. Considering I'm no longer wearing it, it's the only logical guess.
My eyes squint, trying to cut through the dim lighting after staring at the fire.
Darkness greets me.
I search the nearby area, shifting my head gently, but it's hard to focus on anything clearly. Just vague shapes and shadows. Frustrated, I sigh and return my head to its previous position.
Then, with a grunt, I roll slightly to my right, facing the wall. I plant my left hand on the ground and slowly push myself up, using the least amount of strength I can afford to waste.
"Ah, Kaito!"
"…You're awake."
I turn to face the goblin, a grin already stretching across my face.
"Wish I woke up in a five-star hotel room, but I guess this'll do."
"I'm sorry," Kyros replies, taking a moment to process the joke. It seems he can tell I'm perfectly recovered because I made a joke. Am I really that easy to read?
"I do not have access to such a thing. If I did, I would have provided you with it."
I chuckle at the taken face value.
"It's fine, man." I glance at my arms again. The bandages remain, a silent reminder of the damage I had done to my arms earlier.
"You really pushed yourself to the limit, huh, Kyros?"
The goblin nods, though humbly, like he doesn't consider his actions anything special.
"'Above and beyond' would not be the proper term. But… I do consider what I've done to be a little extraordinary."
It's fine to gloat every once in a while, man.
"…Yeah." I say, my mind focused on the next sentence slowly forming on my tongue.
"Thanks, Kyros."
"You really could've just left us and gone on with your life."
"But I could not."
He finishes the thought for me.
After a pause, he raises his hand.
"I will always protect. That is my nature. It was the first thing I ever came to understand. To go otherwise would be to go against my nature."
I look down at him.
"To protect, huh?"
A small creature like him, protecting me. It's admirable. He feels bigger than me somehow, despite his size. And he's right, he's bigger than me in almost every single way besides strength. It's not his body, it's his presence. His will. His spirit.
Maybe he's only doing this because he wants help for his village. Maybe it's transactional. But honestly, there's nothing wrong with that. He's giving back because we helped him first. Kindness for kindness. Maybe it's not some grand, pure gesture, but it's real.
And that's enough.
"Then it sounds like you need a raise. You're doing your job flawlessly," I say, smirking, raising a fist with a thumb extended.
"...Thank you, but I do not operate for worldly things such as money."
Damn…
"Man, every time you talk, you really catch me off guard more and more."
"You're really making me look terrible in comparison to you here…" I groan, rubbing the back of my head.
"That is not true. You saved Ms. Highergald. That alone is admirable. I am not superior to you in any way."
A swift, sincere rebuttal. I'm not going to argue with that one, not necessarily because I agree, but because I've got something on my mind.
"Yeah… I guess. Speaking of, where is she now?" I ask, moving my head again, trying to spot the girl. I haven't seen her in a while.
Kyros points to my left.
I turn in that direction.
After a few seconds, my eyes adjust. They widen slightly.
The white-haired girl is slouched against the wall, asleep. Her breathing is soft and steady, almost rhythmic in a way. She's like a statue, albeit barely moving.
I shuffle a bit closer.
Her eyes are shut tight. Her pale skin glows faintly in the low light. Her lips move just slightly with each breath, and her bangs drape over her face like hanging vines.
...Alright, that was a weirdly poetic observation. But hey, she looks way better when she's quiet. Sounds way better, too.
A single loose strand of hair seems to stand apart from the rest. Naturally, it bothers me.
I reach out to brush it aside when—
Her eyes snap open.
Golden. Sharp. Reflecting the firelight.
"Hmm…?"
I flinch, instinctively pulling back a little. Caught off guard.
No way in hell I'm letting her tease me about being that close, though.
Her gaze sharpens as she blinks back the haze, slowly regaining clarity. Then finally, her lips move as she glances side to side.
"...? We're still in here?"
Navi asks, her voice weak and dry. Not surprising, considering what she went through.
Footsteps echo behind me.
Kyros approaches, coming to check on his patient. He's really like a doctor here. As he approaches, Navi's wound comes to mind, so I impassively gaze at her leg. The skin is exposed around the wound, a long, dark line across her thigh where it's been sealed.
"Yeah," I say, responding to her earlier question. "But if you keep getting better, we'll be out of this damned place soon." My eyes eventually relinquish their gaze from her wound as I rise up to my feet.
She glances at me for a moment, taking in my expression. Then nods. But not as an affirmer one, more like. 'I heard what you said, and will nod, but I couldn't care less about what you said.'
I physically recoil at that realization.
"Ms. Highergald. The splinter had struck a major artery. While you were asleep, I opened the wound and tied the artery with a small piece of string. Shortly after, I cauterized it with the flames from the campfire, which I conducted with your saber. So, please forgive me for that."
Wow. He's really a doctor.
I'm aware that when something hits an artery, it's basically a death sentence. Tying it off — that's not common. I remember hearing about a similar technique back on Earth. Middle Eastern field medics used to do it in extreme situations.
Navi's reaction says it all. She's shocked. Probably more from the fact she slept through all of that. I'm kind of surprised too. Either he drugged her, or her sleep was just that deep.
"Kyros… where'd you learn this stuff? Especially the artery-tying thing?"
The goblin turns his head toward me, shifting his focus away from Navi.
"Before we are sent to the wilds, at least one goblin in each hunting group must learn how to treat wounds. While sapients and goblins differ externally, our internals share surprising similarities."
"Goblins being more flora than fauna was already a shock," Navi adds.
While they start discussing goblin and sapient biology, I finish putting on my shirt. It's actually quite cool inside this cave, and I found myself slightly cold.
As I thread my arm through the sleeve, a thought creeps into my head.
"Wait… how long have we been here?"
"About twelve hours," Kyros says calmly.
"Hah?! We'd better get going—"
I stop when I glance at Navi. The injured Navi.
"The hell you gawking at?"
"…Can you walk?"
"..."
"Give me like an hour. My foot still hurts."
I glance at Kyros.
"How long till we reach your village?"
"It's actually quite close. This cave is usually about thirty minutes from the main gates. Assuming there are no complications."
"Hm. So we can afford to rest a bit." I sit down, my arm draping over my knee.
"Ah, then I shall rest for a moment as well…"
Kyros leans back against the wall, exhaustion finally winning over his posture. His shoulders drop, and he loses all rigidity in his body.
Even lacking eyes, any functional person can tell he's asleep.
"Poor guy's beat," I mutter.
"Obviously. He treated me and some idiot. Sadly, he wasted time on the second."
"Why am I the idiot here?!"
"Shut it. You're loud."
I groan.
We sit in the quiet for a bit. Darkness fills the space, save for the fading orange glow of the fire. My mind drifts back to that thing. That machine is something that confuses me to no end.
"Yo."
"?"
"What the hell was that thing that chased us? That was terrifying."
She pauses.
"...An angel. A fallen one."
An angel?
An angel? Is this another case of this world having things I'm familiar with, but being almost completely different from the original? When I think of an angel, I think of a person dressed in white, with a halo and wings.
Not that mechanical abomination.
"That thing wasn't even alive. It was a machine. How's that an angel?"
"What do you mean, 'hows that an angel'? What other definition of angel do you got in that screwed up brain of yours?"
She really insults me like it's normal, even when we're having a normal conversation. Snow bitch! Go back to sleep! You were way more graceful!
I use every ounce of strength in my body to hold back from yelling that last statement.
"Never mind. Do you know anything about them? Abilities, weaknesses, anything?"
"All I know is they're basically invulnerable to damage. And they come from the world above."
"The world above?"
"Tch, I don't wanna explain all that. Ask Kyros."
"Hah?!"
Now that I get some worldbuilding that I'm actually interested in, you take it away from me?! C'mon, actually explain it!
I lean forward.
"Wait, Navi, don't fall asleep. Please, actually tell me—"
No response.
Why is she like this? You tease me with stuff like 'World above', then expect me not to grill you any further. That's so annoying, honestly. I'm sure it doesn't require that much energy to explain.
She's so good at steering conversations off a cliff, it's almost uncanny.
C'mon! Stop teasing me!
Well… world above. I guess that's pretty on the nose.
Maybe a literal world in the sky?
Is it like a Skypiea thing? Still, floating continents or landmasses above the clouds. It was a dream of mine when I was younger, solitude in the sky, surrounded by nothing but sunlight and silence. The idea of it used to comfort me. Back then, it felt like a fantasy.
Now, apparently, it's just another place on the map.
I know 'escaping from reality', focusing on fictional things all the time, is a bad thing, but what can I do in this situation? I'm literally living in a fictional world right now, yet everything feels just as real in real life.
So I guess I literally 'escaped reality' in a broad sense of the term.
Another thing, it's really quite strange once you start thinking about it hard enough.
Like… did we invent these worlds from our minds? Or are our minds just remembering something older?
Ugh, A rabbit hole. Not one I'm diving into right now.
"Kaito."
My name in the dark. I flinch slightly, violently ripped away from my thoughts. The use of my name only further distorts me.
I turn toward her. Navi's body is still facing the other way, back to me.
"…Why'd you save me?"
Ah, the age-old question. The part where the protagonist is asked why he's helping the people around him, to prove to the audience why he does the thing he does. To reveal his motivations for being a protagonist in the first place.e
Now's my time to shine.
"...I put a collar on you, I took all your rights away." She continues.
"...You have literally no reason to help me at all. You gain nothing. I'm imperfect. You should have run."
'It's the right thing to do.'
'Because I care about you, idiot.'
'Because I help everyone around me.'
'I won't live a life of regrets.'
'You think I'd leave you to die?'
'I won't just stand there and watch.'
'Because I'm a good person.'
Something dramatic and heartfelt. This is it. My time to shine.
My tongue folds in the proper position to flow, to allow me to speak. My lips open. Everything is ready.
Yet.
…Nothing comes out.
Why?
Why the hell can't I say anything?
An existence known as 'Kaito', yet at the same time, ceases to be known as 'Kaito', leans into my ear. He is both the real and fake, yet cannot be both at the same time. He is a conflicting existence, yet persists in existing, because in reality, he is the real 'Kaito'.
His words flow out like a river of blood. His fingers curl around my skull like an anaconda squeezing the life out of its prey.
He finally whispers, the cold winds of death brushing against my ear.
"I T ' S B E C A U S E Y O U ' R E S C U M."
____________________________________________________________________________
From the moment she was born, it had been a race.
"Perfection is key," they told her, again and again. It was as if she were surrounded by machines, each one endlessly echoing the same mantra. If she wasn't perfect, then she might as well be dead.
That was what the girl was told.
The age-old tale of unrealistic expectations forced upon the young.
To these people, "Humans cannot be perfect" wasn't a truth. It was an excuse. One they had long since discarded, either out of arrogance or ignorance. Perhaps it was simply stubbornness. Whatever the case, it was damaging.
This was the life of a girl born to two powerful parents. Her presence was constantly eclipsed by her older sibling's shadow, but she was their daughter all the same.
At the age of eight, she was exposed to this mindset for the first time, formally, by her father.
It had been a long day of classes. She was tired of a particular subject.
Her tutor was a man of great renown. Kings had competed for his guidance, and yet, through complex negotiations and lofty promises, he had been secured for this household.
The girl's mind, fatigued and restless, began to wander. Eventually, she made a single mistake on a quiet test. Just one question wrong. She hadn't failed—not even close. A completely normal result for a child her age.
Mistakes are natural, especially for children. Even fully-grown adults make them constantly. Children, unburdened by the responsibilities of age, live in a state of playful freedom. The most trouble they typically face is being scolded by a parent, or missing a treat.
That innocence is what separates them from adults. A child is allowed to err. An adult must carry the weight of failure.
But this truth did not apply to her.
After the test, as always, the tutor reported back to her father. It was his duty, nothing more. He didn't do it out of spite. In fact, he didn't see the mistake as anything serious. On the contrary, he was impressed. The question was a difficult one, and this girl had come closer than any other student to answering it correctly.
He had told her so, smiling gently.
"You came really close," he said. "Next time, I'll teach you how to get it right. Then you'll get an even better score—I promise!"
It had made her smile. She'd been briefly disappointed when she saw the mistake, but her mood had lifted at his encouragement.
But when the tutor presented the test to her father, everything changed.
Typically, during these routines, the man would barely glance at the paper. Her grades were always exceptional. Not because he expected them to be, but because he simply did not care. Or so it seemed.
"No, that's disrespectful," the tutor told himself. "I must not assume such things of my lord."
But today was different.
"This daughter of mine," the father said coldly, "is she daft?"
"Oh no, my lord," the tutor replied quickly, "she actually came very close to answering it correctly. In fact, you should be quite—"
"Silence. 'Close' is not enough. I've already been lenient with her grades. And this is the result I get? What does she take me for?"
"She will be disciplined. Retrieve her. Now."
The tutor bowed deeply, face pale. He left the room with a far different expression than the one he had entered with.
So the father is stricter than I realized, the tutor thought. Perhaps… he's only now beginning to care for her. That must be it.
He arrived at the girl's room. Knocked. Entered.
His expression grew even heavier when he saw her.
She was leaning against the window, stroking a broken doll, her favorite toy. She had plenty of toys, but this one was special. Worn, chipped, stitched clumsily. She loved it more than the others.
She liked to play outside, but was rarely allowed. She wasn't permitted to leave the castle grounds. Her siblings would sometimes include her in their games, but only as a side-piece. A tag-along. As soon as their friends arrived, she was left behind.
She glanced out the window, watching some boys toss a ball back and forth in the courtyard.
Children are more social than adults. Their underdeveloped prefrontal cortices allow for unfiltered bonding. They do not concern themselves with status, gender, or race. A child simply sees another child. A potential friend. A playmate. That is why childhood friendships often last for years; there's a purity to them, a simplicity.
Play is like breathing for children. Without it, they can slip into profound boredom. Sometimes, even self-harm.
The girl hadn't reached that point. Not yet. But she teetered on the edge.
Her room was filled with toys and expensive furniture. Dolls, plush animals, puzzles—most of them untouched. None of them held her attention. They were dumped there without thought. Gifts from people who didn't ask what she liked, only assumed.
So they piled up. Dusty. Forgotten.
A reflection of their owner.
The teacher rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, gathering the strength to relay the message. After a few moments, he finally spoke.
"Your father wishes to see you."
The words hit the girl like a sudden wave, shock, disbelief, then something else. Her eyes widened. At first, he mistook it for fear.
But no. It wasn't fear.
It was happiness.
A broken toy, long forgotten on the shelf, had suddenly been picked up again—acknowledged, remembered. The discarded daughter was being seen.
"Really?" she asked, her previous mood vanishing like mist under sunlight.
Ah, that was right.
This was the first time.
The first time her father had ever summoned her directly. Maybe it had happened long ago, before the teacher's tenure began, but in the five years he had served here, he had never once heard such a thing.
And judging by her reaction…
She jumped down from the window ledge, nearly bouncing where she stood. There was a light in her that the teacher had never seen before, like an ember reignited into flame.
And even he, unconsciously, found himself warmed by it. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
He took her hand gently.
"Let's go. Your father is waiting."
It felt as though something long broken was starting to mend. A splintered family finally piecing itself back together.
As they walked through the corridor, even the cold stone walls seemed to carry more warmth. Maids who typically passed in silence paused for a moment, drawn to the glow of the girl's smile.
But.
Yes, that inevitable word.
But.
That word that severs joy and invites dread. That unpredictable blade that can both doom and redeem in the same breath. A word we use to transition when we wish we didn't have to.
Unfortunately, the word 'but' must be used in this situation. Reality will never conform to us.
But the teacher remembered why he was there.
The large black doors loomed ahead, laced with gold. Grand. Impenetrable. Unforgiving.
A reminder.
This was not a reunion. This was not a call for affection. It was for discipline.
For a single mistake.
A scolding.
Her father, who had left her, forgotten her, who had treated her like a meaningless stain on the wall, was offering her attention at last.
And it would be a punishment.
The teacher looked down at her.
The flame in her eyes would be extinguished soon.
No… perhaps he was reading too deeply into things. It was just a mistake, just one incorrect answer. The scolding would pass. The girl would learn and grow.
Still… he wanted to turn back. To protect this fragile thread of joy they had somehow stumbled into. But that road ended at the doorway of reality.
Silently cursing himself, he opened the door and gently led the girl inside.
The room reeked of cold authority. That same suffocating air he hated so much.
"My lord," he said, bowing low, then stepping out without meeting the man's eyes.
He didn't want to leave. Every ounce of him ached to stay, to shield her.
But he could not.
All he could do now was wait and listen. This was all he could offer ultimately.
Leaning against the door, he pressed his ear to the surface. The voices inside were muffled, just murmurs. The door was too thick to hear any coherent speech.
Then, suddenly—
Crash!
Glass shattered. Objects tumbled, clattering against the stone floor.
The teacher's heart froze. His fists clenched against the door, but it had been locked from the inside.
He banged lightly, helplessly.
What could he even do if it opened? Interfere? He'd be executed. Would he risk his own life for this child?
The question tore at his soul—until he heard it.
A single phrase, clear as a bell, slicing through the murmurs like a blade.
"If you cannot be perfect, why must I attend to you!"
The words were venom. They pierced his chest like daggers.
Still, he could do nothing.
An agonizing minute passed before the door creaked open.
The girl stood in the threshold.
Her father remained seated in the shadowed room behind her.
"Escort her back to her room," the man said. "You have done enough."
"Y-Yes… my lord…"
The doors shut again, sealing the room and everything good behind them.
The corridor held its breath. Some stopped, attempting to gaze into the situation. To momentarily stop their work. The world, for a moment, stood still.
So did she.
Her hair was disheveled. She clutched her cheek, one eye swollen shut.
And a disgusting black mark on her cheek had tainted her skin.
It was a black mark that spoke to all those around it. A filthy reminder of what had been done to her.
A bruise.
The teacher stared, speechless, heart caught in his throat. He tried to say something, anything. To comfort. To ease the pain.
Then—
"Daddy…"
A single tear slid down her face, trailing over the bruise, as if trying to wash it away. Then another. And another.
Her mouth shivered.
And she cried.
Not from pain.
Not from shame.
She cried from joy.
"Daddy spoke to me… he s-spoke to me…"
Those words broke him.
She wasn't focused on the strike, or the injury, or the cruelty. She was overwhelmed by the fact her father had seen her. Not with warmth. Not with love.
But with attention.
It was enough for her.
Next time, she believed, it'll be a hug. Not a slap.
The hours she had spent watching through the window, day after day, had paid off.
The ghost had been seen.
And so, she wept.
Not for what was done to her, but because, for the first time in years, she existed.
If I do better, she thought. If I try harder, Daddy will love me.
This was the seed now planted in her heart.
"I want someone to look at me."
Sometime after, the teacher vanished. Some said he left out of heartbreak. Others whispered he had family troubles. Some believed he had been executed.
No one ever saw him again.
And the girl kept growing, chasing that single, impossible dream:
To be wanted.
To be loved.
And for that, she must be perfect.