Wilma was forced to a halt since she was still holding onto Ackster’s arm as he stopped dead in his tracks at the revelation that he was trapped in the ant nest for two months. It was a lot longer than he thought, which was harrowing in itself. But it was also two months spent doing nothing of use, two months of his already too-short deadline to stop The Hero wasted.

Ackster hadn’t even rested during those two months, at least not properly or in a way that would springboard him to greater heights. He was mentally drained beyond exhaustion after his time in the ant nest, and he would need to recover before he could continue breaking himself down.

If Ackster didn’t let himself rest a little, his already fragile mental state would break down.

That was how he had felt before Wilma’s reveal. And now that he knew how much time he had wasted, Ackster wanted the world to stop, to take a break. He wanted to put down this nightmarish book and return to his peaceful, painless life on Earth.

Would all this suffering he had to endure just to increase his odds of living past ten years be worth it? Would pushing himself to hell and back repeatedly give him the life he wanted? Wouldn’t it just be better to take the remaining years and spend them peacefully in some peaceful, secluded, resort-like place?

No more.

No more suffering.

No more lost limbs.

No more almost dying.

No more forcing himself to bear the pain of broken bones.

No more digging at and cutting away his own flesh with rusty knives, his nails, or blunt stones.

No more.

***

Wilma looked at Ackster. At first, she thought he was simply stunned at having been down there for so long. But as his eyes glazed over, she realized that was only the beginning. That realization had ignited a fire of suppressed negative emotions, worries, fears, and pains, all of which sprung out like a burst dam due to that trigger.

‘Shit.’

Wilma cursed. She looked at Ackster with her innate skill, Eyes of the Golden Scales.

Her skill could be a little fuzzy or vague sometimes. But not this time, not when it came to assessing Ackster’s value and the potential benefits she could gain in exchange for offering what was necessary.

Wilma looked at the icon that appeared above Ackster’s head. The golden scales were the same as when she looked at Ackster as soon as he flew up out of the hole. But the contents of the two pans had changed.

On one side, the one with Ackster’s potential and what Wilma could gain if she fulfilled the contents of the other scale, the same cloud of a plethora of various colors as before hovered right on top of the pan. The cloud’s radiance had changed, and it had lost several hues of color. But it had also gained other shades and a sliver of something Wilma couldn’t quite make out.

Clouds were usually symbols of change and imprecision. So, while Wilma couldn’t guarantee what she could expect in exchange for balancing the scales, she knew it was good, thanks to the color and light.

But Wilma wasn’t worried about that side of the scales.

The other side of the scale, the one where symbols of what she had to give to get the benefits from the first side, was under a dark grey thundercloud. This time, she could tell that the clouds and the bad weather were obscuring what she needed to do. They were also an omen of disaster as they were destabilizing the scales, which was a sign of the chaos broiling within Ackster.

Wilma wasn’t the best at putting her skill’s effects into words, but she could tell that Ackster was in some deep shit, and there was nothing she could do to bring him out of it. It was up to him to save himself.

“Damn.”

Wilma cursed with a frown. She hadn’t expected her stress-induced rambling to trigger something like that. She tried not to blame herself since she knew it would only have been a matter of time before Ackster broke down under whatever weighed on his mind. If anything, since it was going to happen, it was a good thing it happened when she was with him.

Wilma grabbed Ackster again.

Although he wasn’t in a good state, he definitely couldn’t stay where they were. So, she grabbed his arm again, and this time, she didn’t allow him to stand still. Even if he had been alert and not in a brain fog as thick as frozen syrup, Ackster wouldn’t have been a match for Wilma.

Wilma basically carried Ackster over to her ride, parked not far away, and dumped him in the basket of her hot air balloon.

“Dean. I’m not sure you can hear me right now, but I need you to listen to me. You’re going through something horrible now. I don’t know what you’re feeling, and I won’t pretend I do.”

Wilma quickly got the balloon’s magic enchantments up and running with her mana and gradually got them into the air. She didn’t know how much time they had, but she could guess it wasn’t much, considering the beacon Ackster was, so she prioritized departure.

When they were high enough in the air, and she could see their pursuers giving up, Wilma turned to Ackster and continued.

“But I am here for you. However, I can’t help you. I can only support you as you try to find yourself as you escape this mental darkness. And believe me, Dean. I know you can do it. I’ll be right here, right next to you, until you do. Do not feel any pressure or that you must power through. Take your time, lay down, rest, close your eyes, do whatever you need to do.”

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With those words, Wilma helped Ackster sit down and lean against the side of the basket. He was still unresponsive and showed no signs of having heard her.

But the lightning hidden in the depths of the thunderclouds on the give-side of the golden scales had calmed down just enough for Wilma to notice.

“Now then….”

Wilma stood up and looked around while grabbing the controls of the hot air balloon.

“Where to…?”

She had initially planned to go and ask the higher-ups in the Guild for a trainer who could help Ackster take the steps he needed to reach S-rank and beyond. But that would have to be put on ice until Ackster overcomes this struggle.

“South.”

Wilma whipped her head around at Ackster’s voice. Just a moment ago, he had looked almost comatose. But he had answered her question.

However, when she looked, his eyes were still empty and glazed over. It was like he was trapped within his own mind. But he had clearly spoken.

Wilma didn’t know how he had spoken, but he had, and he had answered her question.

“South it is.”

Whatever it was that Ackster wanted, he obviously wanted it strongly enough to pierce through the mental veil blocking him from the outside world.

Ackster, ever since he had left Degrest, had been moving with the Sea God Temple as his goalpost. He had gotten a little side-tracked now and then. But as soon as he had escaped his initial encounter with The Hero, the Sea God Temple, and the Manual within had been at the forefront of what he had to do. Every step he had taken had been taken with that objective in mind.

When given the opportunity to express that wish, his body had given an automatic response.

Ackster didn’t know what was going on. His thoughts were doughy and sluggish. All around him was a thick, grey mist obscuring everything but the drab and dull sun-less sky. And he stood on muddy soil that seemed to stretch on endlessly in every direction.

The mud was cool, soft, and smooth.

Ackster couldn’t think of much, not even why he was in this deserted hellscape. But he could realize, even without doing anything, that lying down on the mud and just relaxing, letting the tension seep out of his muscles and bones, would be nice.

But he looked down.

His feet were sinking into the mud. It was slow, but it didn’t seem like it was going to end anytime soon. He would just continue sinking. Sinking. Sinking. Until ‘he’ stopped being a thing.

Ackster didn’t know where he was, how he had gotten there, or how to get somewhere else. But if he didn’t keep moving, he would drown, suffocate, buried in mud. He couldn’t even begin thinking about anything else, or at all.

Yet, even without thinking, Ackster knew he had to move. So, that’s what he did.

As the mud started seeping up in between his toes, Ackster raised his right foot before putting it down in front of him. His muddy footprint quickly faded. Then, with a sigh, he raised his left foot. He put it down in front of him.

Right foot. Left foot. One in front of the other.

He walked mindlessly, only occasionally noticing that there was a familiar scent nearby. But it disappeared too quickly for it to stir more than one thought, which vanished just as fast as the smell itself.

Ackster’s legs kept moving, and he had no idea how much time passed.

But it wasn’t like in the dark depths of the ant nest. Down there, Ackster had been aware of time passing. But now, he had no idea or recognition of anything happening. His mind was completely blank.

Gradually, however, he could feel his legs grow tired from constantly fighting against the mud, trying to suck them down under. And the desire to rest grew within Ackster’s heart again. The only thing that kept it from spiraling out of control and making him throw himself to the ground was the keen, instinctual awareness that there wouldn’t be any going back from that.

He could barely stop for what had to be only a few minutes to let his legs rest before they started sinking so deep that it was too much of a struggle pulling them out for the break to have been worth it.

His only option was to continue walking or die a slow, agonizing death. But the more he walked, the more tired he got, and the emptier of a husk he felt, the more Ackster started thinking that maybe dying wouldn’t be so bad.

Compared to this eternal wandering in muddy marshes, a death of suffocation would be short. It would be more painful. But it would be that much shorter. A rational mind could have easily deduced that short-term but intense suffering would be easier to endure than infinitely escalating exhaustion and mental torment.

Fortunately, Ackster wasn’t rational.

He didn’t know why or how, but he kept walking while doing his best to ignore his suicidal impulses. The occasional sense of familiarity that brushed against him also helped stave off his desire for rest.

Even if he wanted to, even if he craved a break, Ackster didn’t indulge. He didn’t really think about it either. His mind was still blank.

Yet, he had somehow mustered up the resolve to continue walking.

So that’s what he did.

Even when time didn’t pass, Ackster’s legs rose and fell like the ocean waves. Right foot up and down. Left foot up and down.

Even when his surroundings didn’t change, the mist clung to the edge of his vision, the mud clung to his feet, and the muted sky clung to his hair Ackster walked.

Even when he didn’t have an inkling of an idea whether he was walking straight in the right direction or in circles, Ackster’s body was unstoppable like a coursing river. His steps were like tiny droplets of water, slowly and gradually wearing down even the toughest rock. And together, they formed a powerful stream.

But what Ackster was up against wasn’t a rock. It wasn’t ground or anything that ordinary running water could just break down and make a path through. It wasn’t something mere persistence could handle.

Ackster was fighting a battle against the demons of his own mind. And it was impossible to determine who would emerge victorious, Ackster or Ackster’s fears plaguing his mind with curses.

Persistence and a neverending walk would only do so much to free him of the colorless hellscape keeping him trapped.

Continuing without changing anything might even be worsening his condition since it wore on him mentally and on his soul.

If nothing happened or if Ackster didn’t do anything, he might be trapped in an endless hell of walking of his own making for the rest of time or until he collapses and dies.

But Ackster wasn’t in a position to do anything. His mind was broken, an empty husk of what had once been the source of his thoughts, will, and drive.

However, he also wasn’t in a position to receive outside help. Any intrusions to his mind would only risk worsening his condition. And that was if anyone was capable of breaching the fog clouding his mind and reaching him.

It was something he had to do on his own but was impossible for him to do on his own.

It was paradoxical, infuriating, and hopelessly tragic.

Without even nursing the faintest hope, Ackster walked. He put one foot in front of the other, leaving behind a quickly fading series of footprints leading through a desolate land of naught but grey mud, grey fog, and grey skies.

He had long since stopped feeling anything. Even he was becoming grey.