Several thoughts passed through Baines' mind as he stared down at the items laid out before him.
Or rather, there was only one.
What had once been a guess, a fragile thread of hope clinging to coincidence, had now hardened into certainty.
Two sacks of preserved grain. A small dagger. A neatly bound bundle of clean clothes. And a worn brown leather pouch, resting apart from the rest as if deliberately placed.
Someone had left these here.
"This is Cecilia's doing," Baines murmured under his breath, the truth settling into him with quiet weight. "This has to be her Plan B."
There was no mistaking it anymore. The timing of when Cecilia spoke about plan B. The careful selection of items he needed to survive. The relatively safe location where he woke up was one where air still lingered, rather than beyond the statues.
If this wasn't intentional, then nothing was.
Then there was a reason he had been brought here.
The question was, what was it?
He didn't dwell on it for long when a low groan rumbled from his stomach, sharp and insistent, dragging his focus downward.
Only then did he realize how long it had been since he'd last eaten. From the moment he'd woken up in darkness, chased by unseen beasts and trapped by stone sentinels, survival had consumed his every thought.
His hunger had simply been non-existent.
Now that the immediate danger had passed—now that the air was stable and nothing was actively trying to kill him—his body demanded to be heard.
He crouched beside the sacks and untied one carefully.
The scent alone was enough to draw a breath from him.
"…Amaranth," he whispered.
Tiny brown grains spilled into his palm, shaped like teardrops, smooth and dry. He could picture the plant easily—soft emerald stalks swaying gently, leaves catching sunlight. A hardy crop that could be eaten raw and was highly nutritious in value.
Another name surfaced his mind.
"Moodgrain."
A faint smile tugged at his lips. The grain was famous for subtly changing flavor depending on the eater's emotional state. Sweet when calm, bitter when anxious, and earthy when exhausted.
And it was his favorite. Cecilia knew it.
That alone erased any lingering doubt.
"Yeah," he murmured. "You planned this."
He grabbed a small handful and ate without ceremony. The taste was mild, grounding, neither sweet nor bitter. Just… steady.
He hadn't realized how badly he needed that.
As he chewed, his gaze drifted to the remaining items.
The dagger came next.
It was nothing impressive. It had a plain brown hilt that was already worn by use, a short steel blade, barely longer than his palm—perhaps nine centimeters at most.
However, it was light, balanced, and practical. Basically, it wasn't a weapon meant for battle.
He weighed it in his hand, then glanced toward the pond. Across the water, green eyes still glimmered faintly in the darkness, watching without moving.
"I'll keep it," he said quietly.
This time, he didn't drop it. He slid the dagger into the waistband of his torn clothing, where it rested awkwardly but securely.
The bundle of clothes followed.
He unfolded them slowly. It was a simple, durable fabric, also clean and dry. It was a size that would fit him almost perfectly.
Then he looked down at himself.
Blood, dirt, and torn fabric clung uselessly to his skin.
"I'll need to clean up first," he muttered.
Reluctantly, he set the clothes aside and reached for the final item.
The brown leather pouch.
It was old, far older than the rest. The surface was cracked and softened with age, the leather darkened by years of wear.
He tugged at the opening.
It didn't budge.
"What is this?" He tried again, yet to no avail. He scanned around the surface. There were no markings, no symbols, not even a visible clasp.
It was just plain and simple, yet its resistance seemed to make it more important.
"Eye, do you have any idea what this is?'
[SCANNING…]
The familiar pause followed, longer than usual.
[OBJECT ANALYSIS INCOMPLETE.]
Baines frowned. "You can't tell what it is?"
[DATA INSUFFICIENT.]
That was new.
He raised a brow and turned the pouch over in his hands, testing its weight. Now more focused, he realized that it felt heavier than it should. It was subtle but noticeable.
"Can you at least help me open it?" he asked.
[NEGATIVE.]
[CURRENT SYNCHRONIZATION LEVEL INSUFFICIENT.]
"…Synchronization?" His brow furrowed. "What does that mean?"
[HOST–EYE INTERGRATION CURRENTLY AT 1%.]
"One percent," he repeated flatly. "That's… low."
He leaned back against the stone wall and exhaled slowly.
"So, you're saying you can't influence this pouch at all right now."
[CORRECT]
"And when can you?"
There was a pause.
[FUNCTIONAL INFLUENCE REQUIRES TEMPORARY DETACHMENT OF EYE FROM HOST'S BODY]
His breath caught.
"Detachment?" he echoed.
[FUNCTION UNAVAILABLE AT CURRENT SYNCHRONIZATION LEVEL.]
[MINIMUM REQUIREMENT: 50%.]
"…Fifty," he murmured. He didn't realize he had raised his voice, making it echo louder than it should have.
Stone shifted somewhere nearby.
Groan.
Baines flinched and clapped a hand over his mouth, heart jolting. He stayed still, counting his breaths until the sound faded back into silence.
"…Not yet," he whispered. "Not yet."
He glanced down at the pouch again.
"And when will you reach-" He stopped mid-way. Just hearing it echo in his mind made his mood more depressed than it already was.
"Whatever you are," he sighed, "I can't use it for now."
He nodded at the silent understanding and set the pouch carefully beside the supplies.
Exhaustion finally crept in once the tension ebbed.
'I woke up in this strange darkness, almost died more times than I could count, and I can't escape. Thankfully, I have a place to stay, food, water, and clothes.'
"At least I survived."
His shoulders loosened, and his breathing slowed.
Maybe tomorrow would be clearer. Maybe things would make sense once he had rested.
Or maybe this was all just a dream.
He let his eyes close in weary acceptance.
"Yes, when I wake up," he whispered, voice barely audible, "It will all be a dream."