At a pace nearing the limit in Sliding, I land on the roof of one of the government buildings opposite the BKDW across the square and glance back. The sea of people below is astonishing.
In my past life, due to my profession, I'd seen many demonstrations, protests, and funeral processions, but what unfolded before my eyes today in Wilflaes was unlike anything I'd seen before. The difference wasn't in the absence of banners, slogans, stands, or other signs of organization, nor was it the unusual silence for such a large gathering. The main difference was the mood it radiated. The feeling. It's challenging to put into words — it must be seen, experienced, felt.
The people in the square felt like a single entity, akin to a rhythmically swaying sea: calm, but containing a latent power that could unleash a tsunami dwarfing many natural disasters. The sight was captivating, riveting, hypnotic. This sensation was intensified by the unique perception of the world within the Break, where everything seems surreal, as if drawn.
I peered downward for about a minute and a half and likely would have continued longer if "Word's" reminder about the promise I'd made hadn't pricked my right hand.
"Yes, yes, I remember," I mentally brushed off the sword. After one more glance below, I entered Sliding again, rapidly distancing myself from the city's central square.
Despite my significant life experience, I'm confident that if I weren't in a state of projection, I'd be shaking with adrenaline from my conversation with the raigs and witnessing Crixus's antics. But being a Break Knight has its perks, and even after all the morning's commotion, my mind remains relatively clear, unclouded by conflicting emotions.
After traveling a few blocks, I exit Sliding, slowing my pace. On one hand, I need to hurry, but on the other, barging into a monastic cloister without at least a basic idea of how I'll engage with the Maker isn't wise. Tu Chong is one of those individuals you'd be foolish to meet unprepared, especially if you harbor secrets you'd rather not divulge. Yet, taking too much time for thought is also unwise. In this situation, every moment could prove crucial.
Maya Grim — it appears this girl has become a sort of linchpin. She's the kind that can trigger an avalanche of irreversible changes, pushing society towards bloody chaos, or conversely, serving as the bedrock for an even more solid foundation than before. The worst part is, I have absolutely no idea how she might behave or what she's doing right now. Her duel at the university, the calmness with which she impaled a living person, clearly shows that she's capable of entirely unpredictable actions. The workings of this young maiden's mind remain a mystery to me, and all the predictions flashing in my mind resemble what's colloquially referred to as "writing on water with a pitchfork."[1]
The situation is further complicated by the fact that Maya is only one of the factors. She's undoubtedly important, but there's also Tu Chong, the duke, clans, clerics, authorities — in general, many others, including forces completely unknown to me. I'm certain anyone who has some influence, or even a hint of it, will attempt to seize their golden opportunity[2] in the murky waters stirred up by Eshin. It's always this way: a tragedy for some, an opportunity for others.
I circled the House on the Hill, the Duke's castle, in a wide arc. Running straight through would've been quicker, but I chose to take a detour, avoiding even the protected park area that's off-limits to ordinary citizens. It wasn't that I genuinely feared something like a tracking system. Instead, I trusted my intuition, which nudged me towards this roundabout route.
The monastery, where I planned to meet the curator of the Break Knights, was ingeniously situated on a hill in such a way that it was only visible when you were practically at the gate. The ancient stonework seemed purposefully concealed beneath a dense blanket of winding vines. Behind this low wall, oriental-style buildings, unusual for the rest of the city, rose under the broad crowns of age-old elms. The beauty here was apparent even at the entrance, and the local architecture, closely intertwined with the park ensemble, created a unique, leisurely, soothing mood. The vast metropolis just a few hundred steps down the hill seemed distant and somewhat illusory — as if only these walls and the encircling vines were real.
Standing before the low arch of the monastery's gate, you can't help but feel that on this side is the world you know, but beyond it lies something different. I'm certain every visitor experiences this sense of "otherness" here.
For a moment, I pondered whether I should exit the Break and knock on the gate physically, as a sign of courtesy. However, I dismissed the idea: Tu Chong would surely notice me due to his gift, and I was uncertain whether the ordinary monks in the monastery should be made aware of my visit.
I didn't walk through the gate, as the sensations associated with passing through solid objects in the Break are quite unpleasant. Instead, I simply hopped over the not-so-high wall.
Upon leaping over, I nearly landed on top of a young monk in an orange robe. Plump, already balding - despite being barely in his twenties - the young man was trimming bushes near the gate with shears. I nearly fell onto his head — I managed to spring off the edge of the wall with my fingers, landing just a step away from him. The young monk evidently sensed something, set down the shears, and looked around. His aura shone much brighter than ordinary people's — not at Tu Chong's level, of course, but not as faint as weaker sensums. As far as I'd come to understand this matter, this acolyte's potential was roughly at the level of a Seer.
Even during my first visit to this monastery, I noticed that almost all the monks I encountered here clearly bore the mark of giftedness. Perhaps the secluded nature of this monastery, its relative obscurity, and proximity to the Castle are because sensums who choose to walk the path of Service receive their initial training here. My intuition seemed to back up this assumption.
Within the monastery, life continued in its usual, measured routine — as if there were no disturbing news from the city, as if the entire world hadn't frozen, its gaze fixated on Wilflaes. With calm and even somewhat peaceful expressions, the monks carried out their daily tasks, read ancient-looking books and scrolls, or meditated. Yet, beneath all this outward tranquility, there was a sense of something amiss, a slight hint of pretense.
Since the monastery's grounds were quite small, I managed to circumnavigate them in five minutes without even resorting to Sliding. I spotted twenty-four monks during this time but found no trace of Tu Chong — neither his person nor the traces of his mighty aura, which I could detect even through half-meter-thick stone walls. However, I did notice at least three more monks with strength equal to a Seer, besides the one I met at the gate, which was too significant to be mere coincidence. Thus, my intuition likely wasn't mistaken.
The only place I hadn't visited on my tour was the meditation platform, where I had spoken with the abbot during my first visit. Having failed to find Tu Chong in the cells, halls, garden, or training field, I decided to head there. I walked at a leisurely pace, giving a wide berth to monks with particularly strong auras. As I passed under the shadows of the towering elms, I contemplated whether I should materialize and ask the monks directly, "Where on earth is your abbot?" While this would be the fastest way to locate him, it wasn't guaranteed they'd know. I was beginning to suspect that the Maker was probably at the Castle: given his role as the curator of the Knights from the clergy and his absence from the monastery, it was likely he was meeting with the duke. And I had no doubt that the entire House on the Hill was in turmoil due to the rat attack.
Ascending the narrow stairs, I reached the familiar stone platform, the one that offered the breathtaking view of the bay I'd admired during my last visit. I reached the end of the stairs and stopped dead in my tracks.
On the meditation circle sat a girl, knees tucked under her chin, arms encircling her legs. She wore light-colored trousers, worn-out sneakers, and a loose blouse. Taking a deep breath, I sat across from her and exited the Break.
Ra-a-a-a-i-i-i-ig!!!
Of course, she not only immediately noticed me, but also heard the roar as I transitioned back into reality.
Yet, she didn't so much as blink, continuing to sit with her eyes wide open, not moving or showing any sign of surprise. Her gaze was filled with such pain and bitterness that you didn't need to be a sensum to feel the profound devastation that had engulfed her.
Had the real Izao been in my place, he would have rushed to question her, perhaps even console her. But I acted differently. I mirrored her posture, sitting and hugging my knees, remaining motionless. It would have been appropriate to lift my visor, but it seems I'm too cynical and paranoid to reveal myself even in such circumstances. So, I just sat there in silence. One minute, five minutes, ten...
Even when, half an hour later, a grey-haired monk silently appeared and placed a tea set between us, I didn't move. He set it down, bowed silently, and left, leaving us sitting like stone statues.
The fragrant steam from the teapot gently rose in the fresh morning air, forming an ethereal mist. My throat had been dry for quite some time, but I restrained myself from reaching for the bowls left by the monk. Behind my visor, I gazed into the lost, once incredibly beautiful but now utterly vacant eyes, hoping to glimpse even a flicker of life within them.
My legs had gone numb and my fingers were beginning to cramp when the girl opposite me swayed and silently collapsed to one side. I barely had time to stretch out my hand and catch her head before it struck the rock. I carefully arranged the unconscious Maya, positioning her head on my lap. I then removed the glove from my left hand, and as I monotonously stroked her hair, I began to hum the only lullaby known to Izao.
My fingers brushed her hair and each touch echoed within me, sparking a lingering, aching pain. This wasn't physical pain, but emotional. A rational person in my situation would have taken action. Or at least used the time to analyze this morning's events, the negotiations with the Knights, Crixus's act, and the reasons for Tu Chong's absence within the monastery walls. But a rational person would do that, and there I was, simply sitting, stroking Maya's hair, and with every movement, a small piece of my soul died, a piece responsible for compassion, sympathy, forgiveness...
The perception of time can be a strange thing. Sometimes minutes stretch into hours, and sometimes hours pass like seconds. That day was no different. The sun climbed higher and higher as I sat in one place, cradling the girl's head on my knees, oblivious to the passage of minutes. If someone had asked, "What time is it?" I would have been unable to answer. So, I cannot say how long Maya slept.
The teapot the monk had brought and placed next to us had long since cooled. During all this time, we remained undisturbed; no monk ventured up to the platform or peered around the bend in the stairs.
The sun was already relatively high when Maya's eyelashes fluttered. I withdrew my hand from her hair but otherwise maintained my posture. She lay motionless for a few minutes, feigning sleep before opening her eyes.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
I felt like an insensitive brute when her gaze met the unyielding shield of the tinted glass of my motorcycle helmet rather than my eyes. It felt wrong, but I couldn't overcome my paranoia, not even in such a crucial moment.
Maya's gaze lingered over the opaque visor for a few seconds, after which she jerked upright. The swift motion caused a cramp in her leg – no surprise considering how long she'd been lying in an uncomfortable position on the stones. A hiss of sudden pain escaped her lips, dispelling any remnants of sleep.
After massaging her ankle, she straightened her hair and reached for the teapot, ignoring my presence. She filled a bowl with the cold tea and took a long sip, seemingly not tasting it. Then she rose, walked to the edge of the platform and stood silent, gazing out over the bay. A gust of sea breeze played with her hair, but she didn't seem to notice, remaining still and silent.
I didn't interrupt her, allowing her time to gather her thoughts. Honestly, all the prepared phrases I had planned were now conspicuously absent. An adult, experienced man clad in a young guy's guise sat on the stones, at a loss for words. Surprising, considering just minutes ago, dozens of conversation starters had sprung into my mind. But now they were gone, leaving me blank.
"Thank you," simple words shattered the silence.
She handled it remarkably well. She managed to compose herself, resisting the urge to succumb to hysteria or hurl accusations, she simply expressed her gratitude. She evaluated the situation, regained her composure, and only spoke once she had control over her thoughts and emotions. Many life-hardened men lack such restraint.
I rose to my feet and moved toward the girl. Just a few steps in, I quashed the urge to put my arm around her shoulders. That gesture would be inappropriate now; it would not offer comfort, but instead might achieve the opposite. So, I merely stood beside her, half a meter to the right. The cloudless sky, the sun's glinting off the sea waves, the snow-white sails on the horizon – all this beauty went unnoticed.
I had to say something, to respond to her "thank you." I knew that my silence wasn't the best choice in this situation, but all the alternatives that came to mind were even worse.
Maya touched her throat and then asked, "Will it pass?"
"No, not completely," I responded honestly, not because of any promise made, but because honesty was the best policy. "The sharpness of the loss will dull, and over time, breathing will become easier. But sometimes, even after many years, you'll wake up in a cold sweat, reliving this night over and over."
She responded with a sharp sigh.
"After many years," she repeated after another minute of silence, "I won't live that long. And probably, none of us will make it to old age." Her fleeting grin didn't mar her image at all. Then she abruptly turned to me, "How did you know to look for me here?"
"I didn't say I was looking for you," my voice was calm, even a little distant, an effect amplified by the closed helmet.
My response was clearly not what she had expected, and a blush of embarrassment spread across her cheeks. In truth, such a shift in emotion was helpful, though I hadn't anticipated that my words would yield such an outcome.
"I see," Maya nearly whispered, turning back toward the sea. "I didn't think that someone like you, Maestro, needed a Mentor's support."
"Why?"
"Well… You are…" she began, and I could tell I was starting to enjoy making her squirm.
"Old?"
"I didn't say that!" Maya retorted too quickly, her words tumbling out in a rush, and it was immediately clear that that's precisely what she had meant.
To an eighteen-year-old, someone who appears to be over forty might indeed seem ancient. Of course, her words don't wound me, but I play along, the absurdity of the current situation providing a much-needed distraction from the recent tragedy and the overwhelming sense of loss. It only partially works, but even that is a small victory. However fleeting this success may be, as the weight of her grief crashes down on her again the very next moment, her face pales even further.
"He didn't come, did he?" she asks.
I'm not sure who the abbot of this monastery was to Maya, but evidently, he was more than just a raig supervisor from clergy to her. That nuance was something I'd surmised, which is why I came here.
Before I can muster an appropriate response, Maya clenches her fists and whirls towards me.
"Why did you spend so much time on me, Maestro? How long was I unconscious, two hours?" Her eyes attempt to bore through the tinted glass of my helmet's visor. "Don't you have more important things to do? Especially on a morning like this?!"
"Allow me to determine what is important to me and what isn't," I answer her unexpected outburst as calmly and peacefully as I can.
"Am I important?" The bitter smile on her pale face looks somewhat chilling. "I'm a failure…" Having said that, Maya kneels down, her clenched fists pressing against the stone parapet. I'd considered various possibilities for this conversation, but I was completely unprepared for such a turn. "Do you know how I spent last night? Was I seeking the guilty? Or storming local rat-infested clans? Assisting other Knights in some way? Or maybe helping the police or intelligence agencies in a heated pursuit?" Her whisper seethes with suppressed anger and blame. "No, no, no... I ran away. I simply ran away. I hid in a dark corner and sobbed like an eight-year-old. Four hours of tears and self-pity. And then I came here, hoping to find…" She takes a deep breath, "No, not answers, but some form of comfort. And then you arrived. And what did I do? Did I help you? Again, no. I passed out like a child, wasting your time. I… I…" She stammers, falling silent as her palms become even paler.
Why did I choose to be a cameraman's assistant in my past life instead of a psychologist? I have no idea how to comfort girls in these situations. Should I tell her that it's a relief for me that she didn't impulsively seek revenge and shed innocent blood? While true, would that truth be helpful in this moment?
"Crixus has joined BKDW," I share the latest news, sitting next to her. It's almost as if I'm gossiping, bypassing her last statement.
"What?!" Maya's eyebrows shoot up, her eyes widening in surprise.
"Yes, so did I," I shrug, playing it off as unimportant.
"You?!" It seems I've managed to shift the girl's focus from self-pity to something else entirely.
"Yes, that happened. But that's a triviality compared to what Crixus did next."
"What?"
"He's a clansman, considered the heir to the Corsican clan, but he failed the initiation and ran away from home."
"But how…"
"How do I know? He declared it himself. When he stood before the crowd and revealed his face, thereby becoming an open Break Knight."
"What?!"
I was fortunate. Quite by chance, I stumbled upon the very topic that pulled the girl from the depths of self-flagellation in which she'd immersed herself. I painstakingly recounted to her everything that had transpired earlier this morning atop the BKDW building.
I strategically narrated my story to prompt her to ask clarifying questions, and it worked. By the end of my tale, Maya had not only risen to her feet but had also begun pacing along the parapet, her arms gesticulating animatedly at particularly surprising moments. A blush had started to replace the unhealthy pallor on her cheeks.
Just as I was wrapping up my story, four young monks emerged onto the platform. They entered silently, hanging oriental bells along the meditative circle's perimeter without uttering a word. The novice monks, the eldest of whom was younger than Maya, carried out their task, oblivious to our presence. A certain distant, yet mournful expression etched onto their faces.
Maya's hand found mine and clung to it like a lifeline. And she whispered, "I have a bad feeling."
Squeezing her hand in response, I nod. While I'm no expert in local religious rites, even my limited knowledge from Izao was enough to recognize the similarity between the monks' actions and the start of the "farewell ritual". The peculiar shape and the distinctive, slightly mournful chime of the bells that the young monks hung on the poles in the wind made it clear.
I wave my free hand, attempting to catch the novices' attention, but they ignore my gesture, continuing with their task in utter silence.
"Let's find someone who can answer our questions." With that, I practically drag Maya, who doesn't let go of my hand, along with me.
Descending the winding stairs, we almost instantly spot the monk who had brought us the tea set earlier. The gray-haired minister is whispering to a pair of novices under the branches of an ancient elm. Seeing my beckoning gesture, he sends the novices away and begins to approach us. But before he can take a few steps, the sound of a gate gavel rings out.
"Come with me." The monk nods to us and heads towards the temple gates.
I yearn to question him here and now, but his demeanor and tone imply that we should be patient. Besides, arguing with a Seer isn't wise. Maya seems to share this understanding, and I don't need to drag her along this time.
As we approach the temple gates — in truth, a rather small door — the Seer opens it without asking, "Who is there?" or anything of the sort. He bows respectfully.
Just outside the monastery's gates, on the narrow path that begins there, five individuals stand in relaxed poses — a rather diverse group. In the front, there's an attractive middle-aged man, exceptionally tall for an Asian, with long hair tied back in a ponytail. He's attired in a dark, loose-fitting business suit. Behind him are two stout, powerful men who appear to be twins, both bald and with similarly intense, scrutinizing stares. They are garbed in orange togas and sneakers, an odd combination. The fourth is a thin European man, likely Portuguese or Spanish; despite the heat, he's donned in a leather jacket and trousers, complete with high boots. A young woman, no older than twenty, completes the group. She's attractive, wearing a short skirt and a rather tasteless tight-fitting T-shirt that, to put it mildly, accentuates certain attributes. The young woman leans on a long, black tube almost her height, posing as if she's stumbled upon this place by pure coincidence.
The moment my gaze falls on this group, it locks onto a gold medallion that decorates the chest of the tall man. An involuntary shiver of fear runs down my spine, and I have to make a significant effort not to flee into the Break. Maya appears to have the same reaction — her grip on my hand tightens even more.
Anyone who has watched even a few films featuring the East could easily recognize this medallion, the "Palm of Bodhidharma." It's an identifying mark of the punitive squads of Eastern martial monasteries, comparable to the Western Inquisition.
It appears I'm more entangled in this web of intrigue than I ever realized.
[1] TLN: Something that is questionable and untrustworthy at best.
[2] TLN: A reference to the fairy tale where a fisherman catches a magical goldfish that grants wishes.