After he spent some time with Woodrow to prepare the defences and plan the plantfolks’ training, Tanuki climbed the hill and descended to Edgar’s field to check up on him. He opened the door slowly though it creaked nonetheless, but Edgar did not seem disturbed. He slept peacefully in his bed, though in a position Tanuki deemed rather uncomfortable. He fell asleep while sitting, but his head fell to his left and it leaned against the wall. Despite how much he wanted to help Edgar by putting a pillow under his head to save him from an aching neck in the morning, he feared it might wake him up, so it took him some time to gather the courage to do it.

Years of painting gave him the necessary sleight of hand to do things sneakily. Even he was a bit surprised by how smoothly he moved Edgar’s sleeping body, he did not produce as much as a groan in response to his touch. Perhaps this was something he should have explored further, but at that moment, he was just happy to have helped without causing any complications.

As he turned to leave, the NPC slot machine blocked his way. He had almost forgotten about it, having failed so many times before to summon a new helper.

“Hmph,” he stepped aside to leave the room but something made him stay.

He never enjoyed the thought of gambling. When he was little, he played blackjack with a few children in elementary school, using candies instead of cash. He played two rounds before losing all he had. All he was left with was an empty stomach and a few tears in his eyes.

That day, he learnt the true nature of gambling. Sometimes you win, but most times you lose, and that NPC slot machine was no different.

Still, he could not help it.

“Just one try,” he thought, then quietly pulled the lever to the machine. Fortunately for him, it was quiet enough not to disturb Edgar. This positive attribute quickly spiralled into something negative as he realised that meant he could play the machine without bothering the sleeping man, thus giving him no reason not to continue after the first pull.

And thus, a few attempts turned into many.

The grandfather’s clock was stuck at noon. The minute arm tried moving every few seconds, but then immediately snapped back into place. It was useless, and even if one might argue for its decorative beauty, there was not much to show. If it had any elements meant to enhance its appearance, they were taken off by the previous owner before he threw it into the trash. The wood smelled and when the temperature changed, it made awful snaps that scared little Edgar on dark nights.

From a six-year-old’s perspective, it was the tallest thing in the entire world, so it made sense why he would remember it so vividly. Not many things remained from the childhood home, only the damp grey walls.

“My boy,” an old voice called out from upstairs, “Come here!”

Edgar did not spend much time looking around, only staring out the small window as he passed for the stairs. Outside was a field of wheat as wide as the eye could see. It pained him to see so much weed growing in patches, drowning out the yellow with green at certain parts, but he forgave himself, for a young boy could not keep it all tidy on his own.

The stairs bore broken boards. Navigating them was not just hard but a necessity, a drop downstairs and he would break his ankle, then there would be no one to get him out. When his mind was still developing, he thought it was a fun game, hopping about and all. Even though his body was the same, his mind developed since, and he saw the true danger of things.

“I’m coming, Mom!” he shouted after the last step and turned into the only room upstairs.

There was a single window lighting up the room. Outside, the sky was white as snow. Looking at it too long left blind spots in his eyes. In the light, he could see the large bed occupying the other end of the room clearly. Most of it was covered by a tall old blanket, but at the end of it, on a thin pillow rested a balding head, full of wrinkles and grey spots. Had she not had the same nose as Edgar, her head would have looked no different from an old beehive stuck in some spiderweb.

Her windpipe whistled with every breath. Her chest raised a little beneath the blanket, but only so much. She must have been incredibly thin. Edgar never knew. She would not let him bathe her. This made the bed have a certain indescribable smell that, unfortunately, he got all too used to.

“Mother?” he spoke quietly, as though he would not want to disturb her, were she sleeping.

It took her a second, but she answered.

“Bring the bucket.”

Those words were enough to send a chill down his spine. He knew what that meant and what he would need to carry back down those stairs, for she would scream had he poured it out the window. His stomach turned from the thought, but he had no other choice.

“Yes, Mother,” he nodded gently and turned for the door.

“Wait!”

He stopped to look back at her. It was clear she wanted to say something long by the way she took such a deep breath to muster her strength.

“Edgar. You’re a good boy. You’re not like your father.”

“Thank you,” he wanted to bow and leave, but her mother continued.

“He was weak. Not in body, but in mind. He was fickle. When disagreed with, he would never hold his own. He had no opinion of his own, always following the others instead… and now look where he is!”

She coughed, a thick yellow string escaped her throat, and her voice became much clearer. It finally bore emotions, and Edgar could hear her anger and sorrow.

“Our bloodline is one of farmers. We tend the field like our grandfathers have. We must sow. While others hone metal or brew mead, we work the noblest work there is. Don’t let them tell you otherwise! If they berate you, wear their insults as a crown! There is nothing, and I mean it boy, nothing as beautiful as producing food.”

Tears formed below the wrinkles.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“Your father… he was a good man. His hand was made of gold, his wheat was beautiful! But look how he bent to the will of the village’s men! I begged him, I brought you to him when you were just a little baby! But his pride got the better of him, he could not bear his manhood be called to question. Oh, boy…”

Edgar knew she would not stop crying anytime soon and he would have remained by her side, but there was a bucket to be brought. He turned the corner with a heavy heart and walked down the stairs.

On his way down, he looked up at the wall. Though he never saw it, it remained tied up so long as decoration, that the outline of the shape of the sword remained brightly on the wall behind. He would sometimes dream about his father returning and him holding it, swinging it around, feeling the weight of it as he cut at wheat.

Those were just dreams and he knew well he would never hold that sword, nor see his father for that matter. But there was a bucket to be seen, and thus, he walked downstairs.

“Where did I put that thing?” he thought while looking around.

Their house was a small one. There was a kitchen downstairs and a small place below the stairs. He never went to look at it, as from a young age, he believed that was where monsters lived. With an adult mind, he still needed some courage to peek inside, but there was nothing besides some old junk and some families of mice.

“I might have left it by the door,” he thought and would have gone for the entrance, had he not heard it.

A knock.

For a moment, he thought it was his mother and he called out to her upstairs. No answer came.

Then it knocked again.

The sound appeared to have come from the door. It was strange since they were not ones to get any visitors. Since the villagers went to war, it became a ghost town and only the two of them remained.

What creeped him out even more was when he realised, the road to their farm had been long destroyed, as his mother instructed him to plant it with wheat, so enemy soldiers would not find the way to their house.

Effectively, they were off the radar. To stumble upon their house, one had to be incredibly lucky, or they extremely unlucky.

There was another knock.

If he was still a child, he would have gone to open the door without any second thoughts. God knows what would have happened to him and his mother.

He took a rusty knife from the cupboard, one that would fit his small hands, and slowly stepped to the door. He grabbed the handle and spoke.

“Who is it?”

It remained silent outside. He opened the lock and peeked outside.

Besides the white sky and golden wheat, there was nothing to be seen. He looked around a few more times, then turned back into the house. Only then, someone was behind him.

He nearly screamed, but since the shape was familiar, his fear quickly mixed with confusion. For in front of him, there stood the Professor.

“Good day, Mister Edgar.”

He was used to seeing his limbs and head tremble uncomfortably, but there was none of that. The professor stayed still, almost like a statue.

It took a moment for Edgar to gather his thoughts. Quickly, he fixed his mistake and raised the knife, putting it between the two of them.

“What are you doing here?” he called out, only now realising how unthreatening his child voice was.

The Professor chuckled a little. He found it somewhat adorable, despite knowing well the old man behind those words.

He grabbed one of the rickety kitchen chairs and pointed at it with his other hand.

“May I sit down?”

Edgar did not want to let him, but he knew there was not much else he could do. Even if the Professor seemingly had no weapons and he was within stabbing range of his knife, Edgar knew the mysterious man possessed much more power than his appearance would let on.

The Professor sat down and placed both hands in his lap. Edgar remained standing, the knife vigilant in his hands.

“Answer me,” he reminded the Professor.

The bird-masked figure observed the kitchen. There was not much to be seen besides rotting cupboards and a few intact plates. Edgar expected he would mention it, perhaps even mock him, but the Professor did none of that.

“I’m here to observe my mistake,” he finally answered, looking again at Edgar, “For even a man like I can be victim to such.”

“What mistake? Does Tanuki know you’re here?”

“Your Liege, as you like to call him? No. I do not have the power to contact him directly, not after all the power I used to blow up Kukusi and his circus. Mind you, I am no monster. What he got was well deserved. The pig was… depraved. He collected the souls of the dead and tortured them for his amusement.”

He reached into his pocket for what appeared to be a necklace. Attached to it was a round glass, black and white liquid sealed within. He held it up for Edgar to see.

“There are two states every living creature is meant to experience. Life and death. From life, there is death. From death, there is life.”

As he moved the glass, the two liquids moved around, never mixing.

“These states are pure and anything else is a paradox. There should not be any creature both alive and dead, nor any that is neither. Such things are an affront to all natural things. What Kukusi did with those warriors was nothing short of that. They were not brought back to life, only part of their soul, making them true undead. Once again, I must emphasize, what you might know as undead, zombies and husks, they are not true undead. True undead has part of their soul still attached to the void when it's ripped back into existence.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Edgar spoke hesitantly.

The Professor grabbed the glass and tightly clenched his fist. When he let go, the liquids within seemingly mixed and a grey, unpure mass remained within.

He leaned forward, and his tone turned serious.

“When that dark essence exploded, it freed the undead souls and returned them into the void. Thus, nature was reestablished, and the paradox was erased. Now, Mister Edgar, do you remember my words from that night?”

“N-Not really.”

“That explains it. Had you remembered, you would have already called me out on my lie. Indeed, when I spoke to Kukusi that night, I spoke about how the explosion from the dark essence would turn living creatures into undead. I must admit, it might have given you the wrong impression of me. It was meant to be an insult and a threat, not only to Kukusi but to all spectators who exploit the undead. They view that unnatural state as one above pure existence. They turn comrades of theirs into mindless, soul-broken puppets for more effective use. It does improve the pain tolerance and poison resistance of the body, but in turn, it steals all the life from it, slowly decomposing the user. Now, let me make a guess and say, you’ve been experiencing things strangely since last night. Am I correct?”

Edgar remained silent. The Professor sighed.

“Well. I am so sorry. I was meant to protect you and your comrades that night, but I never considered Kukusi would spend the last of his life force not defending himself, but disrupting my mana-flow, effectively nullifying my abilities. The barrier I raised around you could not withstand the explosion and it seems even though it could not kill, if one of you somehow still died while it was in effect, the dark essence would mix with their life energy and create an undead out of them.”

“Is that what you’re implying?” Edgar raised his voice, “That I died that night? How, because I hit my head? Well, guess what! Tanuki fed me a healing potion! I know, he told me! So, thank you for scaring the shit out of me in my dream, but I would like to wake up and return to my work, so goodbye!”

Edgar was out of breath. He shouted so loud that his mother heard and called down from upstairs.

The Professor considered speaking, but seeing the anger in young Edgar’s eyes, he knew his words would fall on deaf ears. He shook his head and stood, grabbing his cane for support as he walked for the door.

“I will be here,” he added in passing, “The next time you return. By then, I hope you’ll hear me out.”

The Professor continued his walk towards the cornfield. Edgar did not wait to see him disappear, rather he slammed the door after he left.

He found himself huffing in rage, hands trembling. From the very first moment they met, he was suspicious of the Professor. A powerful schemer, hiding behind the mask of an old, weak man. He would not trust him, but the words he spoke infested his mind with dark thoughts.

What if he was right? What if he did die that night and the explosion of the dark essence caused his soul to mix in with the rest, turning him into an undead?

“That cannot be,” he calmed himself, “I drank the healing potion. It saved me. I may be a bit dizzy, but I’m still alive. There is nothing wrong with me. I’m fine.”

His eyes closed as he relaxed. His mind slipped away and the world around him slipped. The dream vision came to an end as he woke up.